I rarely drink alcohol at home, unlike Mrs. Fiendish, who has always enjoyed a lager or a glass of wine while lounging at home on the old sofa. Recently I converted her to ale though it backfired on me over the hot week-end when I returned to the house looking forward to consuming a bottle of Shepherd Neame’s Whitstable Bay that I had been hoarding for three weeks only to find Mrs. F. had necked it.
I note recently a report from CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) that the number of women drinking real ale has doubled in the last year. CAMRA attributed the increase to the availability of third pint measures in poncy glasses. I can’t say I have noticed this but good luck to pubs if that is the case.
Personally, I think part of it has to do with the increasing sophistication of wine drinkers in the UK. Perhaps people whose palate has become more used to dryer wines over the years are more inclined to give ale a chance; most beer bores would concede that bitter is a bit of an acquired taste. I literally had to drink gallons of the stuff over a period of about three years before I grew to like it; before that I just drank it because of peer pressure.
Nowadays the peer pressure is all the other way, from lager drinkers.
It does not look like number one son will be following in my foot steps. He joined us on the pub crawl last night and texted us in advance to tell us to get a pint in. We asked the landlord for a pint of ‘poofy cider’ (political correctness goes out the window when you are pished) and he did us proud, pouring some blue-coloured perry (like cider only made from pears) and apologising for not having a cocktail cherry available to make it even more girlie. He did provide a straw though.
Number one son downed it in the time it took me to consume about one-eighth of the pint of Golden Plover I was nursing. No wonder his brothers think he is an alckie.