Pints Of Glory

Booze. A beverage. Nectar. The Pint.

Across the globe it is known as thousands of different things, mostly referring to beer but can be used to speak of a myriad of different elixirs. Pints became the standard unit to avoid waste from the bottom of the barrel, and there can be no more noble reason. It has been served in this way since medieval times, and is even specified in the Magna Carta, although back then the ‘London Quarter’ was closer in volume to double that of what we use today. The pint as we know it today was officially born in 1824 in the ‘Weights and Measures’ act, and has been enjoyed in Britain ever since.

Until last week we had been denied this most simple of pleasures for a further four months, having already lost the occasion for six months the year before. Obviously the circumstances were extraordinary and not to be dismissed, but that does not mean we couldn’t still yearn for the simplest things of regular life.

With the pubs reopening the tingle of tipsiness and the satisfaction of that first sip was finally within reach. The boys had gathering for the first time in as long as they can remember. Masks adorned, we made way into the sacred land. It was a brisk April evening, where you would not normally dare brave the night time weather outside, but this was an event worth the chill. Shivers set in early but they could easily be in anticipation rather than the cold. We take our seats and wait to be served.

It isn’t long before we are approached by one of the waitress’ for the night. “So you are our saviour“. We place our orders. One of us is pressured into abandoning his usual order for a brew from the tap. “You could have a bottle any time! Get a pint that’s why we are here!” It’s a crude point but it does stand. Any supermarket can supply a bottled brew for a decent price, but a beer drawn from the taps is different gravy. Chilled to perfection, the grade of the head, and the taste that cannot be matched. Who cares if it is most probably psychological, I am full on board!

We wait. Not for long but it does not feel that way. But finally the tray arrives, adorned with four glasses of beautiful golden liquid. My fingers grasp the glass, feeling the moist layer of condensation forming from our baited breath. It is time. The glass is lifted to meet the lips, and as the golden ichor passes my lips, that familiar warmth is returned for the first time in an eternity. All the cold from the evening is gone, replaced only by satisfaction and the slight dulling in senses. The simple delight of the moment is beautiful. The possibilities for the future are looking up, but theres only one fact out of all this…… Pubs are back!