This review almost failed before it began. Being an irregular beer drinker these days – my intake is limited to FC St Pauli and IWW socials at specified venues – I’d forgotten the importance of geography in the beer selection process. Having moved into an over-priced north London abode two years ago after twenty-three years in the “deep south” I didn’t realise the difficulty of actually finding a can of Red Stripe in St John’s Wood. I would have been impressed to find bottled Nigerian Guinness or Dragon Stout, but I was of the opinion that Red Stripe was pretty ubiquitous. As usual I was just so very very wrong.

No six for a fiver offers here in the eruv; and only the usual suspects in the fridge: “Wifebeater”; 1664 and widgeted Guinness in cans, Becks and Yankee Budweiser in bottles. Oh, and an interestingly large selection of Polish lagers for the economic migrants who squat in the multi-million pound mansions they are currently renovating. Post-industrial capitalism truly does specialize in subsuming cultural artifacts at a frightening rate.

Nevertheless, do not let it be said that I am not tenacious. Having failed dismally in the larger stores a few words with my nearest corner shop owner produced the goods. Four cans of Red Stripe at the princely sum of £1-20 each. Super-chilled from the back of the fridge; the last fourpack in NW8. Seemingly. It was all I could do not to pop the buggers open on the thirty yard walk home having already covered about three miles on my quest.

Four minutes later, having poured the the pale gold liquid into a pre-chilled glass and sniffed up the gentle oatflake aroma, I was longing for that slightly floury – like unbuttered slightly overboiled King Edward potatoes – bite and the curious aftertaste of flowers, as if the hops had been adulterated with rosepetals to cover up the taste of the yeast. The subtle potential hint of Hoegaarten Weissbier that raises it above the rest of the commonplace UK tinnies… the slightly frizzante effect caused by by the smaller than average bubbles… Wrong, wrong, and wrong again. Was the family Alzheimer strain kicking in?

The hops were high up in the mix, giving a strong , slightly burnt, molasses taste. Not immediately unpleasant or unpalatable, but bitter and lacking in the subtlety my recollection was insisting upon; in fact it tasted like a tin of Stella Artois that had been lying in the sun in the back of a moody transit on an illegal beer run. The can had been psychically permeated by by the nervous driver’s cocaine-stained pits and the beer tainted as he passed through HMRC at Newhaven.

Not nice. I researched the can. All was in order: “For seventy-five years Red Stripe has embodied the spirit, rhythm and pulse of Jamaica and its people”. Still brewed under license from Desnoes and Geddes of Kingston. Still 4.7% by volume and 2.3 recommended units per can. Convincing myself that some archaic romanticism was screwing with my synaptical meme-transfer system I poured the remainder of the can into the glass. Dot-matrixed across the base was the sell-by date:31/05/08. Two months ago; out of date even by my debauched metrosexual standards.

Back out into the world, heading in the opposite direction, I stomped into the second closest corner shop. On request my latenight sales buddy laughed in my face: “C’mon mate – do you really think we’d stock bloody ethnic beers?” Sarcastic Karachi-born Muslim stoner smartarse. I revenged myself quickly by saying my goodbyes and letting him know that I was re-crossing the river and going back to the land of processed cheese in tins, Supermalt and hardobread where ethnicity didn’t interfere in the salespitch. A sense of schadenfreude chilled my veins (though it may have been the effects of the ancient beer), and I tried not to giggle out loud as the tears rose to his eyes when he thought of the case of Baron Phillipe de Rothschild Viognier he’d just stocked to feed my addiction and pay off his second mortgage. He produced a bottle from beneath the counter and looked at me like a doe-eyed sommelier desperate for a gratuity. “It’s not Red Stripe is it?” I riposted as I walked through the door.

Continuing on my trek I amused myself with the consideration that if the rhizomatic nature of the recuperators and their computerised supply-side software could provide for the Poles and my francophile pretentions in such a short space of time the number of places I’d asked for Red Stripe would guarantee a glut of Jamaica’s favourite beer in the locale within days of my departure for Streatham. Suckers.

It’s all downhill from here, fifteen minutes into Maida Vale. The estate agents and financers of NW8 may not like Red Stripe, but the mediawhores of W8 would top themselves if the most lowly guest asked for the unobtainable at one of their soirees. Bingo! Two cans of Red Stripe at £1-09 apiece: one for the tasting and one for the testing. This is a complex science after all.

I enter into an hallucinogenic parody of “Ice Cold In Alex”. It looks perfect. It is perfect: floury, flowery and frizzante. Within two sips my moodiness dissipates and it slowly dawns on me that it’s twenty-one degrees centigrade outside. I should drink more of this to prevent dehydration. I return to the shop with the urge to dig out and play Prince Far I’s “Bedward the Flying Preacher” on my return… Oh yeah, and there’s still the three out of date cans in my fridge too. Well, you only live once, and what the hell, the sun’s shining…

(There you go, Les. Sorry about missing the deadline. Still you got two reviews for the price of one, huh? That’ll be £11.34 for the beer and the agreed Dickensian 10p a word for the article. Tell you what; get a couple of rounds in at Brownstock and we’ll call it quits, okay?)

Fucking hell, I'll wait for the film to come out next time!
What can I say? A veritable work of art (the review not the beer) but did you like the bloody stuff?

You mentioned Dragon Stout, that's the beer that I associate with my time in Brixton. Beautiful served very cold.

GeordieLes wrote:

You mentioned Dragon Stout, that's the beer that I associate with my time in Brixton. Beautiful served very cold.

Aye - and as lethal as the infamous Delerium Tremens too. Wnat me to bring one up to Brownstock? I can pass it on the anufc if you're not coming.

Thanks Udo, but my local ASDA stocks it every few months or so then sells it off cheaply when it doesn't move from the shelves. Not sure about Brownstock, Duisburg looking dodgy too although there are still seats on the Dusseldorf flight.