Why is beer like life?

I was pondering nothing in particular the other day when some erratic thoughts began circulating around the old think box. I know I like beer; drinking it, writing about it, sharing knowledge about it, brewing it, talking with mates about it, pouring it, serving it, choosing and paying for it and even just thinking about it. But what is it about the amber nectar that can generate such esoteric musings? Or generate words like esoteric? Or musings?

Perhaps part of the answer lies in the fact that we sometimes associate beer with thoughts of our forefathers and this leads to a kind of subconscious patriotism. This is probably relevant to Australians as our history is short enough for us to be able to remember all the good bits and because we have a history relatively unblemished by civil unrest or lunatic religious disagreements. We are the fortunate sons of men and women who came or were sent to this land in order to begin anew and not the bastard offspring of warring tribes or God bothering, silly helmet wearing Imperialist snail eaters or goat throwers. Well, that’s my take on it, anyway. Read your history books for more accurate information or visit your local library.

Our thoughts sway between a safe and comforting knowledge that our beer reflects our country’s ideals – egalitarianism*, a fair go and the right to support Collingwood or Manly or the Maroons if you must and an admiration for those folk who forged this great nation under testing and trying conditions. When we raise a glass, we ‘dips our lids’ to the pioneers and the trendsetters and the adventurers and the dreamers who shook their heads at the inequities and injustices in their homelands and said ‘Get Stuffed’ to the bullyboys and political retreads and social engineers of the day and pulled up stumps for an unknown and uncertain future in a country on the bottom of the globe. Good work all of you. Glad you chose the wide brown land. I’ll raise a glass to you.

Our beer delight is also tied into our culture in ways that I don’t think some foreigners understand. Our brewing forefathers had to overcome severe difficulties just to make a drinkable beer. Lack of suitable ingredients, inhospitable climate with no refrigeration and a First Fleet comprising dozens of useless tradespeople but no one who could breed stock or grow crops like barley or hops has led us to think fondly of our ancestors. We should have become more appreciative of the diversity and overall quality of the beer we drink today. And we can be thankful for the fact that we can enjoy beers from all over the country and not be restricted to just local or regional specialties.

And, at its very essence, is this final point. Beer bonds in ways that wine and lolly water cannot. Since the halcyon days of the outback shearer who strode boldly up to the bar in a dusty country pub, slammed his pay cheque down and announced; “Who wants a beer?”, the worth of a man and the respect that his fellows have for him, is linked to the shout. The underlying principle that you are worthy of sharing a beer with. The shout, or the ‘School’ is at the very core of our national beer identity. Its conventions and obligations are bounding and unbreakable, its value incalculable and its ability to overcome all obstacles.

My beer, your beer, our beer. “Beerum, Beeres, Beerest.”

I think the shout just ordered itself another post of its own.

Cheers,

Prof. Pilsner

*Egalitarianism - Another big word which really just means everyone is essentially equal and equally worthy of sharing a beer with. We are all the same wether we are a Bruce or a Bertram, a Shags or a Sharon, a Papadopoulos or a Prentice-Hall. It is also accepted that, while we all start out equal, some are able to make more of their lot in life and that some will turn into dickheads regardless. It is still up to you and not the Country’s fault.

Nothing good happens after 2am

Plenty of chat and opinion and letters to the editors at the moment as Melbourne adjusts to the State Governments latest attempt to flex its’ muscles and frighten the horses without actually having to tackle the problems of alcohol abuse.

Yes, there are problems caused by people who go out to city nightspots, get rollicking drunk, get kicked out, move on to another place, repeat same, get kicked out again and end up kicking a parked car, assaulting a fellow patron, taxi driver or by-stander and, yes the problem seems to have got worse in recent years. But the question is; how do we tackle it?

Our Nanny State came up with a foolproof plan. That is, it’s proof we are governed by fools when it comes to regulating our lives for us instead of making us each responsible for our own actions.

They imposed a strict 2am lockout policy. Once you are in a venue and the little hand is on the 2 and the big hand is on the 12, you can’t get into any other venue serving alcohol if you leave the one you are in. We take away the ability for normal people to have a choice. In this way we solve the problem of pissed idiots roaming the street looking for trouble. Hmmm. You reckon?

Problem One: Pissed idiots don’t work to the clock. They are pissed. And idiots!
Problem Two: The issue is not the time of night; it’s the fact that they are SO pissed. And idiots.
Problem Three: There are not that many pissed idiots compared to the numbers of people enjoying a night out and not being pissed idiots. Why impose blanket bans?
Problem Four: The definition of STRICT seems to have eluded the law makers because nearly every establishment that applied for an exemption – and there were PLENTY – all received one!

So not only do we incorrectly identify the problem, but we then propose a solution that will not achieve any real outcomes, and then, as if to underline the point, we say you don’t have to follow it anyway! Read that last sentence again, it sounds even more ridiculous the second time!!

The problem is, and always has been, this; pissed idiots cause the problems, not the beer. It is the bar staff who are expected to serve responsibly but, if you are too pissed to even get yourself to the bar you can still have your pissed idiot mates get them for you. This makes it difficult for even the best staff to watch every corner of a dimly lit and music filled venue while still serving others. Maybe if security staff could be deployed into the venue to identify them – and let’s face it, that’s not too difficult – we could slow them down, root them out and address the real problem.

Maybe we could help in our own small way. Instead of partying down into the wee small hours, we could be prepared. Before you leave the house for the night, make sure you have a couple of nice craft beers or a selection of imported specialties chilled and ready. Have a night out, leave when the pissed idiots start turning into pumpkins and hit the road, knowing that a quality beery treat awaits at home! Maybe I’m just getting old, but I also just don’t have the same tolerance for pissed idiots as I did in my youth. Plus, today’s’ brand of aggressive and violent dickhead just doesn’t have the same level of humorous charm that the dickhead of old had. If a bloke pops a dollar into a parking space and then sits down in the spot – FUNNY. If he then refuses to move because he still has half an hour left, VERY FUNNY. If a bloke walks up to an unsuspecting stranger and smashes his head in from behind – NOT FUNNY.

Deal with the dickheads. Get them early and get them hard. Make them aware that a civilised society has certain standards that separate us from the cavemen and the raving lunatics. Let them know that they are in a very small minority. Punish those who, after several attempts, still don’t appear to be willing to get with the program. Give bars and clubs the chance to earn a dollar but punish only those who keep misbehaving like the pissed idiots. Don’t line up every normal socialiser hoping for a good night out and every good, well run business and then threaten to smack them all really hard with a wet lettuce because a few people they don’t know are dickheads when they get a skin full.

And if you are only pretending to hold a wet lettuce, who really IS the dickhead?

So, stock the fridge at home with some nice beers, have a great night and remember what every AFL and NRL football player is told by their club – nothing good happens after 2am.

Cheers,
Prof. Pilsner

I have a confession to make.

My Name is Professor Pilsner ...

And I am a binge drinker.

Well, I’m NOT REALLY. I like to enjoy the experience of a nice cold lager and I certainly like to savour the taste and flavour and aroma of a well crafted ale. I spend a little extra, most times, to be able to drink something a bit special and yet at other times I like to spend bugger-all and brew up 23 litres of homebrew for about 20 cents a stubby.

I usually have a beer or two as I prepare the family meal and then, depending on the meal, I will select a matching ale or lager to have at the dinner table. Most nights, when the little Pilsners are tucked into bed I will sit down with Mrs Pilsner and sip a nice rich amber ale or maybe a porter or a sparkling ale before popping off to stack some zeds.

Which makes me a binge drinker.

So says the government. You see, at no small expense to the taxpayer, our eminent federal leaders have seen fit to throw massive amounts of OUR cash towards combating the scourge of modern society; binge drinking. And, in conjunction with this, some pin heads in lab coats clutching clipboards and nodding to each other in an authoritative manner have decided that we MUST decide upon a number of mid-sized beers that will constitute a “binge”. Having added together the total number of girlfriends that these poindexters have had in their entire lives, they were able to settle on the number four and this, they have declared, is the magic number. Drink four beers and you are engaging in a binge.

Now, call me old fashioned but I always thought that binge drinking was a frenetic and continuous kind of irresponsibility perpetrated by knob-ends and dickheads who don’t respect the beer or who don’t have enough self control to slow down and enjoy a night out or who are unable to realise that they are drinking too much or too quickly. Apparently this definition was far too difficult to communicate effectively, let alone fit onto a flash card, so they just settled on “four beers”. Knobs.

See you all at the next big “binge”; dinner at my place tonight.

Cheers,Prof. Pilsner

They're At It Again

This one comes from the letters to the Editor in the Melbourne Herald Sun a while back.
Under the sub-heading, “Nip Booze Culture in the Bud” – no Budweiser reference intended, I’m sure, although, if we could nip one modern day curse, it could well be ‘The King of Beers (Rear)’ – was this gem of beer bashing brainlessness;

“It’s not only the Government and MPs concerned about excessive alcohol consumption – so are thousands of families afflicted by this dreaded disease.” No argument so far, fair point. We all want to stop bingeing and the related social fall-out.

“Alcohol is now less expensive than bottled water.” Your point being? Careful, now.

“It’s time to tax it to the hilt, as is done with tobacco, label containers with health warnings and reduce advertising.” Now you’re just being a dickhead.

“Alcohol consumption can be lessened if we make the effort.” Perhaps if your brain had made more of an effort, you wouldn’t be copping this spray.

Does it ever occur to these ‘blame-gamers’ that maybe the price of bottled water is too high!?! Or that dickheaded beer disrespecting tools don’t look at the price of bottled water and say.”Hmm, bit rich, might just go a slab of VB instead.” Based on this logic, I could argue that cats’ piss is less expensive than beer so I am forced or encouraged to drink that! By the way, in this example I mean REAL cat piss, not Corona.

Yes, let’s tax beer and such ‘to the hilt’ so that ordinary, law abiding and self respecting enjoyers of nice things can be punished for the sins of the weak willed minority and the beer fuelled buffoonery of the mindless few. And maybe, in retaliation, we could force a tax on moccasins and mullets and going out in public without footwear so that those who disrespect basic social conventions can feel as pissed off as we beer drinkers feel when we are unfairly targeted.

I will also, at this point, make note that this particular letter to the editor did not specifically single out beer as the blighted alcohol curse, but so many others in the recent past have singled out beer that I felt the average person would reasonably expect that this was implied. So there.

Cheers,
Prof. Pilsner

The Shout

Here at Beer Blokes we like to keep our readers informed and enlightened in as many aspects of the Beer World as we can think of, research or make up. With the best information, facts and figures as well as modest opinions, we think our friends are better able to make wise decisions when it comes to buying, brewing and drinking beer.

I have written before about how beer is a very egalitarian beverage. It is accepted universally and no one looks silly drinking it. Unless they are seriously pissed, then they can look particularly silly. And often very funny as well. What I mean is that a burly blue-singletted boof head called Bluey can not sip champagne from a crystal flute without looking just a bit ... odd. But a glamorous leggy socialite can sip a Stella Artois or a Beck’s and not look so odd. Unless she were to crack the cap between her McGits and then skol the whole stubby in one go while her similarly elegant companions chanted ‘Drinkitfaster, Drinkitfaster, Oi Oi Oi!

But you get what I mean. Beer is everybody’s’ drink but it still has some guidelines for etiquette. And perhaps the most important one to get right is The Shout.

The Shout is an integral part of the drinking culture and anyone who would attempt to bypass, derail or otherwise tamper with The Shout will soon be drinking alone. It is a venerable and ancient institution, although I think it is Australian made. I’ll have to look it up. Wait here.

Nup. There isn’t a lot to be found in the way of historical information on the net so I will have to give you all the straight guff from my own collection of books and such as well as a lifetime of experience.

The principle of The Shout is fairly straight forward. You buy yourself and your mate a beer. When you have finished your beers, your mate buys a beer for himself and one for you, in return. If there are more than just you and your mate in The Shout, then the beer total needs to be adjusted accordingly. The number of beers bought in each Shout is equal to the number of drinkers in The Shout. Simple. But, like most things in life, The Shout has traditions and responsibilities that must not be messed with.

Once in The Shout you have accepted a responsibility to your fellow drinkers. DO NOT accept beers from the others if you are unable or unwilling to fork out the ‘Laurie Nash’ when it is your turn to shout. DO NOT be in the toilet whenever your turn comes around. DO NOT ‘nurse’ your beer into old age thinking that you won’t have to buy if not everyone has finished. DO NOT get bent out of shape if the others begin to toss around subtle hints to encourage you to fulfil your obligations. These hints may range from such mutterings as; “It’s a bit dry over here”, or “Pity they don’t sell beer around here...Oh, they DO!?” to “Get off your fat jacksie and buy some bloody beers you lazy fat bastard!”

If for some reason you are not able to discharge your drinking duty, the correct procedure is to buy your round on your way out after making suitable heartfelt apologies to those you intend to leave behind. Do not leave your mates with the impression that they are not worthy of having you drink with them. This is very Un-Australian and Un-Blokey.

The Shout is essentially a creation of average easy thinking and easy drinking menfolk. For as long as we have had The Shout we have kept it simple and it works best when all the drinkers are having the same thing. This is due to the fact that the pubs in times of yore had as many as ten taps – all serving the same beer – and all the blokes were blissfully content to drink that what came out of the tap. Today the same pub may have sixteen taps dispensing different beers of varying styles from a dozen countries. But The Shout is inbuilt with an automatic default update setting. Beer is beer is beer.

Whatever is being drunk by the drinkers in The Shout can be accommodated. But what does happen if all the drinkers in The Shout are NOT drinking the same thing? The whole thing still works but it may need some adjustment. For example, if two or three are drinking light beer instead of heavy, The Shout still operates normally except that two or three are paying a little more for the other blokes drinks than the other blokes are paying for theirs. Likewise, if one or two are on the bourbons or the scotch, this can fit in provided all are in pre-agreement. There are a few minor exceptions to this guideline.

The bourbon boys should not switch between that and beers. Nor should anyone be permitted to ‘upsize’ outside of their shout. You can’t be buying pots for your mates and then decide “I might just have a quick Flaming Lamborghini, actually” when someone else is buying. The Shout works because you don’t even need to ask what the others want, just a quick nod and a point to indicate that you are ’up’. You may sit out of a particular round of The Shout without bringing social disrepute upon your family name – as long as you don’t sit out your shout. The other exception to The Shout guidelines is that it is perfectly reasonable and permissible to exclude any member who wants to drink Pimms, Pernod, Campari or Vodka Cruisers. Unless they are girls. They can drink poofy drinks, but not in The Shout.

This brings us to another aspect of drinking history that The Shout has had to deal with. It is the gender factor. It was not so long ago that women were not even allowed inside a public bar. They were confined to the Ladies Lounge to sip raspberry cordial or shandies if they were fortunate enough and it was quite simply unheard of for them to drink with the boys. Today it is expected that ‘a bit of skirt’ will be present when you step into a bar and it has become more and more common for women to be drinking beer with the boys. Brewers are now even ‘targeting’ the female sector of the market when developing and marketing beers. See Pure Blonde, Boag’s St. George and Corona.

Wether male or female, the rules of the shout are simple. Number of people in the shout must be equal to the number of shouts in the session. Ideally. We are still duty bound to be responsible drinkers and to care for our fellows and The Shout is sympathetic to this. Be sensible and don’t create a shout of fifteen or twenty blokes, all drinking pints or schooners, and then expect to pilot the Commodore home from the city to the outer suburbs. You will be lucky to get it as far as the outer car park. And if you get busted by Johnny Hopper, don’t blame it on The Shout. It’s all your doing.

So, enjoy The Shout, don’t disrespect The Shout and The Shout will live on for our sons and daughters to continue into future generations. Keep the flame of mateship and Blokehood alight as a beacon to those folk less well off than ourselves who don’t have pubs and beers and shouts.

In part two we will look further at the intricacies of The Shout and what happens when people try to rort the system. It will also contain a guide to Bad Shout People and How to Avoid them.

Cheers,
Prof. Plisner

Corey is a Dickhead

The Media, The Beer and The Bullshit – Part Two

Corey, you’re a dickhead.

But, in some ways, it’s not your fault. In many ways it is, too. If those reading this have not yet become familiar with the story yet – here it is. I make no apologies whatsoever for any judgements I make about this story and the people involved in it, because, to break it down into terms that even Corey could understand – “You started it!.”

Corey is a sixteen year old living with his Mum and step Dad in a well kept and comfortable house in an outer eastern suburb of Melbourne. Corey’s parents had organised a Queensland holiday from which Corey pulled out at the last minute because he ‘had to work’. While his guardians were away he did some organising of his own in the form of a party at his home. Rather than a quiet gathering of a few of his closest chums to watch some sport or a Disney movie, he decided instead to ‘invite’ 500 well wishers and freeloaders via a message on My Space and a series of snowballing text messages.

To sum it all up simply, Corey’s event-management skills led to a rather unruly and noisy shit-fight breaking out in the street. 30 police, the Dog Squad and the Air Wing eventually restored order and calm to the proceedings, but not before extensive damage was done to the neighbouring properties, the streetscape, the windscreens of the attending police vehicles and the reputation of his parents within the neighbourhood. And, rather than repent or, at least, show some element of remorse, Corey chose instead to ride the wave of media generated hysteria that seems to be the standard response to outbreaks of dickheadedness today.

I say today because things are vastly different to than they were even a decade ago. You see, we were all a little like Corey at one stage of our lives and we all had elements of his mental make up at our disposal. We all at least thought about throwing a ‘do’ at our place while the ‘olds’ were out and we had probably enjoyed the fruits of forbidden underage drinking. What most of us didn’t have was a world wide technological means of letting every other minimally developed, lone-brain cell dependant operative know what was available.

We also all probably had just a small understanding of the implications of shouting such an open invitation from the mountain tops was likely to have. We also tended to obey directives from our elders, in particular those who towered over us physically and emotionally and particularly those who wore uniforms and carried side arms. So many things today have changed.

So Corey is a dickhead. In fact, he is a Grade ‘A’ certified window-licking, mouse-on-a-treadmill-brained, Eminem worshipping, Big Brother watching, Jackass educated dickhead of the tenth Order. But he is sixteen years old and he lives in the 21st century. His brain, like those of all other sixteen year olds before him, has not yet fully developed. He is a dickhead and does not respect, in order of importance;

Beer,
Police,
Authority in general,
Consequences,
Parents and
Beer.

And, as a result, he was unable or unwilling to foresee that the following things WOULD, in all probability, occur;

Many, many people would turn up to his party as a direct result of his internet invitation (he boasted that he wanted to get as many as possible to show), that most, if not all of these people would have similar, if not lower, mental responsibility capacity, that 500 people at a suburban house will NOT all be able to use the appropriate receptacles for both glass and bodily waste and that the neighbours and representatives of the local law enforcement agencies would not see ‘the funny side of all of it, and shit’. Corey, you are a dickhead.

He was probably aware, however, that the very same media machine that has created and glorified a whole cultural trend towards uncouth, anti-social, beer abusing and mind numbingly dull dickhead behaviour, would then try to turn him into a modern day Ferris Beuller -without the wit and innocent charm – and give him a minute of fame for each of his tender years. He may not have thought that his antics and his attitude would gain him world wide press coverage, but then, as I said, he is a different kind of 16 year old dickhead.

He lives in a world where young people don’t think too far ahead in terms of their career or future – so did I. He and his mates like to thumb their nose at ‘the man’ – so did I. He likes to see if he can score some grog to kick a party along – so did I. (Sorry, Mum.) He likes to have his mates over for a little shin-dig – so did I. This is probably where the similarities end. Remember, Corey is a dickhead.

I did not have the utter stupidity to light a fire and then say it wasn’t my fault that others let it burn. I did not show contempt, disrespect or indifference to my peers or my elders when I got busted red-handed causing a massive public nuisance. I was not so immature as to spout my mouth of at, in turn, the police who I would have wanted to protect me had one of my ‘close invited friends’ decided to take a whack at me, or the media who, having sniffed a story, ran it constantly for four days. Remember, Corey, don’t talk trash and act the big man and challenge your detractors to ‘take me on if you dare’ when the same media has already published your address. Dickhead.

I’m going to leave Corey here for now as he has had far more attention than any dickhead deserves. Unlike the similarly brain dead current affairs shows who have perpetuated his ‘fame’ and the radio stations supposedly run by grown adults who have thrown cash and contra at this re-tread to mumble the same drivel over and over. We deserve better.

And to the ‘promoters’ who are suggesting Corey can make tens of thousands of dollars ‘organising’ parties for them; don’t forget; this is a sixteen year old dickhead who is still less developed in maturity than most of the sixteen year old dickheads around and has displayed no greater ‘organisational’ skills than being able to turn on and operate a computer. I have a four year old who can do that. Think about it, eh?

By the way, Corey is a dickhead.

Cheers,
Prof. Pilsner

P.S. Corey is a dickhead