So, when in an earlier post I suggested that "Twenty years is a lot of paintings and a ton of beer," it is literally true. A pint of water weighs a pound, so I'm figuring ditto for beer. Maybe more for dark beer, given the particulate and whatever. Given this, the consumption of one pint about every three and a half days -- who doesn't drink that much beer? -- will get you to exactly a ton on the last day of the twentieth year.
If I've done the math right. I got a bit confused half way through.
I don't think I'm drinking enough Bass Ale. I wandered out to The Man of Kent a couple of weeks ago with my boy Scully and had a few. I'd forgotten how good Bass Ale is.
This from 1884 ...
It is no extravagant assertion to say that throughout the world there is no name more familiar than that of Bass. A household word amongst Englishmen, it is one of the first words in the vocabulary of foreigners whose knowledge of the English language is of the most rudimentary description. And while the cognomen of the great Burton brewer is of cosmopolitan celebrity, there is no geometrical figure so well known as the vermilion triangle which is the trademark on his bottles. It is as familiar to the eye as Her Majesty’s visage on the postage stamps. It would, indeed, be a difficult task to say in what part of the earth that vivid triangle does not gladden the heart of man. Thackeray contended with great humour that far as the meteor flag of England may have carried the glory of this country, the fame of her bitter beer has gone farther still. The word “Bass” is known in places where such names to conjure with as Beaconsfield, Gladstone, Bright, Tennyson and Dickens would be unintelligible sounds. To what corner of the habitable world has not Bass penetrated? He has circumnavigated the world more completely than Captain Cook. The sign of the vermilion triangle is sure evidence of civilisation. That trade mark has travelled from “China to Peru”, from “Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strand”. There it is in Paris or St Petersburg, Madrid or Moscow, Berlin or Bombay, Brussels or Baalbec, New York or Yokohama, San Francisco or San Stefano, Teheran or Trichinopoly. You meet the refreshing label up among Alpine glaciers. and down in the cafes of the Bosphorus; among the gondolas of the Grand Canal at Venice, the dahabeahs at the first cataract on the Nile, and the junks of China. It has reached the “Great Lone Land”. It has refreshed the mighty hunter camping out in Wyoming, Montana or Dakotah. It sparkles before the camp fire of the Anglo-Saxon adventurer out in the wilds of the Far West, and its happy aroma is grateful to the settler in the Australian bush. When the North Pole is discovered, Bass will be found there, cool and delicious.
I love that last line. The North Pole was discovered, in the flesh, by Robert Peary in 1909, although some guy named Frederick Cook said he was there in 1908.
Regardless, the whole article -- a screed about how AB-InBev is screwing up one of the oldest and finest beers in history, is here