You’ll have seen, I’m guessing,
the row that has exploded over the ban just announced by the Portman Group, the alcohol industry’s
self-appointed regulatory body, on the Bristol-based brewery Lost and
Grounded’s “India Pale Lager” Running with Sceptres for breaching
paragraph 3.2 (h) of its code by appealing to children.
The problem is the
artwork, which features cartoon animals, and despite Lost and Grounded
insisting that these were NOT cartoon animals but ” artistic illustrations”, the Portman
Group disagreed, declared that “the prominence and anthropomorphic
character of the animals on this specific packaging created a particular appeal
to children,” thus offending against its Code of Practice on the Naming,
Packaging and Promotion of Alcoholic Drinks. As a result, the on and off-trade
has been asked not to order Running with Sceptres until the packaging is
changed. More than 150 companies are signed up to the code of practice,
covering almost all the drinks industry.
I am certainly no fan of the Portman Group and its frequently nonsensical decisions. But I suggest that if you want to try to fight its actions against brewers it deems are breaking its code, Running with Sceptres is NOT a good ditch to die in. Can you honestly say their tiger bears no resemblance to Shepard’s Tigger? Is it not the case that the whole illustration looks like an homage to Where the Wild Things Are?
Indeed, the artwork for Running with
Sceptres could hardly have broadcast the message “report me to the Portman
Group for appealing to kids” more loudly if those words had actually been
printed on the can.
The reason for the Portman
Group’s existing is to prevent any statutory body being set up to oversee
alcohol advertising and marketing, and the Portman Group will thus always act
tough, to forestall criticism, and to avoid having itself replaced by a regulatory
committee imposed on the industry by the government.
Having just come back from
Norway, where alcohol marketing is so restricted by law – banned completely,
basically – that some places even ban tap handles with beer names on, and
brewery T-shirts, I can tell you: actual civil servants and government
employees telling you what you can and cannot do to promote your beer is NOT
something you want.
Though we can agree that the
decision in this case is stupid, wrong, restrictive and nonsensical, I cannot
say, when I saw the illustration on the can, that I was surprised at the
decision the Portman Group made. Angered, yes. Surprised, no. This is a game of
appearances, and it can’t be denied there’s a massive similarity of appearance
between the Running with Sceptres artwork and the kind of artwork found in
Pete Brown wrote in a tweet: “Guidelines state [artwork] shouldn’t have particular appeal to under-18s. Of the people into Winnie the Pooh, and then the subset of those who have been exposed to the style of illustration [on the can], what data exists that can show they are mostly under 18?” Logically, of course, he’s absolutely correct. The complaint, and the Portman Group’s response, are nonsense. But actual facts are irrelevant here.
There is a legitimate position in declaring: “Why
shouldn’t we use whatever artwork we like on our cans and bottles? What actual evidence
is there that such artwork will encourage under-18s to drink the
contents?” And you’d be right. But in the real world, there will always be
those wowsers who will declare that such images COULD encourage children to
pick up the can or bottle and sample what’s inside, and the Portman Group will
always head those people off and ban such images, in the frankly justifiable
fear that if it isn’t seen to be banning such images, then some politician will
declare that industry self-regulation has failed, and state regulation will be
brought in instead.
So: if you don’t want state regulation of the advertising and
marketing of alcohol, don’t give the wowsers reasons to complain by using
cartoon images on your cans and bottles that would not look out of place in the
children’s section of a bookshop. And if you feel that restricts your artistic
liberty, I really don’t have any sympathy: I’d rather see cartoon teddies and
tigers banned from beer bottles than a Norwegian-style total prohibition on any
sort of advertising or marketing.
It’s a beer fact guaranteed to make British drinkers boggle in disbelief: one of the biggest selling beer styles among black working-class South African men is milk stout
While milk stout has seen a tiny renaissance in the UK, with craft beer brewers producing examples of the style, it is still mostly thought of, if it is though of at all, as the beer drunk by little old ladies sitting in the saloon bar on their own. The last person in Britain to be known for drinking milk stout was Ena Sharples, sour-faced harridan of the soap opera Coronation Street, who disappeared from television screens almost 40 years ago.
In South Africa, however, milk stout has a totally different image: Castle Milk Stout, originally a South African Breweries brand and now, since it acquired SAB, owned by AB InBev, is a long-time favourite of black workers, and is now being marketed at the country’s black middle class as the beer to drink to show you haven’t lost touch with your roots. (Great ad, that – possibly one of the best beer ads ever.)
Stout and porter had been popular in South Africa from the earliest days of British colonisation, but by the start of the 20th century lager was starting to take over. However, variants on stout were appearing in South Africa, such as oatmeal stout, which was made by several firms, including South African Breweries, which advertised its Castle oatmeal stout in 1916 as providing “health and strength for tired people,” and Chandler’s Crown brewery in Ophirton, Johannesburg, which was still advising customers in 1932 to “Drink Chandler’s Oatmeal Stout and keep colds away!” There was also the peculiar-sounding and short-lived Marrow Stout (bone marrow or vegetable marrow, it is not clear which) brewed by the Thoma (sic) brewery in Johannesburg (founded in 1892 by a German, August Thoma, in Braamfontein, Johannesburg and taken over by Ohlsson’s Cape Breweries in 1902), which was first advertised in the Rand Daily Mail in 1909 but does not appear again after 1910.
However, just as “marrow stout” was disappearing, a new style of stout appeared that would turn South Africa into one of the biggest stout-drinking countries in the world. Sweet stout had been growing increasingly popular, but as the beer aged it lost its sweetness. The idea of brewing stout with a dose of unfermentable lactose sugar, derived from milk, to keep it staying sweet, had been first patented by William Melhuish, a food chemist from Poole, Dorset, in 1908, and the first “milk stout” was brewed by the English brewer Mackeson’s of Hythe, in Kent, in 1909. Mackeson licensed other brewers to make their own milk stouts, and the Castle brewery launched its version in August 1912 with a full-page advertisement in the Rand Daily Mail. Castle Milk Stout became one of the company’s biggest selling beers, particularly after a ban on black South Africans drinking “European” beers, imposed in 1928, was lifted in 1962.
The appeal of the six per cent abv drink to black South Africans, according to the South African advertising guru Happy Ntshingila, was that the traditional sorghum beer which was all they were legally allowed to drink during those years has always been regarded as a food as well as an alcoholic drink, and the “milk” part of milk stout gave it the same image. By the 1990s milk stout in South Africa was primarily a drink of blue-collar Nguni men – members of the Zulu, Xhosa, Ndebele and other South African peoples. The beer was frequently sold in quart bottles, for sharing, the way a calabash of sorghum beer would be shared, and was described as “the most physically masculine brand in the SAB stable.” It was about as far from the image that milk stout drinkers had in the beer’s country of origin – elderly ladies sipping a half-pint in the pub on their own—as it was possible to travel.
The large market for milk stout in South Africa did not go unnoticed in Chiswell Street, the London headquarters of Whitbread, the company that had acquired Mackeson in 1929. However, when the British brewer launched the Mackeson brand in South Africa in 1967, it was as Mackeson Porter, not Mackeson Milk Stout. This, the first launch of a beer under the name “porter” by a British brewer since, probably, the 19th century, was most likely because South African Breweries had a local trade mark monopoly on the use of the expression “milk stout”: there had been other milk stouts in South Africa besides the one from Castle, including Ohlsson’s Lion “melk stout”, as it was branded in Afrikaans, which was still being sold in 1952, but SAB had acquired Ohlsson’s in 1954. (In the UK the term “milk stout” had been voluntarily abandoned by brewers for fear that legislation would be introduced to ban it anyway.) Mackeson Porter was on sale in South Africa until 1972 before disappearing, unable, without the world “milk stout” on the label, to make any impact on a market that had not seen a beer called “porter” for generations.
Early in the 1990s, after the government of South Africa unbanned the African National Congress, and with black Africans increasingly drinking lager rather than milk stout, South African Breweries gave the advertising brief for Castle Milk Stout to the country’s first all-black ad agency, HerdBuoys. A series of advertisements that successfully combined images of black urban success with rural tradition—and milk stout drinking—sent sales soaring again, to 100,000 hectolitres (84,000 US barrels) a year. By 2003, Castle Milk Stout was the fourth biggest liquor brand in South Africa, and the second biggest stout brand in the world. Its production still included roast malt added in the mash tun, unlike Guinness, which had long gone over to using an extract of roasted barley, added post-mash, and other tweaks peculiar to making Castle Milk Stout, including adding caramel alongside the lactose, crash-cooling the fermentation to encourage the yeast to produce stop the yeast mopping up diacetyl, which increases the “butterscotch” flavours in the beer, and a lager-like maturation at -2ºC.
By 2011 Castle Milk Stout was available in a nitrogenated draft version, though it is still most often found in 75cl bottles and in cans. However, in the winter of 2014 SAB introduced “ultra-smooth” milk stout in a nitrogenated can, and also a limited-edition “chocolate-infused” 4.5 per cent abv version of Castle Milk Stout, which came back as a regular variant the following year, again available in 75cl bottles. This, together with “repositioning” the brand as a “premium” product, and whites picking up on the brand as the growth of craft beer made them more aware of “unusual” beer styles, helped push sales up 14 per cent year-on-year. It has still been maintaining its “traditional” image in South Africa, however, with promotions that included printing tribal clan names, and clan praise songs, on the cans. The brand has also moved abroad, capturing market share from Guinness in Nigeria, where stout makes up 14 per cent of the beer market, and also being brewed in Tanzania, Ghana, Uganda and even South Korea.
Exactly when it started happening I’m not sure, but bitter, once the glory of the British beer scene, is disappearing. In the place of all those marvellously hoppy, complex bitters and best bitters we once sank by the pottle and quart, we now have brews sold under the same brand names, made by the same breweries, very probably to the same recipes, with the same ingredients – but describing themselves as “amber ales” instead.
Take London Pride, for example. Until very recently Fuller’s was delighted to call this classic beer exactly what it was and is, and has been for more than 60 years, since it first appeared on bartops – a best bitter. Now it’s an “original ale”. Let’s stifle the pedantic retort that an “original ale” would be brewed without any hops at all, and merely ask ourselves: WTF?
Similarly with Wadworth’s 6X, formerly a “traditional draught bitter”, now a “crafted amber ale”. It would take Jacques Derrida to deconstruct what the word “crafted” is doing in that description, but he’s dead, and since he was French I doubt he drank English beers of any sort anyway, so let’s have a stab ourselves and suggest it’s been stuck in there in an attempt to add some unneeded “authenticity” to a beer that has been around for more than 90 years and needs no help from clueless marketeers.
The word “bitter” is disappearing from bartops and bottle labels across the country. Marston’s Pedigree, “The King of Bitters” once, now just another amber ale. Shepherd Neame Spitfire – “premium bitter” when it launched, “Kentish amber ale” today. Hook Norton Brewery’s Hooky bitter – now just “Hooky”, “amber and well-balanced”. Brain’s SA, formerly proud to call itself a best bitter, now just a “premium cask beer”. Arkell’s BBB, which is actually short for “best bitter beer”, is now branded simply as “3B”, with no clue as to where that comes from. Wells’ Bombardier, “English premium bitter” until recently, today a “British hopped amber beer”. Again, WTF? Unless the Scots and Welsh have started growing hops again, and as far as I am aware the last hop gardens in those countries closed in the 19th century, what will be going into Bombardier will be English hops. Is “English” another word, like “bitter”, that cannot now be mentioned in the context of beer marketing?
Not all bitters are dark cornelian-amber, of course, particularly those from the North West of England: thus Robinson’s Unicorn Bitter from Stockport is now Robinson’s Unicorn Golden Ale. JW Lees seems to be resisting, but even its bitter, while still proudly branded “Bitter”, is described today on the pumpclips bottle labels as an amber ale (though, while you CAN get amber that pale, that’s not what I’d call “amber-coloured. And incidentally, Lees, that claim on your website that “our all-malt amber bitter was first brewed in 1828” – I doubt that very much. Nobody was brewing well-hopped bitter ales outside London and Burton for decades yet.)
If you think this is just the big guys trying to move their beers away from cloth caps and roll-ups, I’m afraid not. Woodforde’s Wherry bitter, which stunned me when I first drank it more than 35 years ago – today, another amber ale.
Not everybody is doing it, of course, and it still looks to be only a minority that have ripped the page with “bitter” on out of their dictionaries: there are plenty of brewers, hurrah, large and small, still proud to call their beer a bitter, a best bitter, even an extra special bitter. But it worries me that some brewery marketing departments seem to think “bitter” is a dirty word, and the way to sell a classic, traditional English product is to call it an “amber ale” instead. It’s dumb, it’s dumbing down, and it’s insulting to the beers and to drinkers, suggesting that they would skitter away from a word that they might associate with their granddad, and refuse to drink something called a bitter lest they sprout a fuzzy grey beard and their Converse sneakers turn into sandals.
I’ve written before on how American hops were being imported to the UK in the late 1810s, after a couple of years of dreadful summer weather wrecked the English hop harvest, but this is the first time I’ve come across a specific advertisement by a brewer for American hops. This is from the Belfast Newsletter in April 1818: Belfast, of course, was a major port for the North Atlantic trade, so it was natural that hops from New York would arrive there by ships, though normally the high import tariffs then imposed on foreign hops would keep them out. Can we assume Clotworthy Dobbin was using some of those American hops in his own porter and pale ale? I think we can.
(Incidentally, I wonder if the Hesperus, the ship that, according to Dobbin’s ad, brought the hops to New York to Belfast, was the schooner whose sinking in 1839 partly inspired Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to write the poem The Wreck of the Hesperus? Hmmm …)
Dobbin’s first name, though weird-looking in the 21st century, is surprisingly common in 18th century Ulster. (There was a haberdasher’s business in Belfast in the 1790s run by Clotworthy Birnie and Clotworthy Faulkner, for example.) It comes from the surname of Sir Hugh Clotworthy of Clotworthy in Devon, High Sheriff of Antrim in the early 17th century, and more particularly Sir Hugh’s son John Clotworthy, a militant Presbyterian who, nevertheless, was on good terms with King Charles II and became the first Viscount Massereene in 1660 (Massereene being the name of an area on the eastern shores of Lough Neagh). So basically being called Clotworthy was like wearing a T-shirt shouting: “I AM A PRESBYTERIAN!”
When Dobbin entered the brewing business is a little blurry, two centuries later. He pops up in 1812 as the partner in a wine and spirits business in Hercules Street, Belfast, with John Bell, selling Cork and Dublin whiskey, Jamaican rum and Spanish red wine. Bell was also a brewer, probably from at least January 1808, when he was at 51 Hercules Lane, and advertising for a maltman “who has a perfect knowledge of his business and can be well recommended for Sobriety and Honesty,” and certainly by 1809, when he was one of four brewers to advertise in the Belfast Newsletter that they were putting up the price of their ale to 48 shillings a barrel, “in order that we may be able to make Ale of a sufficient strength to encourage its consumption, for which purpose we are now using a greater proportion of Materials in the Manufacture of that Article; and are determined to make it of such Strength and Quality as cannot fail to give general satisfaction. Table and Small-Beer to remain at the former Prices.”
In July 1813 Bell and Dobbin ended their partnership, with Bell announcing that he would be continuing to carry on the spirits business at his brewery in Hercules Street, while Dobbin had moved to new premises in North Street, where he continued to sell whiskey, rum, red wine and pickling vinegar. In December 1814, however, Dobbin formed a partnership with John Wandesford Wright to acquired the Belfast Porter Brewery in Smithfield, Belfast.
That concern looks to have been in operation by 1802, when Kennedy, Seed, Hyndman & Co were advertising that they paid the highest price for good barley at their brewery in Smithfield. It was known as the Belfast Porter Brewery by 1806, when it was being run by Forbes Anderson & Co (there had been an earlier “new Porter Brewery” in 1789 in Barrack Street, about 500 yards away, which had become a distillery by 1799). The Belfast Porter Brewery advertised regularly for barley, “for which a fair price will be given”, with, in 1809, James T Kennedy & Co of Rosemary Lane given as one of the contacts.
Then in February 1810 the Belfast Newsletter carried an announcement for “Dissolution of the partnership and sale of the Belfast Porter Brewery”. The announcement said the brewery was “in perfect working order and capable of turning out 6,000 barrels in the season”, and included a pale and a brown malt kiln, while the premises were “abundantly supplied with excellent Spring Water.” Would-be purchasers were told that “as the Porter heretofore made by this Company has given general satisfaction, and as the natural demand is greater than the Buildings on the Concern are at present capable of supplying, it is an object highly deserving the attention of such as may be inclined to enter into the Business more extensively, there being ground sufficient on the Premises to enlarge the Buildings to any extent.” They were also told that the current brewer, Mr Donovan, “whose knowledge of brewing Porter, and making and preparing Malt for the same, has been fully proved,” was willing to remain “for a time” with the purchasers “on proper terms”.
The Belfast Porter Brewery was advertising its porter for sale in May 1810, and “a large quantity of Pale and Brown Malt”, plus porter “delivered in Belfast, provided it is paid for in Bank Notes,” the same July. Then in the October of that year proposals were invited in writing for the brewery and all its fixtures and utensils, to be sent to James Kilbee of the Belfast Sugar House. It does not look to have sold, because it was on offer again in May 1812, including “breweries, malt houses, Etc Etc … capable of Brewing 10,000 Barrels of Porter annually, with a never-failing supply of most excellent Spring-Water,” along with “a few Bags Hops, growth 1809”, 50 barrels of porter, “remainder of the unsold”, “a large quantity of Porter Barrels and Half Barrels” and other items, “for particulars apply at the offices of Greg & Blacker or James T Kennedy & Co.” No buyer was again apparently found and the brewery was once again on sale in December 1812, with “coppers, coolers, kieves [the Irish term for a mash tun], working tuns, vatts [sic] … pale and brown malt-kilns”.
After their acquisition of the brewery in 1814, Dobbin and Wright promised the public ale and beer in barrels and half-barrels “which they hope (from CD’s practical knowledge of the Brewing Business, and their determination not to use anything but Malt and Hops of the very best Quality) will be found equal to anything offered here,” suggesting that Dobbin had been brewing alongside Bell in Hercules Street. Their advertisement in the Belfast Newsletter was dated “the 15th of 12th mo. 1814”, a clue that Wright, at least, was a Quaker, since not using the names of the days or months was a practice of the Society of Friends.
Not quite 18 months later, in May 1816 Wright and Dobbin announced the end of their own partnership, with Dobbin declaring that he would be continuing on his own as a brewer of double brown stout porter, common porter, strong ale and table beer. Before the partnership broke up, there had been a fire at the brewery which resulted in a claim of £1,840 against the Atlas insurance Company – equivalent to perhaps £1.4 million today. The insurance company refused to pay, claiming that the premium had not been paid, and the case went as far as the High Court in Dublin before the insurers handed over the money.
Dobbin’s business went through a dodgy patch in the early 1830s which saw him insolvent at one point, but he pulled everything together and eventually paid off all his creditors at 20 shillings to the pound, plus interest – a performance which earned him the presentation of a valuable set of silver plate from several English finance houses with whom he had done business, and a thank-you dinner in December 1835 attended by 80 Belfast merchants and dignitaries.
What sort of employer Dobbin was we may be able to tell from the fate of one of his unfortunate draymen, James McFerran, who was fined six shillings plus costs at Belfast Police Court in July 1852 after being found guilty of desecration of the Sabbath, for collecting beer barrels with a horse and dray on a Sunday evening. In mitigation, McFerran told the court that he could not collect as many barrels on a Saturday evening as would be required on a Monday morning, and he was “afraid of losing his situation, as Mr Dobbin was out of town, and he had no person to get directions from.”
The brewery in Smithfield eventually passed to Dobbin’s son-in-law Thomas Caffrey, a Dubliner. In 1897 Caffrey began moving operations to a new brewery on the Glen Road in Andersonstown, west Belfast, which opened officially in 1901 as the Mountain Brewery. After Caffrey’s death the concern was run by his son, and then by his grandson. In the 1920s it defended itself against rivals by boasting that its Treble X stout was the “strongest stout brewed in Ireland” (not strictly true, since Guinness FES was a lot stronger, but that wasn’t sold in Ireland at the time) and pitching itself as the price-conscious pint, at 6d (six pence) a pop. For the even more price-conscious it sold a stout called “Caffrey’s 4d Pint”, which was knocked on the head when the Second World War started and rises in the tax on beer in the UK made it impossible to brew a stout that could be sold for 4d. The brewery also played on local loyalties, declaring that its beer was “brewed by Ulstermen for Ulster people”, and inventing a little bowler-hatted Ulsterman character called “Mr Treble X”.
Caffrey’s finally went under in 1950, but stayed shuttered for only four months before being acquired by a consortium of Ulster-based pub owners and reopened as the Ulster Brewery Company. In October 1960 the Ulster Brewery Co agreed to be taken over by Northern Breweries, the growing empire put together by the Canadian entrepreneur Eddie Taylor to provide outlets for his Carling Black Label lager in the UK, though by the time the deal was completed Northern Breweries had become United Breweries. United merged with Charringtons of East London in April 1962 to form Charrington United Breweries, and two months later work started on a new brewery in West Belfast, built in front of the old one, at a cost of £500,000 , which opened in November 1962. Charrington United then merged with Bass, Mitchells & Butlers in July 1967 to form Bass Charrington.
The Ulster brewery remained part of Bass, and in 1994 it was used as the base to roll out a new “nitrogen-serve” or “smoothflow” keg bitter under the Caffrey’s name. Caffrey’s ale was hugely successful when it first launched, with 150,000 barrels sold in its opening year. Then, in 2000, Bass sold all its brewery holdings to Interbrew. Since the Belgian giant already owned Whitbread, Interbrew was forced by the British government, after Competition Commission inquiries and court cases, to sell most of the former Bass empire, including the Caffrey’s brand. But it kept hold of the Ulster brewery (and the Bass brand, which it has subsequently managed to royally screw up). However, the loss by the Ulster brewery of a €9 million contract to bottle Lucozade, of all things, led Interbrew in August 2004 to decide to shut down the Belfast operation, after failing to find a brewer, and it closed the following year.
Autumn, season of mists and mellow, fruity ales, as John Keats might have written, if he hadn’t been more of a blushful hippocrene, beaker of the warm South man. As the early evenings darken, and the leaves and the temperatures fall, it’s one of the joys of the season that we can start drinking strong, dark beers again, sitting by the fire in the snug – or by the fire in your own home, if you prefer. I often do. I have a place at one end of the sofa, close enough to the fire that I can toast my toes, with an old oak blanket box alongside that I rest my beerglass on, where I sit and read, or listen to music, while whatever the weather is doing outside can be ignored.
If you have been looking at national newspaper feature pages recently, you will not have been able to avoid articles discussing hygge, the Danish word meaning something allegedly untranslatable in between and greater than “cosy” and “comfortable” and “safe” that is the condition all Danes allegedly seek to attain. Of course, we actually have a perfect translation of hygge in English, or at least a word that describes the equivalent state of warmth and comfort and safety Britons desire: snug.
More than 230 years ago the poet William Cowper wrote: “There is hardly to be found upon the earth, I suppose, so snug a creature as an Englishman by his fire-side in the Winter.” He wasn’t wrong. And outside the home, some pubs provide us with a room where this blissful level of being can be achieved, a room generally only to be entered from inside the pub, with no street windows or doors, private and secure, almost always small enough that half-a-dozen will be a heaving crowd, and ideally with its own servery hatch to place orders at the bar. This room of happiness is actually named for the state of safe comfort, like the bug cuddled down deep in the protective tufts of his rug, that we seek between its enclosing walls: the snuggery or snug. Continue reading Snug beers and snug bars→
In the 1920s and 1930s, cafés and bars in German-speaking Europe were decorated by enamel advertising signs promoting the local brewer that have rarely been bettered for their visual qualities: plain, simple, striking and powerful. Here are some of my favourites:
Hard luck, haters: Greene King knows you don’t like its IPA, you think it’s too bland, “not a real IPA” at 3.6% abv, and it doesn’t care at all. Not the tiniest drop. In fact it’s probably quite pleased you don’t like it. You’re not its target market – it’s after a vastly larger constituency. If you liked its IPA, it’s fairly sure those people that Greene King would most like to capture to and in the cask ale market, young people, people still with a lifetime of drinking ahead of them, wouldn’t like it – and for that reason, the Bury St Edmunds crew have no intention of changing their IPA just to make you happy. In fact they’re not changing it at all – except to shake up its look, and put £2m in media spend behind it.
Of course, it’s not just Greene King IPA that has hosepipes of vitriol directed at it by the Camra hardcore. Any widely available cask ale gets the same – Fuller’s London Pride and Sharp’s DoomBar are equally hated, without the haters apparently being able to work out that the reason why these beers are widely available is because lots of people actually like drinking them, even if the haters don’t.
Indeed, it’s the popularity that is prompting the Bury St Edmunds crew into its current push. To its obvious delight, and, I suspect, slight surprise, Greene King has discovered that the flood of new young drinkers coming into the cask ale market find Greene King IPA just the sort of beer they want: there’s more to it that can be found in a pint of lager, but it’s still reasonably safe and unthreatening.
At a launch on Monday night in a bar near Oxford Circus in London to announce a new look for Greene King IPA, and other initiatives including a new website to educate licensees and bar staff on cellar management and how to serve the perfect pint, Dom South marketing director for brewing and brands at Greene King, quoted figures from a survey done last year for the Campaign for Real Ale showing that 15% of all cask drinkers tried cask ale for the first time in the past three years, and 65% of those new drinkers are aged 16 to 24. “We’re seeing a complete revolutionary shift in the drinker base coming into cask ale, which is exciting, because it means that this category, for the future, is in rude health,” South said. And where does Greene King IPA fit in here? “When you look at what those young drinkers want, from a cask ale brand, or just a beer, the three things a new young entrant wants are, first, something that feels right to them, a reflection of themselves, that makes them feel good about drinking the beer,” South said. “They want something a little bit modern, a little bit contemporary. The second thing is, they expect the beer to taste good – but let’s face it, too many pints in the UK are served sub-standard.
Oh, irony. It’s only a very short time since I mocked Nick Fell, marketing director at SABMiller, for sharing with us, in a presentation about getting more women to drink beer, the “duh, really?” statement that “no one wants a pink beer, including ladies.” But now I have discovered a beer I’m sure very many women will like – and it’s pink.
Not that they’ll like it because of its colour, of course: they’ll like it because it’s a very fine beer, with great depth and complexity of flavour, a beautiful deep bassoon-like bitterness (in contrast to the violins-and-saxophones bitterness of hoppier beers) giving structure to a sweetness that is laced through with liquorish and dark green herbal flavours. How do I know women will like it? Because when I sampled a bottle myself, right after thinking: “This is an extraordinarily good beer”, my next thought was: “I bet Mrs Z would enjoy it” – and not only did she enjoy it greatly, she relieved me of the rest of the bottle, consuming it all herself. Mrs Z is rarely a beer-drinker, touching only the very occasional pils and the even more occasional wheat brew. So if she loves a beer that I think is great too, you can bet we have a genuine cross-party vote-winner.
What is this beer? It’s Crazy Viking, one of the brews I brought back from my trip to Denmark last month to talk at the conference on Ny Nordisk Øl, or “New Nordic Beer”, it’s made by Det Lille Bryggeri or Little Brewery, from the small village of Bringstrup, just outside Ringsted, in the middle of the Danish island of Zealand (the one Copenhagen sits on), and it’s a deep ruddy pink because it contains considerable quantities of beetroot (red beet, to Americans) and beetroot extract, added both into the wort before boiling and in the fermentation tank. It also has in it masses of liquorice and nettles, those two giving most of the bitterness, I’m guessing, and only an “extremely limited” amount of hops. Beetroot is about seven per cent sugar, of course, and doubtless that helps to lift the abv of the beer up to 7.9%.
Det Lille Bryggeret’s brewer, René Hansen, has made beers with beetroot as his contribution to the New Nordic food and beer culture movement: the first, with just beetroot and nettles, was called Red Viking, and the one I drank (until Mrs Z stole it from me) has liquorice as well and is called Crazy Viking. It’s the second New Nordic Beer movement-inspired brew to completely blow me away, after the Hø Øl (hay ale) from the Herslev Bryghus I mentioned here (more irony: the Herlsev guys are now having to fight their local bureaucrats, who are trying to ban them from putting hay in their beer on the grounds that it’s not a listed food ingredient under EU regulations. I’ve sent them a copy of a page from Thomas Tryon’s book published in England in the 1690s that mentions hay ale, to show it’s an old tradition – hope it helps, it’s a marvellous beer.)
I’m not sure the Crazy Viking beer name would recommend itself to women drinkers, and nor, probably, would the beer’s bottle label, with its image of an utterly sloshed Viking, one helmet horn drooping. But the liquid itself is an example of what a number of people have suggested since Nick Fell raised the spectre of the missing female beer drinker again back in October: that if there is going to be a style of beer that will appeal to a broader spectrum of women than drink beer now, it certainly won’t be one made by a giant corporation setting out deliberately to capture that market, and it’s much more likely to be the result of an accidental spin-off from a craft brewer or group of craft brewers, like the Ny Nordisk Øl crowd, making a beer that everybody agrees is great, regardless of gender.
Which gives me an excuse to rerun on this blog the dreadful history of the efforts brewers in the UK have made – unsuccessfully – to target women drinkers for three decades, sometimes with, yes, pink beer. For the history of beer marketing is littered with the smoking wrecks of attempts to get females to drink more beer, dating back to the 1980s.
If we didn’t already know John Gilroy, creator of so much iconic beer advertising, was a genius, then the latest images to surface from the mysterious “lost” art archive of the former Guinness advertising agency SH Benson would surely convince us: marvellous pastiches of other iconic works of art, sadly unseen for the past 60 or so years.
I’ve already talked here about the mysterious stash of 800 or more pieces of Gilroy advertising artwork that disappeared, existence unknown to Guinness experts, on the sale of the former Guinness advertising agency SH Benson in 1971, and how items from the collection began to turn up for sale on the American market from 2008 onwards. These are oil paintings, done by Gilroy to be shown to Guinness for approval: if approved, a final painting would then be made which the printers would use to make the posters. Now they are being sold by a couple of art dealers in the United States on behalf of their anonymous possessor for tens of thousands of dollars each. It has been estimated that the 350 or so paintings sold so far have gone for a total of between $1 million and $2 million.
Much of the stuff that has been turning up was never actually used in advertising campaigns, for various reasons. There was a series of posters featuring Nazi imagery, for example, commissioned from Gilroy because Guinness was thinking of exporting to Germany in 1936.
This week, David Hughes, who has written an excellent just-published book, Gilroy was Good for Guinness, about Gilroy that includes some 120 reproductions of artwork from the “lost” stash, gave a talk at the St Bride’s Institute in London on Gilroy and Guinness. During the talk he revealed that he had recently been shown something new from the Benson collection, too late to include in his book – a series of 21 takes by Gilroy on “Old Master” paintings, copies with a Guinness twist of works by painters such as Picasso, Van Gogh, Vermeer and Michaelangelo, that had been commissioned in 1952 with the intention that they would hang in the Guinness brewery at Park Royal in London. They were never used, however, and instead ended up hidden in the SH Benson archive, vanished from (almost all) human ken.
Now the paintings are on sale as part of the general disposal of the Benson Gilroy collection, they are being swiftly grabbed by eager collectors with thick wallets: the “Michaelangelo” went for $20,000. I would love to own the “Van Gogh” – somehow Gilroy has captured the essence of the mad Dutchman’s art even as he subverted it with a bottle of Guinness on the chest and a pint of stout on the chair – a humorous homage, done, I am sure, with love and affection. Note Gilroy’s signatures on that and the “Picasso” – cheeky takes on the originals.
A few others are in the “great but not fantastic” category, but the “Toulouse-Lautrec” really does look as if little Henri himself had been commissioned to design an ad for la fée noire. I haven’t seen any of the other 21 apart from those here, but they would have made a superb series of advertising posters, and would be as much loved now, I am sure, as Gilroy’s toucans, sea lions and men with girders. It’s a huge pity they never went into proper production. (Some of the reproductions on this page – the obviously rubbish ones – are from photos taken by me off the giant screen David Hughes was using at the talk, subsequently poorly “tweaked” in Photoshop – my apologies, but I thought you’d be more interested in at least seeing something now of these marvellous illustrations than waiting an unknown time until you could see them reproduced perfectly.)
In the audience for the talk was Edward Guinness, 90 this year, the last member of the family to hold an executive position on the Guinness board, and a man to whom brewery historians owe a huge debt: it was while Edward was chairman of the Brewers’ Society that the Society commissioned Terry Gourvish and Richard Wilson to write their mammoth history of brewing in Britain from 1830 to 1980, a massive resource. He also helped ensure Guinness the company supplied the money to make John Gilroy’s last few months comfortable, after it emerged that the artist who had done so much to promote the Guinness brand was seriously ill and could not afford private health care. It appears that David Hughes is helping Edward Guinness write his reminiscences – bugger, that’s another Guinness book I’m going to have to buy.
There are some images that are just wrong: uncanny, creepy. One of them is a poster of a smiling, steel-helmeted Nazi-era German soldier holding a pint of stout, with the words in Gothic script: “Es ist Zeit für ein Guinneß!” What makes this poster even weirder is that it’s by John Gilroy, the artist who produced so much classic Guinness advertising imagery, from the flying toucans with glasses of Guinness on their beaks to the Guinness drinker carrying the huge girder. Even people born decades after those ad campaigns ended know the posters.
The German soldier saying: “Time for a Guinness!” is one of a number of images Gilroy produced in 1936 for the advertising agency SH Benson in connection with a campaign in Germany that never went ahead. Today those putative posters look – well – naïve. Guinness-bearing toucans flying over a swastika-draped Berlin Olympics stadium? More Guinness toucans flying escort to a swastika-decorated airship? “Guinness for strength” demonstrated by a mechanic lifting a German army half-track single-handed? Guinness toucans zooming past the Brandenberg Gate, as a man who looks like the Guinness zoo keeper dressed in what appears to be the uniform of the SS Feldgendarmerie stares up, alarmed? (Bizarrely, these were the very first use of the “flying toucans” image, which did not appear in Britain until 1955, and the famous “toucans over the RAF aerodrome” poster.)
They all appear in a fascinating new book by David Hughes, Gilroy was Good for Guinness, which features a mass of material from the SH Benson archive in London that mysteriously vanished in 1971 and, just as mysteriously, semi-surfaced in the United States a few years ago, when canvases from the archive started appearing on the art market.
As well as the German material, there are a host of other draft posters by Gilroy in the book, mostly painted in oil on canvas. Many are for other overseas campaigns that never actually appeared: toucans flying over the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Brooklyn Bridge and the Kremlin; Greek and Israeli farmers pulling the cart with the horse in (changed to a donkey) to illustrate “Guinness for Strength”: men popping out of manholes and holding up Russian and Israeli steamrollers. There are illustrations of cars, used to advertise Guinness on posters and in calendars, which show what a fine automobile artist Gilroy was – although, again, seeing a picture of Hitler’s six-wheeler Mercedes staff car with “Congratulations from Guinness” underneath, or one of another iconic German vehicle over a pint of stout with the words “VolksWagen – Volks Bier” is weird, weird in an alternative-universe, “What if Germany had won the war?” way. Some are for domestic campaigns that, again never saw daylight: a series of posters for the 1948 London Olympics on the theme of “My Goodness – My Guinness (a sprinter running off with the timer’s pint, for example), and “Guinness for Strength” (a Guinness-powered javelinist hurling his javelin way out of the stadium).
Hughes, who produced the excellent A Bottle of Guinness Please, an extensively illustrated and thorough round-up of the history of Guinness bottling with lots of Guinness-fact goodies (spoilt only by the lack of an index), gives the fullest account I have seen of Gilroy’s life and art in Gilroy was Good for Guinness. I wasn’t going to buy it (on the grounds that I already have far more books on Guinness than any sane man should own) but I couldn’t resist the Nazi Guinness pics.
The book has a good account of Gilroy’s portrait-painting, which included several members of the royal family, and politicians and military men, such as Churchill and Eisenhower. The trouble is that the pictures in the book show Gilroy wasn’t a very good portrait painter, in the sense that his paintings, while technically excellent, just fail to hit the target: they appear to be of entrants in a famous-person-lookalike competition, rather than who they are actually meant to be. If you don’t know who the person is, then nothing appears to be wrong. If you know that it is meant to be, say, Prince Charles, you can see that it isn’t quite right.
It also contains one revelation I certainly didn’t know: that when Benson’s lost the Guinness advertising account in 1969, and thus Gilroy was no longer producing ads for the stout brewer, Guinness felt it owed the artist so much for all the pints and bottles of stout his artwork had helped to shift that it offered him a £2,000-a-year honorarium for life, a sum worth perhaps £27,000 in today’s money: not a huge amount for a man who was a member of the Garrick Club and living in Holland Park Road, Kensington, but much better than a poke in the eye with a paintbrush.
It also attempts to detail the story of the Benson advertising agency’s archive after Benson’s was sold to Olgilvy and Mather in 1971. Somehow the archive, including the Gilroy Guinness collection of original artwork for poster campaigns both used and unused, was sold to, or acquired by, an anonymous American. Parts of the archive began to appear on the market in the United States in 2009. Subsequently more and more of the collection appears to have been disposed of, with canvases selling for up to $14,000. Unfortunately the parts of the story of the archive are scattered through what is an unfortunately frequently bitty book, which could have done with a good editor to pull it all more tightly together. That same editor could have prevented the occasional infelicity and error, such as spelling the name of the actor Kenneth More incorrectly.
All the same, if you’re interested in Guinness, or in breweriana, Gilroy was Good for Guinness is probably worth its £20 price tag. In many ways, it’s Guinness porn at its best. And those German posters really are disturbing.
Update: hat-tip to Boak and Bailey for this – there’s a far better account of the mystery millionaire who bought the Benson’s archive than the book gives, and lots more great illustrations from the book, on the Collectors Weekly website here.