Write on beer

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…beer.

I am writing this in the pub.  It’s actually called ‘The Red Lion’, which might give an insight into the sort of place it is, at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, which might give you an indication of my commitment to my research.  Pubs off hours are very different to pubs when civilians (those who drink at Christmas/anyone who orders a Guinness last when getting a round in) frequent them.  They are communities.  The barmaid (who doesn’t know me, I hasten to add, I’m not rich enough to make a habit of this) asked me how I was?  OK, this may be barcraft 101 but it’s also a loaded question.  I’m in a pub at three in the afternoon, chances are things may not be going well (I will need many drinks) or I am celebrating something (many, many drinks, you’re not found ‘not guilty’ every day).  Actually, I see why she asked.

It’s also got a priests hole, and once upon a time there would have been a humorous sign, but Yewtree has fucked that for us as well.

The drink of choice is Stella Artois.  If ever there was an advertising Big Lie, Stella is a prime example of it.  Marketed as posh lager, it even comes, Belgian style, served in its own glass, a goblet style thing.  Anyone who is familiar with this beer knows that it should indeed be served in its own drinking vessel, but that this should be a plastic pint glass.  Stella, you see, has a reputation for turning people into aggressive nutters.

So what should one write on Stella?  Well, I am typing one handed while I make notes for a series of books that will be written under the pen-name of ‘Jack Stroud’ and will follow the fortunes of the males of the ‘Fret’ family as they fight in every war since..,let’s see, yes, the English Civil War.  Titles so far include ‘Royal Fret’, ‘Fret in Tartan’, ‘Fret at the Front’, ‘Frontline Fret’, ‘Fret and the Ruby’, ‘Fret Pulls It Off’, ‘Fret of the Artic’, ‘Fret of the Antarctic’, ‘Fret of the Falklands’, ‘Frantic Fret’, ‘The Fret Files’ (short stories) and, of course, ‘Fret with Wings’ (possibly featuring a female Fret).

Obviously, these will take off (especially the last one).  At that point, I employ an army of ghost writers and project the story of the Fret family backwards, as the Fret family take on the French, the Dutch, the Romans and the Vikings.

A movie adaptation you say?  Ha!  Remember, I’ve been drinking.  Stick your movie option up your arse, along with your assertion that this entire idea is predicated on the plot line from the Forrest Gump movie that every male in Lieutenant Dan’s family line had fought and died in some conflict.

I’m thinking…cut out and dress doll line.  Right?  Right?  Remember those 2D dolls you used to get in the back of magazines, with cut out clothes and tabs and so on?  Well, how about a Fret…but with loads of uniforms, it would be a cross between a really crap and outdated effort to keep kids quiet and a cutting edge publishing phenomenon and, here’s the kicker, it would be fucking useless on Kindle, unless Kindle comes with a printer.

Also, I’d market the cut out and keep doll and costumes with a colouring book and crayons and bundle it with the latest book in the Fret series, subtitled ‘Last of the Frets’ but titled in Great Britain ‘Fucking Fret!’ and in the US or any other country that doesn’t speak English properly ‘Fret’s annoyed’.  The plot is, er, just like the other plots, Fret has a hard time in some conflict, considers leaving, thinks on his family, rediscovers his courage and fucks somebody over with a rusty bayonet that belonged to his grandfather, or a pottery shard that a distant relative left buried in the sand, or in the side of an enemy also buried in the sand…

…details are unimportant.  What’s important is that the story involves Fret, this Fret, finding a diary from a Fret, that Fret, who fought in some previous war that, and here we go, not only gives him the courage to fight on, but actually reveals a hidden path to outflank the enemy.

Fuckin’ YEA!  This is going to be the first colouring book ever to win a BAFTA.  Did I type BAFTA, I mean Booker.  Fuck it, they need to invent a new category of BAFTA, or merge them, the first BOOFTA winner is, me!

So.  That’s beer then.  I suspect bitter might, paradoxically, inspire one to write something bucolic, possibly involving a bicycle and a clergyman, maybe even a crime thriller. But lager?  Lager is a war story in a glass.  Goblet.  Plastic beaker.  Whatever.