I note with some interest that it is only a week to go until the European arm of the 2011 Beer Bloggers Conference.

I’m not a beer blogger – such a specialism doesn’t really interest me – but buying, drinking and talking about beer; in public or on twitter does make for a good hour or two well spent each week.

What does interest me about the event, is that there is a section on the agenda for Subject Matter Experts (SMEs) to discuss the finer points of beer blogging – under the notion that there are dos and don’ts involved. The reason this interests me is that, as a blogger myself, I’d be wary of anyone suggesting that what I do is right or wrong. This blog contains my personal experience, or, if you will, my own thoughts.

If the SMEs are providing a guide, based on their experiences, that may aid the rest of the attendees to improve their own blogging standards – then I guess this is different; and should be titled accordingly. For if they’ve carried out all of the don’ts discussed – it’s clearly not done them any harm.

It got me thinking that if I was to write a beer blog – what would I cover? How would I introduce my blog to a wider reading audience, and what would my first post read like? The latter I will address below:

I love going in to pubs, off licences and other such beer purveying outlets. There’s always a frission of anticipation as I cross the threshold. Will they have what I want? Will I be blown away by something I’ve never tried before – will there be cause for debate amongst our group on the merits of the beer on offer. Even to the extent of asking if we enjoyed the overall experience of visiting that pub? For no one should ever like a bland pub, with a poor selection; with bar staff that offer little in terms of engagement bar the pint they serve.

Though sometimes, walking through the door – making initial contact with the goods on offer – can cause a drinker to question their relationship, not with the bar or its staff, but with the original source – the brewer.

When I say question, what I actually mean is provide a series of answers. Answers to questions driven by the way the brewer tries to sell their wares. Here are just some of the answers:

I won’t buy your beer because of your manifesto or ethos. I appreciate there are multi-national companies out there that make beer, that sell beer, that market beer to the masses – that miss the point; that push substandard beer off as being premium in quality – but every now and again I might drink it. I might thoroughly enjoy drinking it – in the same way that I will drink coffee made under oppressive conditions, that tastes the exact same as the ethically sound stuff – or eat burgers that are poor in quality, have resulted in rain forests being chopped down or have driven local companies out of business. Your ethos means nothing, only the taste of your beer – and let us whisper quietly – sometimes it’s not as good as the “crap” you degrade.

I am fickle; extremely fickle when it comes to pump clips. If I think my two year old could do a better job – I will move swiftly past like the angel of the lord during the Passover celebrations. If it looks as though you use a printer that my work chucked out 10 years ago; sealed it in cheap plastic and stuck a clip on the back – then I’ll question the effort you’ve put in to making the beer. For beer production doesn’t stop when you stop – it stops when I first drink it. The brewers that make the effort get their product to my lips.

I will buy your beer if your pump clip sings to me; if I can instantly identify it as being from your brewery. You can go colour, minimalist, classic or “edgy” – it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that you understand the notion that what you are selling is more than just beer – it is an experience that starts the minute I gaze upon the myriad of pumps before me.

I won’t buy a beer because a blogger tells me to. Why are they telling me to? Is it because you follow them on twitter? Is it because you’ve sent them a case to try – but told them not to “worry about reviewing it, you just go ahead and enjoy it for yourself.” I will buy a beer because of word of mouth – but respected word of mouth, or the slight musings of a mate who’s tried it before. Both can be bloggers – but that’s by the by.

I will buy a beer because I believe, and ultimately trust the landlord. They are the conduit between your brewery and my mouth. A good landlord will only order decent beer. A great landlord will accept that until he’s ordered a beer – he won’t know if it’s good or bad – though he will be upfront and suggest that, although he wants you to buy it to get it out of his cellar – there may be other beers you may want to try first.

I won’t buy a beer because of what you write on the bottle or the pump clip. Your descriptors mean nothing to me – as more often than not you will definitely oversell yourself. I will consider not buying a beer if you merely slap the name of the hop on the front. Every industry has a bandwagon and brewing is no different – getting the must have hops out in pubs to meet a current trend is perfectly acceptable, but show a bit of imagination and give it a unique name. It’s not exactly hard.

I definitely won’t be suckered in to buying a beer if I feel you are misleading me. You know, like suggesting a beer brewed under licence is instantly identifiable with a romantic, passionate country – yet it originates from a slightly less glamorous, somewhat arguably non-descript home.

I may still buy your beer even if others are engaged in an endless tirade against you. Who is to say they are right?

I won’t buy your beer just because you’ve been around for longer than the pub has. Operating since the 19th century doesn’t actually make your beer any good. There is a regular misquote of “practice makes perfect”. What the quote should read is “practice makes permanent”. If your beer has been boring, unchanged, unchallenging since 1811 – it will still be so in 2011. Where as a new kid on the block; someone who applies a bit of drama, pizzazz – flavour to their beer; will win me over every time.

I care little as to what glass your beer is served to me in. My job is not to market your beer. I’ll admit that certain beers need to be served in certain glasses – but tell that to the drunk who just wants a fix at five in the morning; when all the glasses have either been smashed or are still in use at a party. The experience finishes with the taste – not the branding of the glassware (this argument sits in contrast to pump clips – read: fickle).

I am as likely to buy a beer that is sold to me as a craft product, as I am a beer that I believe will be made by nothing more than a precise series of button presses. The effort that goes in does not necessarily determine the quality that comes out. No matter how much you try to convince me otherwise.

How an organisation approaches your beer is of no interest to me. You fight that battle alongside others who care. All I care about is how your beer tastes.

I will buy a beer today.

I will drink a beer today.

I hope I enjoy today’s beer.

If I don’t enjoy today’s beer – who knows what it means to the rules above – I am not at liberty to say how they will change from one day to the next; simply appreciate that not everything you do will sit easy with me. For as a beer drinker – my tastes, my likes, my dislikes, my arguments and my appreciation will change on an almost daily basis.

The only constant is that I will continue to drink beer.

Today’s beers included RedWillow Brewery’s “Smokeless” Smoke Porter. The clip (representative design shown above) followed me all around the bar. The simple colour palate, elegant lines and same logo applied across their range was a definite winner for me. The fact the beer tasted great was reason enough to try their beer again.

At what point did my life become nothing more than a collection of labels or tags by which I am instantly recognised by?

I don’t mean the simple police style IC1 Male. More the often, somewhat lazy and disparaging label that identifies me not as an individual, but as part of a wider network of people I barely have anything in common with?

I understand being classified by my job title. It’s what I do for eight hours a day, five days a week. I also understand being referred to by my relationship choices – that of husband, married man or father of one – for I am all three.

What I don’t understand, is when I am classified not by my actions, but more so the actions of others.

My annoyance at such labelling intensified this week with two important announcements – one sport and one drinks related – that saw me cast as a sad, bitter loser who has a somewhat, serious drink problem.

The sport one is simple. With England losing out to Russia in the race to host the 2018 World Cup, the media and swathes of twitter and internet forum users all saw me as being sad, deluded and bitter that England failed to win the bid. I was almost stupid to think we stood a chance of winning. I was wrong to want to host the World Cup in England (give others a chance they typed. We can’t afford it was another regular response). I needed to understand that the world was no longer mapped mainly in the colour pink (an old colonial way of showing what was part of the British Empire) and that England was no longer important. Through one desire I was labelled as being stuck in the past, greedy and more often than not, naïve.

I didn’t for one minute think we would win the bid. When Putin, the bare-chested hero of Russia, stated that he was not planning on turning up to the bid announcement, part of me wanted to sell my shares in Orange Juice and Pork Bellies and go big on a Russian win.

Think, no. Really want us to host, very much so.

In the aftermath of the announcement I tuned in to a radio phone in show where I listened to the presenters, guests and callers and found myself disagreeing with nearly everything those involved had to say. Did we therefore, really have anything in common with each other beyond wanting to see the World Cup in England? If not, why assume we are all the same?

It is the same view with the government announcement that duties, therefore cost, on what is commonly referred to as super strength beers (over 7.5% in strength) was to rise next year. The reason for this move is an attempt to crack down on binge drinking and “preventable illnesses” which includes alcohol abuse.

Now, I drink beer over 7.5%. This is a fairly new thing as I have only just started to get in to drinking what are collectively known as craft beers. There are some craft beers like the monster % “End of History” which comes in at a whopping 55%, but it also cost a reported £500. Not for me, nor the myriad of support groups and media outlets that decried its release.

My market is the more reasonably priced BrewDog “Hardcore” or the American Green Flash “Le Freak” – both tipping the scales at 9%. Because I drink those beers, from a purely tax perspective, I am instantly classified in the same bracket as someone that drinks Tennents, Kestral and Carlsberg “Special Brew”, thus leading some to believe that my health could be at risk. The big difference being that I will only drink one bottle of “Le Freak” – mainly through cost (Le Freak is already the wrong side of £10) – where as a Tennents drinker will happily pick up a pack of four and drink them in one sitting.

Not only will my desire to drink a 9% beer cost me more from next year, through association, I am now also part of a Governmental policy. It is a policy that looks past the fact that I also buy wine at 14%, often for half the price of a bottle of Le Freak. As a wine drinker, am I less of a problem to the NHS and the wider society? Am I viewed in a better light because wine is more culturally acceptable than a bottle of super strength beer? Is there a class argument at play here, and are the policy makers more likely to be wine drinkers than “super strength beer” aficionados?

There have been other occasions in the past week where my choice of activity has led some to label me as middle class (for drinking in a wine bar), a dinosaur (going to see Madness in concert) and arrogant (for being both English and from London). All three are just lazy labels. Class isn’t defined by the venues in which you drink. Good music is timeless and there were plenty of people younger than me at that gig – and yes, I am occasionally loud and forthright, but is that simply down to where I was born?

To label me is to dismiss me; to put me in to a box from where I will only return if you were not instantly put off by your original label. I have more to offer than my job title, my relationship status, my nationality or my choice of beverage. What you find beyond those labels may not be to your taste, but at least we made the effort to get beyond the initial tick box phase. Don’t hate me because I have a child, a dog or that I struggle with the concept of meat free Mondays. There may be plenty of other reasons not to want to know me, just don’t dismiss me because of a label.

Here is David Bailey of Hardknott Brewery’s view on the duty rise and what it means to the industry

We were somewhere around platform six when the beer began to take hold. I remember saying something like “that was some of the best beer I’ve ever tasted…” And then suddenly there was a loud roar of a diesel engine and the sky was leaden thanks to a late summer shower. The voice in my head was screaming “Why did we leave that pub?”

Then it was quiet again. My companion was wearing a shirt with a hood to protect him from the rain, and the skinniest jeans imaginable. “My missus said she hoped I had a fun day out with my new boyfriend” he said. “Your boyfriend? “ No point in telling him he wasn’t my type. The poor bastard would find out soon enough that this was no Bromance – the only thing I was interested in was the beer and football.

Bromance is a strange phrase that appears to have entered our lexicon, thanks to the need for Hollywood to re-brand those tired old sitcoms and movies, you know, the ones which involve men finding themselves, going on a road trip or realising that friendships are the key to their lives.

It’s the latest attempt to strip back the hair, stains and bad habits which form the beast that is man – and add a softer – dare we say more feminine side to them. We’ve had the Toilet Seat Wars, Gazza’s tears, metrosexuality – and now men, who appreciate a hug from a friend at a time of need. Unless of course they’re a Conservative MP – then the media has to assume it is something far sinister.

Thing is. The Bromance concept is nothing new. It doesn’t suggest that men are doing anything differently to what they have done for years. There is no blurring of the love/like relationship – far from it. If you’ve ever gone to an away football match with mates – there’s your road trip. If you’ve ever had a chat, in a pub about your likes and dislikes, or sounded out the idea of jacking your job in – then there’s the finding yourself element. Give a man enough booze, and they usually become the most tactile of creatures – regularly hugging, punching or slapping each other without any fear that it might confuse their relationship.

The point of this particular road trip was to hunt down a beer – Thornbridge Brewery’s Larkspur. I’d read glowing reviews of it on Zak Avery’s The Beer Boy blog. Unfortunately, as it was a limited release, I took a punt with mate in tow, and headed from Leeds to Thornbridge’s “local” pub The Coach and Horses in Dronfield. As luck would have it, the Coach and Horses sits next door to the home of Sheffield FC, the oldest football club in the world. We timed it perfectly, as the club were at home in the FA Cup – the oldest surviving football tournament in the world. It set up the day as the perfect marriage of new (Larkspur) and old within 10 feet of each other.

With a few hours to kill, we dived out at Sheffield station and hit The Sheffield Tap. Catering linked to rail travel usually fills you with dread. Hot drinks that have been plumbed directly from the centre of the earth, warm cans of non-descript beer or sandwiches so hard; they would take out a small suburb of Paris if dropped from the top of the Eiffel Tower. It therefore came as a major surprise to find a pub of such class – a door’s width away from a station platform.

As soon as we crossed the threshold we knew we were somewhere special. The immaculate décor of traditional hardwood and leather raised it instantly above your average theme or chain pub. In to the well lit, airy bar – chock full of commuters, mostly in their team’s colours – and we were greeted with an array of pumps and taps that you had to stand back and admire; before quickly wading in.

Although we were off to a Thornbridge pub, the lure of trying the brewery’s Jaipur was too great to resist. I’ve had it in bottled form before and loved every drop, but the draught version took the taste experience to another level. I want this blog to be as accessible as possible, so that it can be read by those with no real interest in beer or football – with that in mind I won’t always go in to specific taste sensations (for that, try Zak Avery, Andy Mogg or Mark Dredge). All I will say is that the pint lasted no more than 10 minutes – and we were off on the hunt for more.

We both had a pint of Lord Marples and would happily have stayed for more. Unfortunately both of us lay claim to being [please insert expletive here] magnets – that is to say, if the village idiot/self-proclaimed hard nut or similarly unwanted drinking companion appears in the bar – they’ll immediately make a bee line for where we are sat. As soon as the twitching and the lack of understanding kicked in, we knew it was time to leave.

The journey to Dronfield was just long enough to build up a thirst for another pint. Unfortunately it was not going to be a Larkspur. I found a tweet from one of the brewers telling me we’d just missed out – but that was too late; though I doubt it would have cut short our journey. Instead we went through the pumps, enjoying every Thornbridge beer the pub had to offer – Kipling, Wild Swan and Ashford.

There was a bit of banter with a group I’d never met nor would ever see again. Men joined in unison in front of the bar pumps, comparing and contrasting the different beers, giving our opinions and not being the slightest bit put out when they went for an alternative – lager.

2.55pm rolled around and it was time to head in to the ground for the match. You never know what to expect from the oldest football club in the world. A dilapidated stadium, broken seats, a tea hut with the world’s largest coffee tin and not much else. None of that applied here. Instead we found a clean, small and somewhat non-descript, non-league stadium that – give a sign or two highlighting Sheffield FC’s heritage – could have housed a thousand football clubs around the British Isles.

There is little to say of the game – mainly because we missed all the action. As the first goal went in, I was staring at my phone whilst my companion was in the toilet. As the second goal went in, we had already made our way to the bar – they let you out of the stadium at half time to get back in to the pub. We were chatting as the third goal went in – and had made our way to the station by the time the opposition had scored a consolation goal near the end. Ah well, it wasn’t really about the football – it was always going to be about our lack of hunting down that elusive pint.

We headed back to Leeds, where to be honest, we went for another couple of pints we didn’t really need. It’s not that we have a drinking problem and have to have the beer, more so that we both had a pass out – and didn’t want the day to end earlier than it had to.

If the day was a film, there might now be a monologue where one of the characters recalls the day’s events in such a way that makes every last detail, seem more profound than it really was. How finding a diamond of a pub in a train station had led to a desire to go back once more. On how missing out on Larkspur would have crushed the day for others, but not for our intrepid duo; even how finding out that we were [C, F or W] Magnets had made us laugh and brought us closer together.

There may have been bodily contact during the last pint. We no doubt shook hands as we parted, but did our life change for the better because of that road trip – or was this just another day, where men across the world simply went about their lives, doing similar things and loving everything other than each other? This isn’t a Bromance – this is just the beer talking.

I got home to find my daughter waving from the window as my wife and two of her mates watched the usual tripe on Saturday night TV. Were they all experiencing some kind of Womance – or is that more of a speech impediment? Either way, I headed to bed with another beer, falling asleep just as the opening credits to Match of the Day kicked in. The perfect end to an excellent, non-sexually charged, no-confusion over our relationship or what the symbolism of tearing a beer mat in front of each other might mean kind of day.

(The opening two paragraphs have been adapted from Hunter S. Thompson’s – Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas)