Lager lager lager
On the sauce: Lager
Live life larger with lager, says Miss Tipple. Okay, we'll come clean. In honour of the FA Cup, we've made it Mr Tipple this week…
As with all objects of religious devotion, there are many contradictory myths and legends about the origins of lager. Some place its origins in Germany, others in Bohemia, and others still affirm that Newcastle is the home of the amber angel. But there are many, atheists among their number, who claim that lager must have been made by God. This seems the only plausible story.
"Oh, lager beer! It makes good cheer, And proves the poor man's worth; It cools the body through and through, and regulates the health" Anonymous
Like oxygen, the ubiquity of lager has caused many people to take its existence for granted, sometimes to the point of dislike. Lager has suffered a bad press over the years, but as the NRA with rifles, so the NLA with beer. Lager doesn’t start pointless drunken brawls and over-confident lechery, people start pointless etc... In reality, lager is the thin smear of glue which holds society together, taking the edge off being alive and giving hope to all who choose her righteous path.
As well as being the fuel for Bacchanalian excess, lager is also a versatile accompaniment to dinner, going with all flavours of crisps and most kinds of nuts. Surprisingly, a little chocolate before a pint assists the full appreciation of the taste of the Golden Liquid Path to Joy. And there is one accompaniment which increases the experience beyond all others. It is an unwritten rule, known to all initiates, that someone in possession of a pint of lager must be in want of a cigarette.
During the heavy months of summer, the preferred method of taking the tipple is the much-maligned Lager Top. This can bring much derision upon the holder, especially if they are a man, but the offending would-be-purist can usually be disarmed by pointing out that while one does, indeed, have a dash of lemonade in one’s pint, one’s pint is Stella, whereas one’s adversary seems to be drinking Foster’s. Because, although the façade is that lager is the drink for democracy, there is a rigid hierarchy, with Foster’s the ragged guttersnipe of lager, and Stella, the laughing emperor of all. And deservedly so, for it is, after all, reassuringly fifteen pence more per pint.
Socially, lager is the can for all seasons. Lazy afternoons in the park, lazy sick days in bed, the swift half after work, the all-dayer, the weekend bender, the quiet Monday morning pre-work drink and the Sunday Afternoon Football at the Pub. Because staying at home with Sky Sports, while convenient, is a wispy ghost in comparison.
So, in this week of Arsenal records, Man City emphatically not getting relegated and Millwall about to win the F.A. Cup (possibly), while the sun is shining and the streets are a drone of life, get yourself down to your local and partake in some worship of tradition. And show your neighbours your strength of faith, in the small hours, by singing: Lager Lager Lager, singing: Lager Lager Lager. It’ll win you no end of respect.