ESB took the title from its little brother – London Pride – when I ordered it by mistake. At that time, Pride was hard to find even in London and, recognising the pump handle from the doorway, I ordered a pint without reading the small print. The deliciously rich rounded taste that I loved so well was strangely more complete and more intense than I remembered and my love for ESB was born.

When I moved to New York in ’94, the state of the beer market was pretty dismal and I had my only sustained period of drinking crap beer since my career began in 1978 (I drank only wine and milk for two months in Australia in ’89 for fear of permanently damaging my taste buds with their insipid swill). I shudder at some of the piss that passed my lips in those dark days.

After the cold winter of New York, California’s microbrews were a soul-warming blast of sunshine and they renewed my respect for the progeny of John Barleycorn.

In my home country, American beer was always thought of as something of a joke Рan oxymoron almost. But the incredible array of tasty beverages in every bar buried that long-standing truth deep underground. Even the now-mass-produced Sierra Nevada is worth returning to. Anchor Steam Рwhich, with Sierra, helped rescued American Beer from the Laughing Stocks Рdeserves a special shout-out. I especially recommend it with mushroom, jalape̱o, kalamata olive, anchovy and extra cheese pizza.

The Bay Area even had Fuller’s ESB which I ordered out of nostalgia. I still called it The Second Best Beer in the World even though I was disappointed every time I tried it and I tried it many times. The pubs just seemed to not give it the care it required and from a bottle it just tasted… well… wrong. ESB was like a childhood friend who had grown up to be a dick. I wanted to keep in touch to rekindle the flame of my memories but I had no desire to spend a lot of time with it. I stuck with the California microbrews.

But the best California microbrew was actually from Oregon and an almost-emigration to the Land of the Hop Monster changed my beer drinking habits for ever. Portlanders don’t like too much beer diluting the taste of their hops and when you first arrive, you wonder how anyone can even drink the stuff. As my friend says, it’ll shrivel your labia if you are not man enough. After a while though, you wonder how anyone can ever drink anything else.

I have tried drinking Portland-style beers in California but they just don’t work. The first time, I thought it was the weather – I accidentally drank an IPA once after a couple of hours of football in the hot sun and almost had to call an ambulance – but no, controlled experiments have shown me that it is not possible to enjoy strongly-hopped beers in the Golden State.

I still look forward to my visits to the rainy north for the welcome assault on my gustatory system (and the pleasant company!) but when I come back south the beer tastes as dreary as the Portland weather. We have already established that I can’t drink Portland beer down here, so what is a fellow to do? Go back to wine and milk?

I discovered the answer a couple of weeks ago.

We had a family crisis and, as with most crises, we decided that it was best resolved by going to the Britannia Arms. Well, the pint of Fuller’s Extra Strong Bitter that they served me that day transported me instantly to my misspent post-adolescence and to the banks of the River Thames at Chiswick. As if the surprisingly hot wood-nymph from Disney’s version of The Firebird were lovingly caressing my taste buds back from the ravages of devastation, I wanted to soar on wings of delight.

Welcome home, my long lost friend.

Epilogue

I have done several controlled tests since that glorious day. I have had ESB several times and it has been marvellous each time. I have been careful not to overdo it – as with a promising relationship with a new girlfriend, you don’t want to spend too much time with her for fear of ruining something delicate – but our relationship is holding up rather well.

I even tried it at home. From the bottle, it’s awful but pour it into a proper pint glass and Fuller’s ESB reclaims its rightful place as the Second Best Beer in the World.

Hooray, beer! Hooray Fuller’s!

There were three men came out of the west
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die.

They’ve ploughed, they’ve sown, they’ve harrowed him in
Threw clods upon his head,
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead.

John Barleycorn is the personification of beer and/or barley and the three men from the west killed him and buried him in the ground.

They let him lie for a very long time
Till the rains from Heaven did fall,
And little Sir John sprung up his head
And so amazed them all.

They’ve let him stand till Midsummer’s day,
Till he looked both pale and wan.
And little Sir John’s grown a long, long beard
And so become a man.

But John Barleycorn springs back to life and grows strong again… until the men cut him down and make sure that he is really dead this time.

They’ve hired men with the scythes so sharp,
To cut him off at the knee,
They’ve rolled him and tied him by the waist,
Serving him most barbarously.

They’ve hired men with the sharp pitchforks,
Who pricked him through the heart
And the loader, he has served him worse than that,
For he’s bound him to the cart.

They’ve wheeled him around and around a field,
Till they came unto a barn,
And there they made a solemn oath
On poor John Barleycorn

They grind up him up to make beer giving John Barleycorn the chance to get his revenge on those three men from the west.

They’ve hired men with the crab-tree sticks,
To cut him skin from bone,
And the miller, he has served him worse than that,
For he’s ground him between two stones.

And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
And his brandy in the glass
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last

The huntsman, he can’t hunt the fox
Nor so loudly to blow his horn,
And the tinker, he can’t mend kettle nor pots
without a little barley corn

The earliest surviving written record is from the sixteenth century but there is evidence that the song and the story is much older – like this twelfth century pub in Hampshire.

I spent a very pleasant day listening to every version I could find – from Martin Carthy to Paul Weller via Billy Bragg and Jethro Tull and The Fairport Convention and many, many more. The best version by far is by Traffic but they each have their own charms.

Turn up the volume and raise a glass to that ancient hero.

Long live John Barleycorn!

They’ll write it at the New Old Lompoc. Same as I did.

Possibly the best beer I have ever had in America.

Brewing is the original biotechnology. For 6-8,000 years it has been a delight in the diet, resulting from a tremendously consistent process founded on intricate understanding of the underpinning science. It is an industry that informed all modern day fermentation processes. Beer looks good, it tastes good – and it does you good. This talk will explain all this and much more besides.

Charlie Bamforth, Ph.D., D.Sc. Professor of Malting & Brewing Sciences at the University of California

How come my Careers Advisor never told me that I could have been a Professor of Beer?

Wensleydale : It’s a bit black, sir.
Mousebender: Oh, I like it black.
Wensleydale : Well as a matter of fact it’s very black, sir.

Fortunately, it was quite delicious and there were no bouzoukis playing. But, honestly, food should not be that colour.

The red beer with fruit floating in it was most excellent. Just the right amount of redness and fruit floating in it.

A little after that I had my first craft brew – Marsden’s Old Thumper – and never looked back. Trader Joe’s has just started stocking it…ah…takes me back…

Definitely makes my top 5.