Alehouse, Reading - my idols are dead
Great beers but more importantly a great bunch of locals who are ready to chat - the spirit of Wychwood Brewery's Hobgoblin lives on
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I am a journalist who writes for BBC Culture, Pellicle and Vittles. I was named Beer Writer of the Year in 2023 by the British Guild of Beer Writers.
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The trouble hit him completely unexpectedly. He didn't walk into it. It surged into him. The first indication he got of it as he passed the pub was a sudden outburst of shouting, a swell of voices; the next instant a jumble of men scrambled through the open door and barged into him, knocking him to the footpath. He stumbled out of the way of their trampling feet and kicking legs. There were three of them, all snorts and grunts and flailing arms, and two were on to one.
The Shiralee by D'Arcy Francis Niland
The novel, The Shiralee, depicts a rural 1950s Australia where pubs are full of friends. And enemies. It focuses on hero and (at times) antihero Mac who leads a nomadic existence with his daughter Buster - he looks for work, drinks and smokes, finds the child a burden and part of his swag (AKA shiralee) that he has to carry around.
It’s a novel that transcends its location as Buster knocks the rough edges off Mac and forces him to be more responsible. In doing so it has some very pertinent themes of paternal love and expectations - maybe many men are stuck in the rut that Mac finds himself in.
The pub
Maybe my life is slightly nomadic and checked by parenting too. It’s definitely ridiculous: “Honey, I’m just going to Reading to talk politics with an elderly man.”
It never was my plan to travel 50-odd miles in a four-hour round trip for this specific chat but that’s where my day took me. I had a vague idea to visit the Alehouse for the second time because, inspired by The Shiralee, I wanted somewhere a bit rough and ready where I knew there would be people drinking in the day despite the broad sunshine outside.
The pub is covered head to toe in pump clips, has a queue of pickled egg jars at the bar and various hair rock songs being played through the speakers - the only tune I could place was Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls, and it's been a long time since these women made the rocking world go round.
Steve Dunkley was brought in to paint some boards in the 1990s and describes the clientele then as thus:
“The regulars seemed a good mix as far as I can recall, some old retired guys, some semi-retired. All getting on well and having a load of laughs. They made me feel welcome, and were buying most of my drinks 🤣.
“As it got later in the afternoon/evening the crowd got younger. It was definitely all left of centre to say the least.”
“To say the least” is doing some heavy lifting as it’s definitely more radical a space then you would imagine from its town centre location sandwiched between a Costa, Tortilla and near a Starbucks and Sainsbury’s.
Without being rude about the clientele, the best way I can describe them is they probably were crusty folk or rave types in the past - at one time I thought I was talking to Shaun Jackson at the bar.
Anyway, after being handed my first pint by the server who looked like he had painstakingly recreated Travis Bickle’s assassin costume complete with Mohawk, (hopefully) sans sleeve guns, I found a table by the bar and the aforementioned elderly man sat down.
After a short but pleasant exchange about the weather he said without any prompting: “I actually don’t mind Sadiq Khan.” which made me laugh nervously at first but then uproariously as I tried to work out what tone to strike. Had he introduced this because I’m Asian? Oddly a lot of Asians hate Khan.
Well, it turned out I did get the tone wrong and I was a bit too radical in my views saying I hated the current Labour leader (reply: “I wouldn’t say ‘hate’. Hate is a strong word”) and that I find all politicians to be wankers (reply: “even Andy Burnham?”) Yes, even Andy Burnham.
Then he said “I do believe in climate change” and by now others were joining in saying the 20C temperatures in April “weren’t right”. I was drinking quickly and went to the bar after my first immaculate pint (below) of Lady Eleanor by Triple FFF brewery (bitter, grapefruit-y) and was tempted to attack the Belgian bottle collection and share a Mariage Parfait with my new friend. “Would you do me the honour?”
I say friend but he purposely avoided giving me his name but called me ‘David’ a lot and offered me drinks. Although at times I found the conversation awkward I felt a sense of deep loss when he left.
When Steve was kicking about it was a Hobgoblin pub, run by Wychwood Brewery, and what I find remarkable about this now defunct chain is a lot of former pubs retain the Hobgoblin vibe despite changing everything - it’s like the crustiness is in the walls.
“There was a demand for real ale: the wooden floors, the cheap decor, the four pint jugs to share,” he says.
“So Wychwood seemed to really lean into it, they took the stereotypes thrown at cask drinkers, and instead of trying to defend them they went on the attack. The Lagerboy adverts were (for the time) absolute genius.
“They took the scruffy cask drinker image and turned it on its head. And their Hobgoblins reflected that. They were so successful that they built a local cult status. And it’d take a lot to change that - although I’m sure some pubcos would happily try.”
Before I left, I asked Travis behind the bar about one of his badges on his denim jacket which said: “My idols are dead and my enemies in power.”
“I don’t know who said it, man, but it’s true.”
This week I had work published on hops and took part in this podcast. Last week I was asking who this Southall desi pub landlord was and apparently it’s Kamal Birthee at the Beaconsfield Arms. Now all I have to do his track his family and friends down…