Bitter memories: my craving for a pint

It is enough to drive a man to drink. The most glorious weather, so suitable for white Burgundy on a picnic in a meadow-full of wild flowers, for rosé almost anywhere: above all, for beer. A few weeks ago, I wrote longingly about the thought of a pint of beer. Time has passed; the craving has intensified. Nor am I alone. Chatting to a friend about fine vintages being used as palliatives — these bottles I have shored against my lockdown — we agreed that there are moments when a foaming beaker of English wallop would hit the spot more satisfyingly than the most awe-inspiring bottle from Bordeaux or Burgundy. In my youth, there was a jingle about a pub with no beer. We little thought that it would turn into a prophecy. I wonder how many million gallons of bitter have gone undrunk over the past two months; how many million thirsts have gone unslaked. Bitter: that is indeed a bitter reflection.

This long meandering phone call then moved on to drink in politics. Obviously, there are no reliable statistics, but we both felt that there was less of it. In the 1980s, before a ten o’clock vote, a large number of MPs were visibly and audibly well-dined. On the Tory side, a lot of them were in black tie. In those days, the whips had a task which is now much less important: to scrutinise their flock and spot those whose wish to address the House should not be encouraged. There would then be a quiet word around the Speaker’s Chair to ensure the member in question was not called.

Sometimes, there was a deliberate mistake. One evening, a bumptious young backbencher was trying to catch the Speaker’s eye. Because he was so cocky, the whips decided to teach him a lesson and not to save him from himself.