Class of '92 by Jason Ayres

Author:Jason Ayres [Ayres, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chapel Street Press
Published: 2018-12-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Wednesday 15th January 1992

The newly assembled time bubble team had arranged to meet at one of Peter’s favourite haunts on Gloucester Street.

Formerly known as The Red Lion, the spacious, circular building had been known as The Oxford Bakery and Brewhouse since the mid-1980s. As the name suggested it had, until recently, baked its own bread and brewed its own beer on the premises. It was a hit with students, real ale enthusiasts, and tourists alike.

Peter and Josh were the first to arrive, on what at first glance appeared a relatively quiet evening for the pub. Even so, as he looked around, Josh could see that there were at least fifty customers scattered around a venue that could clearly hold many more than that. The interior was set over three levels, with stone steps to the right of the front door leading down to a cellar area which ran underneath a mezzanine area above.

The various ways of accessing these levels made it a positive rabbit warren of a place and Peter loved it. There were many little bolt-holes, particularly on the lower level, which made it ideal for them to find a quiet spot to talk.

Their footsteps were loud on the solid wooden floor, something Peter always noticed in this pub. There weren’t many people at the bar, but as they approached, Josh could see two bearded, familiar figures in discussion with the barman.

“That’s most disappointing, don’t you agree, Kenneth?” said Benedict. “It says quite specifically here in my Good Beer Guide that you brew your own beer here on the premises.”

“I’m afraid we stopped doing that a couple of years ago,” replied the barman, a skinny young man in his early twenties with spiky, dyed white hair that made him look like a young Billy Idol.

“Your guide must be out of date,” he added. “But we’ve got a great selection of beers here. Do you like Boddingtons?”

“Boddingtons!” spluttered Kenneth. “We don’t drink Boddingtons anymore, do we, Benedict?”

“We most certainly do not!” replied his friend, looking horrified. “Not since Whitbread took it over. It’s not the same anymore now it’s not a local brand. You can’t mass-produce a beer and expect it to be the same.”

“You’re not wrong there, Benedict,” added Kenneth. “And now they’re selling it in cans, can you believe, with some fancy widget thing in it to try and pass it off as real ale! It’s an absolute outrage, as any CAMRA member will tell you. Proper beer comes out of a barrel, not out of a can!”

“But the cask version is still brewed in Manchester, in the same place it always was, isn’t it?” asked the barman.

“Young man, what would you know about it?” said Benedict, pulling out his pipe and lighting it. “Real ale is an acquired taste, you know. Kenneth and I here have been travelling the country sampling ales since before you were born. We’ve had more different beers than you’ve had hot dinners.”

“No doubt you drink lager like the rest of your heathen generation,” added Kenneth.

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