The Hunter's Column
Autumn 2012

Going For Gold! The Olympic (am I allowed to say that?) Opening Ceremony was sensational, the NHS on chrome wheels; a Mary Poppins tribute band; redundant chimney stacks; gigantic gas bills (all those flames) and even the great man himself. He who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee (I always thought he was American). It had everything from revolution, of the industrial kind, to Good Queen Bess II, caught on CCTV trying to get in for nothing with James Bond. It wasn't the real one of course, they couldn't afford the insurance and how they missed getting shot down, by the missile launcher that was parked on the roof of some local flats, I don't know. Was it G4S again or Dad's Army asleep on the job? No, it definitely wasn't the real one, the acting wasn't up to it and the voice wasn't right. Sean Connery's got a Scottish accent.

Team GB and, indeed, GB itself deserved better than Heineken being acclaimed the Official Beer of the Olympic Games 2012. Well, there's a gold for the Dutch before the Games have even started. The world and his dog were invited to London for the time of their lives; for the unique experience of these 'Isles of Wonder' and what did they get? Heineken, McDonalds and Coca-Cola! It certainly does make you wonder. They could have stayed at home and got that. Yet another triumph for Corporate Britannia

Now what would it have been like with Ganny Goyle (you try practising your ventriloquism on him!) as The Official Olympic Pub Landlord? Well it wouldn't have been John Smith's and Strongbow Cider, two of the Heineken brands sold at the Olympics. Danny, he of Slumdog Millionaire, Trainspotting etc. fame and a Lancastrian, raised as a Roman Catholic, would have been far more imaginative. There's Thwaites, Moorhouse's and Guinness on the beer menu straight away and I can't see Danny, with his Irish ballad connections, being satisfied with keg Guinness. No, he'd have had it brewed to the original Tewkesbury recipe (Tewkesbury Baptist John Purser is recognised as the first brewer of porter in Dublin c.1775) as a real cask ale. Probably get Ian Paisley and Sinead O'Connor dressed up as leprechauns on a dray, drawn by Paddy Mcginty's goat, to make the grand entrance into the Cauldron, with Val Doonican (the only 70's artist not to wear monikered shirts) belting out over the Tannoy, under an explosion of four leaf clovers.

He wouldn't stop there either; no, not Danny, he's never looked back since he escaped the priesthood. There would be more hand pumps on than the Birmingham 'Wellie' and Kinver Constitutional Club put together. He'd have borrowed the Buxom Wenches from Tewkesbury Medieval Festival, doubling as bouncers (no pun intended); provide an unlimited supply of unused beer mats and given a free Scotch egg (currently still part of GB) with every packet of crisps. There would be free snuff behind the bar, freshly ironed papers and holograms of spittoons in every corner - purely for nostalgic effect; no spitting allowed. Any die hard punks (and I haven't met one who isn't) will have to make their own arrangements. Finally, there would be an Aladdin's Cave-type selection of the greatest ales that Team GB (Great Beer) has to offer; served at the perfect temperature, direct from the barrel, into a handle or straight glass, which hasn't just come out of the dish washer. Every style of British real ale would be represented, from olden to golden. In fact, we could unite every nation in the world in Going for Gold! "Oh Ganny Goyle, the pipes, the pipes are calling…"

Bill Hunt