From Northampton with love. In a quiet corner of the Bridge, Saturday afternoon reflections, sunlight spearing in through the window, a spotlight on the carpet, I lift a glass of Carlsberg Cold. It’s the colour of the sort of cellophane that shopkeepers once hung in their windows to keep out flies (or Lucozade bottles used to be wrapped in). Can of sweetcorn opened 30 minutes ago on the nose, it’s cold and crisp in the mouth and has a hint of lemon-flavoured boiled sweets — then there’s a dryness developing. It’s slightly sharp, but there’s no real flavour. It’s refreshing enough in the way a glass of shandy does the honours after a particularly ferocious game of squash. It doesn’t float my boat, but it’s not as frightening and fiendish as who-have-you-converted-to-real-ale-today types would have us believe. It’s there, it’s here, it’s beer. I leave my glass half full and order a draught Budvar, I’m intrigued to note that the Carlsberg Cold develops a burnt rubber note on the nose as it cools. Landlady Rachel passes by and agrees with me. What’s this burnt rubber all about then?
- If I’m going to write about lager then I cannot ignore this bestseller, well I can but at the moment I’m saving all my ignoring for the monstrous Bedlam that is Britain’s Got Talent.