Courage Imperial Russian Stout

I want to go camping with this beer. It’s like the camp fire when the wind blows the smoke in your direction as you sink into that Moby Dick sense of noble aristocratic monstrousness that greets you with the great outdoors. There it is: burnt toffee, the sense of the outdoor and old climbing boots, crabbed and fossilised in the doorway of a mountaineering pub; the security of dark malty flavours, your mother holding you close, the security of childhood about to be smashed with the violence of a Joe Orton play: the woody stick sniff of the first camp out, the grownupness of burnt currants, the espresso I’m-an-an-actor of foam on the top of the glass, the complete Crackerjack (it’s Friday!) of surprise that this beer, two months old in my cellar, has brought. This is the beer that should show you up to your bed, before the ladies retire, before I turn in forever, a rat-a-tat of coffee beans, dark chocolate, vanilla pods, charred oak, mocha ice cream, burnt toast, creme brulee and an earthiness that was so ferocious I had to stop our terrier going to ground. Simply said this is one of the best beers have ever had in my rather short life (Is it artisanal? For once I don’t care). Over and out.