In praise of the 1/3 pint

The worst thing that happened to me over the pandemic was I got ‘really into beer’. I was already into it in the most straightforward way: I liked drinking it and I liked getting drunk. I liked the ceremony of it: walking into the pub, ideally at noon on a balmy Saturday, inhaling that rich carpeted smell, ordering a simple fizzing lager and taking that first perfect big sip. Ah!

But then I got into buying expensive boxes of IPAs and NEIPAs, things that self-describe as ‘hazy’, and huge heavy stouts with double-digit ABVs. I’d prowl the length of the taps, head low like a predator, asking: ‘Sorry could I just – yeah sorry could I just get a little taste of that?’ Then I’d just order the first one I tried. This started to affect my friendships. The pub order is now: ‘Three Guinness, and Joel can sort himself out.