Culture, Humour, London, Uncategorized

Why I love beer

BONJOUR. Welcome. Good evening and salaam. Well this is pleasant isn’t it. Thanks for joining me here in this virtual place of ramblings and randomlings. People kept saying to me “Hey, you’re funny, you should write something.” and because I couldn’t think of anything to write, I thought  HEY LET’S HAVE A BLOG. EVERYONE CAN BLOG. EVEN PALTROW BLOGS (though seriously, ‘Goop?!’ GOOP?! That sounds like what one of the characters from Fragglerock would nickname their sperm. Ha, imagine if puppets actually had sperm. Maybe it would just be like lots of multicoloured pieces of thread. Oh god, first paragraph into the world of blogging and I’m discussing puppet sperm. I don’t think Nick Robinson is going to be quaking in his boots. I love that expression. I always imagine people stood in a huge pair of oversized wellies with their knobbly knees knocking together (ooh alliteration) and wobbling like that old Shakey Jake advert.WIBBLE WOBBLE YUM YUM ANYWAY)

Good, so that sort of sums up what I’m probably going to write. A lot of stuff in capital letters and things that I find funny or fascinating and the trials and tribulations about what it’s like to be a 25 year old, post-uni, living in London with no money wrestling with becoming a functioning grown up adult type person. It might be terrible. It might be lol-worthy. But I’m going to have a go. So here we go.

This weekend kicked off with a spot of drinking in the office. Now, believe me. Nothing feels more cheeky than that. Even if it’s a glass of vinegary wine you don’t reaaallyyy want, you will take it and you will drink it and you will inwardly giggle at your own audaciousness. “Imagine if the CEO walked in right now!” I have a huge problem with communal wine though. I decided not to drink it after one memorable evening where I drank a bottle of cheap pinot, danced vigourously in a pub to ‘Bobby’s Girl’ without a sports bra on (always a mistake. If you are big breasted and attempt a jig without a sports bra, you find your boobs moving independently of your body. Seriously, you stop and your boobs carry on delightfully jigging for another 30 seconds, like excitable backing dancers) vomited into a plant pot and hit on my alarmed taxi driver. Ahmed, if you’re reading this, once again, I apologise for my behaviour.

But, people assume that because you’re a girl you automatically like rose wine, Malibu and coke and prosecco. Now, because I was brought up by a burly scouse man, I have found my taste more suited to lager and real ale. I once tried to order a half pint of beer because I thought it would look more ‘girly’ and my Dad roared, “No daughter of mine is having a sweaty little half pint”, and made me have a full one. And no matter how hard I try and shake off this craving, I still love a cider and black. I JUST CAN’T DO IT. My brain is going, “Now, come on, you’re a cosmopolitan, modern woman, have a nice sophisticated glass of chianti,” but my heart is going “NAH YOU’RE STILL A STUDENT HAVE A DELICIOUS PINT OF SNAKEBITE FOLLOWED BY A SHOT OF APPLE SOURZ” (please note- not been a student for nearly 3 years.)

I just like the feel of a pint glass in my hand you know? It feels solid, British and reassuring. Wine glasses are spindly yet disconcertingly bulbous, champagne flutes  are really annoying because you have to throw your head right back if you want to get to the last bit of your drink and tumblers are just too small. A gin and tonic is gone before you know it. You know where you are with a pint glass. They’re so useful, in my years spent as a barmaid, I’ve also observed at least three men  throw up into theirs, which I  thought was very thoughtful as I didn’t have to get the mop out.

So yes, in the long battle of grape vs grain, I’m afraid I will always be team grain. Lovely malty hops and cloudy fermented apples, that will always be my poison. Today I tried a 8.5% Fullers beer. It was like tasty rocket fuel. (Hey, imagine if rockets were able to be powered on actual beer? And you could open the petrol tank and put a straw in like a big keg. Ha, cool.) Today my dad showed me a way of cooking an entire roast chicken by jamming a can of Carlsberg up the chickens bum. I’m not kidding. Next week, my family are going on a tour of the Fullers Brewery in Chiswick. Genuinely worried that I will come out a having spent a weeks wages on artisan beer and an ‘I HEART BEER” t-shirt. That I will wear. On a date. (hahahaha not really dear reader. I’m being ridiculous. as if I’m ever going to go on a date. hahahaa the notion.) Beer and ale loving women, let’s come together and rejoice and feel confident in our love of a drink that isn’t pink.

Ladies, if I haven’t inspired you to go forth and sup on a pint of the delicious golden nectar,  I’ll soon write a piece about the other great love in my life.


Peace out. A-town.


P.s if you fancy a little look at a girly beer blog, check out for a lady who loves a pint.



  1. londonserialdater

    February 4, 2013 at 8:36 pm

    While I can’t claim to be a beer drinker, I loved the post. Looking forward to more!

    1. katiebrennanldn

      February 5, 2013 at 12:15 am

      Thanks! Enjoying yours too! Wonderfully honest and real!

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