It can be said, though by whom I have no idea, that when one tires of the beer blogosphere, one is tired of life. Luckily it is impossible to tire of the beer blogosphere as its capacity to enlighten and entertain knows no bounds. This blog proudly stands nowhere on the wikio ratings, proudly has won no awards, and more proudly is both written and presumably read by people who really ought to have something better to do, than this sort of bollocks.
The British guild of beer writers (yes there is such a thing) recently awarded a number of the beer blogger spheres brightest and best talents, and the fullest of congratulations to them. It can be churlish to mock deserved achievements, and I do enjoy the blogs awarded. I shall not name and shame the culprits that bang on about their wikio rating or awards, both out of previously mentioned respect and also out of the fact that I love the whole idea of it, and want them to continue. Though I suspect the intention is not to amuse. Thus a fine line must be trod. I find myself wishing to mock, but not wishing to sound churlish. I also feel that in allowing people to see themselves through my eyes, they might be prompted to alter the behaviour that amuses me, and thus my amusement will fade.
However I cannot help it that the whole idea of an Oscar ceremony for beer writers forces a smile to form upon my face. I cannot help it. I find it funny. It is no disrespect to those involved; I cannot help it and am unable to suppress the snigger.
With all the prestige of a TV quick, a British Soap award, or Britain best butcher award, the British guild of beer writers manages to amuse and entertain by the simple fact of its existence. It doesn’t really have to do anything, though having award ceremonies is icing on the cake. The simple fact that it exists is enough to make me smile and be happy that I live in a country that would have such a thing. Even better than that though is the giving out of gongs to people who write about beer. I want it streamed live on the internet, that’s what I want. I want to hear the acceptance speeches; I want to see the quality of celebrity giving out the gongs. I want to see Kate Thornton on ITV2 at a back stage party interviewing the winners and losers.
I am unfortunately unable to join such an outfit as the guild for 3 reasons. I wouldn’t be a member of anything that would have the likes of me as a member, I wouldn’t pay money for it, and I can’t be arsed. Though if it involves free grog I might reconsider. Is there free grog?
I did think of creating the British guild of cooking lager writers and awarding the good people of the blogosphere for their sterling efforts with a bit of a tat certificate I knocked up on PowerPoint as you can never have enough self congratulatory back slapping. In today’s world everyone has to be a winner, no one can fail, so I did think of awarding a medal to pretty much everyone.
However the only people who deserve an award are the select few who bother to read this tosh. To paraphrase George Hamilton, you can waste your money but you don’t have enough life to waste your time. And you choose to spend time, precious parts of your life you will not get back, to reading shite on the internet. Tis you, you select few, who deserves and award, so I tip my can of lout to you, may you never find something better to be doing than pissing about reading crap on the internet, written by inarticulate and poorly educated idiots like me.
I have been racking my brains thinking of a way to say thank you, and thought the best way was to have a beer and rattle the missus. Not to do it for any old reason, but to do in your honour. The beer chosen for this thank you was Leffe blond. A usually pricey beer, much derided by beer enthusiasts due to it being a fake Belgian abbey beer knocked up under licence by Inbev at their Stella factory in Belgium. I have a bottle, however, from a beer gift pack. A lovely spicy 6.5% grog that most defiantly puts you in the mood for romance. So last night folks, the lady squeeze got a treat and it was all in your honour.