Last week I ordered a pint of Guinness and was asked which type. I wanted a draft but they offered a choice of cans. It seems a new way of preparing the black stuff has been invented. What appears to be straight un-gassed Guinness is poured from a can and the glass placed on an ultrasonic vibrating plate. Abracadabra: Draught Guinness. All very clever but, as one drinker in a local pub commented: “I feel cheated by them pouring it from a can”. I know what she means, it just doesn’t seem right. One day we’ll run out of oil to fuel the power stations, the electricity will go off and we wont even be able to get a fucking pint of Guinness.
But I guess the draught we’re used to slurping with it’s creamy head is a comparatively new invention which came about by forcing beer through the pipes with gas, nitrogen in the case of Guinness. And the draught from a can with it’s funny widgets seemed odd at first.
In another boozer on Friday night I noticed that the beer pump displays seem to be getting absurdly tall. More evidence that marketing has gazumped taste in every aspect of our lives. Perhaps it is also to protect the bar staff from rowdy punters, a little like the glass windows in banks. Eventually we’ll have these windows in pubs. We’ll join a communal queue and a recorded voice will enunciate “Window number 3 please” in a repetitive jaunty voice and we’ll step up to the window, place our order and insert our credit cards into a slot. A moment later an apparatchik behind the bar will push the pints through a little window. It’s called progress and it’s coming to a pub near you. On the subject of progress the TV tells me that I should use a Gillette Fusion ProGlide which, apparently, is a razor with 5 blades. Only five, do they take me for an idiot?