An Antwerpener Returns to Olympia

Part Two

Styles & Seasonals August 14, 2003
Written by JorisPPattyn

Wilrijk, BELGIUM -

The British invented the steamtrain, and the railway. Once convinced of the advantages of such a system, they hauled over unfortunates from all over their empire to build the United Kingdom all over with railway lines. A nastier mind than mine (rare, that) might add that once this accomplished, they stopped doing anything at all about it, the only updating in recent decennia being Platform 9 3/4 by J.K. Rowling) but I leave that to those persons. Anyway, the result is that about every other Brit lives just under the railway. Handy? Well, not in a red-hot night, vainly trying to get some sleep and having a carriage blasting past every five minutes from some hours before early dawn. I believe Jeremy (I always believe other people - that’s polite) when he says that one gets used to it. I seemed to do a lot better second and third nights, but that is not conclusive evidence, as somehow I seem to have met a Neanderthaler wielding an outsized wooden mallet on both occasions, just to crawl upright in more advanced morning hours after being struck.

So, with a lot of repetitions (welcome, as the first thing a Continental has to do is to watch carefully which direction the bus is really going he wants to take), having seen off Theresa (who seemed remarkably loathe to go off and enrich her country by the gains of her toils) we separated at the door from Jeremy, and went off to search the ways to the distant Olympian mountains.

That proved remarkably easy, however long, but yet somehow all this sun and alcohol must have managed to cook my brains a long time ago, as I entered the Hall at 10.00 AM, convinced to find the thing in full swing. Actually, the thirsty masses would only be allowed in a good two hours later. For my 8th or so GBBF... Of course, these long and beerless hours allowed me to get lovely Lutje acquainted with the innards of the temporary high-temple of Ninkasi, as well as with the intricacies of a 1200 wo/man volunteers organisation. She seemed to take it in in good stride, though sometimes I thought I saw an eyebrow raised at least a mm higher, when the next bum whose neck I fell around was even fatter, beardier and T-shirtier than the last.

Talk about T-shirts. Where in heaven Ian Garrett of BSF-fame learned to compose and place orders? Friday morning, all that remained of the BSF T-shirts (most coveted non-beer prize of all GBBF’s) was one big box of XXL! Ever spotted yours truly in such contraption? No, of course, as yours truly wouldn’t be amongst the visible no longer.

And then the beering started, at last. I managed to start with a gulp of an American cask ready to be opened, Troutbrook Thomas Hooker ale (OK), after which the British onslaught began: Eccleshall Slaters’ Supreme, Castlerock Hemlock bitter (beuugh), Breconshire Golden Valley, Anglo-Dutch Kletswater (genial!), Ossett Silver Shadow (good), Robinsons’ Hartley Cumbrian way (I’ve had better from that brewery). For the full descriptions, please refer to:http://www.ratebeer.com/ViewUser.asp?UserID=5792, as this text might become a tad long. And more people showed up, the enigmatic Ratebeerian Bierkoning (Edo), who went to my own lambicfestival at the turn of the eighties. My significant other exerted infinite patience, as my attention was all-riveted on the scribbled notes, and the sticky oversized glass in my hand, so that it was she who had to indicate that the man having just served me, seemed to expect more from me than the token: Jacob Lövenlund and his pal MartinK (who, thanks to Theresa, will be known as the Hobbit from know on), had recognised on my card a familiar name, missing a face as yet.

On we went! Jeremy had indicated us that the Oakhams’ disco, sorry, stand, had brought some treats. He hadn’t been lying - if Jeffrey Hudsons bitter was quite good, the Bishops’ Farewell was superb. British real ale at its best. Three Sisters from Atlas on faraway Arran, and Keesmann Herren Pils. Ah, that’s German, at the Volunteers’ Arms, talking with Theo Flissebaalje, skinny Dutchman as opposed to Jos Brouwer, stoutest Dutchman, and ranking both amongst the more famous lurkers on the Babble Belt. We had to come up, as I needed all powers of persuasion to convince Lutje that: not all food stalls on GBBF provide food fit for pampered(=Belgian) human’s consumption, and that the own CAMRA kitchen, however cheap, is probably the worst. She wouldn’t take it from me that: a) the caravan I dragged her to had anything to do with food and b) that would prove anyway edible - it took the saying of my old friend the Hawaiian brewer that the Caribbean snacks rank amongst the best. They do. UP again, sorry, down, for Fyfe Lion Shagger (read the website, if you don’t believe me), Valhalla Simmer Dim (faawgh - Summer dim sum recycled steam?); the totally ruined Fantôme Bière Saison BSF 2003 - Mat Wilson was stoutly defending (t)his breuvage against raging hordes of Petri-dish-waving microbiologists and lab analysts, demanding the head, sorry, the corks of these beers. I pitied the poor man, sagging in when I told him the infection was very real, and very beast(l)y - as Dany mailed himself, anyway. Problems with the yeast. Dany didn’t like the idea of this being sold at all.

But there is worse! Out of the mists of time, up doomed the bearded monster of Loch London, Richard Larkin, waving a can of ’Fiji Export Bitter’, which is a Lager of course. Ye gods. I kept unlucky - Marstons’ Old Empire IPA. No wonder the British empire went down. Sorry guys - I’ll never dig Marstons & the sacrosanct Union system - IMO this is an open invitation for infection. Pedigree is again IMO (sorry thought police) the worlds’ most overrated beer - and in Belgium, Pedigree is dog food anyway.

So I changed the input a bit, and snatched a bottle of Utenos Porteris from the BSF shelf, which I shared with our good Jeremy, who had arrived in good moods. Better than his alter ego, who phoned him after half an hour, indignantly inquiring about his absence at the reserved White Horse table, finding herself alone there. Who also arrived in the mean time were Yogi_Beera (Nath) and Pivo (Jim), the German Beerprincess (Luts’ eyebrows shot up several cm when I fell around that gracefull neck!) and her American prince. Later that night it would cost me another half-hour explaining that, (as Theresa managed to convince Lut) the poor girls’ name was not Yoogibirri in truth.

We quickly downed a gulp of Magic Hat #9 (if somebody thinks to know what the magic in this is about, please mail me. Slowly as somehow I got convinced this is a quickly-assembled fruitsyrup contraption with a lot of commercial humbug around it), and fled the Halls of draught Booze, to find better dwellings...

Which means <a hrefhttp://www.ratebeer.com/Story.asp?StoryID=221>the White Horse and part III, of what is slowly becoming the most insane ranting ever to appear on this revered website.

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stoutly defending (t)his breuvage against raging hordes of Petri-dish-waving microbiologists and lab analysts, demanding the head, sorry, the corks of these beers.

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