Beer Compurgation

I’d like to not be the one writing about this again. I would. I’d like to not be the spokesperson for negativity and complaints, but I just feel so angry all of the time. And when I’m not angry, I’m deeply saddened. Though perhaps I need this platform of release every six months or so, considering it was March the last time I really had to break out and write such a post , I still wish that wasn’t so. I’ve put pen to pad – or at least fingers to keys -  a couple of times within the last few weeks about subjects that were griping me. First we had the sexism row about a CAMRA leaflet that, whilst currently being dealt with appropriately by those involved in the debates, sparked ridiculous comebacks that were designed to incense as many people as possible. It worked. I was angry. Then we had idiots complaining about the wonderful Indy Man Beer Con, claiming it to be elitist, without actually going. I tried not to get as angry about that, assuming the author was just a parody of

It is strange to recall the relatively little fanfare that a two day event from 2012 caused in comparison to this last weekend. I sat in Port Street Beer House several times that year, pondering the posters and beer mats that sang loudly of “Indy Man Beer Con;” a contrived celebration of craft wankerage that was to break away from the norms of airport-lounge-style beer festivals that Real Ale drinkers had patented. I don’t even remember when I thankfully sliced off my own cynicism and purchased tickets for that year but it wasn’t long before the event. So as I glanced at my Saturday session ticket for this year’s Indy Man, I couldn’t help but grin at the realisation these were purchased back in April to secure my spot. It’s getting big. It was a different occasion this year. This year, anybody with a Twitter account and a beer G-spot was attending. The build-up during the week consisted of my Twitter feed filling itself with the entire world masturbating over the weekend’s pro