The League of Bearded Catholics

England's Vanishing Inns

Ovar at the St. Austin Review, Joseph Pearce laments the sad demise of the English Pub, and points to this article in The Economist that goes into greater detail. Read it and sob;

"More than half the villages in Britain now have no pub at all"

This is no mere cultural footnote, either. It's a Big Deal. Slow, unseen tectonic plates of history have been grinding away under our feet and this is a sign, the surface manifestation of a deep fault. As Joseph Pearce quoted Hilaire Belloc;

"When you have lost your inns, drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England."

It reminds me of when I was a teenager in the 1970s, and there was a great deal of attention given to the loss of the "family farm". It happened before  our eyes and we, as a people, apparently didn't feel the family farm was worth saving. Oh, we were a little sad to see it go, perhaps, but these things happen. Time marches on. That's how it struck me. It was far more momentous than we knew. And so with the pubs of England.

Why? I think one could realistically look at a loss of the sense of community, of local patriotism. We simply feel no natural attachment to these things. We are therefore, I think, un-naturally detached.

In the words of John Kassaian,"What a revolting predicament!"

Home Brew Update!

The first project to come out of the legendary plastic-lined tanks of the Bearded Brewing Co. in a couple of years, this Oktoberfest lager should be just right as we celebrate All Hallows Eve here in the sovereign nation of Squirrelandia. In a bid to brew more often, the humble brewmaster has very nearly convinced himself to take The Pledge and drink no beer at home but his own. That might mean going without now and then. A disgusting prospect, but the kind of dreadful scenario that often spurs men to heroic action.

 
 
 

What to name such a brew? Octo-Beard-Fest? The Lager of Beery Catholics?... ?

Distributism, TLBC Style

Oooooh, yes... it has arrived. Now the trick is to find a free afternoon and stake it out on the calendar for the advancement of the brewer's art.

Thoughts and shared info on the best sources for inexpensive, quality brewing goods will be appreciated.

More Distributist posts coming.

Good News for Catholic Pipe Smokers

According to The Heresy Hunter's math, Catholic pipe smokers have a lifespan hardly distinguishable from non-smokers.

In addition, I heard today (on NPR, no less, so you know it's true) that recent research shows heavy drinkers... heavy drinkers... live longer than teetotalers.

So, have a drink or three with your pipe and it's practically a health regimen, and much more pleasant than having your colon irrigated. 

The Heresy Hunter is also a ton of Catholic fun on a bun. Check it out!

Both Great With Popcorn

Steven Greydanus sends along a link to his article in the National Catholic Register, in which he riffs a bit on Roger Ebert's recent movie musings, which are in turn a riff on the UK's Campaign for Real Ale.

Got all that?

Okay, so I was sucked in by the reference to my very favoritest adult beverage, but it's not really about ale. It's all about how good movies are something like good ale, and how there are not enough of these good movies (nor is there ever enough good ale!).

This brings up a great point, a kind of universal constant: there is no good thing that can't be explored more deeply by using an analogy to beer. Indeed, what true and wholesome thing is not something like good ale? If you do not yet see the logic, just have another ale, think it over, and it will come to you.

You know Chesterton was in a movie, right? A cowboy picture by J.M. Barrie, no less. He starred alongside his buddy George Bernard Shaw. This is his birthday week, too! How are you planning to celebrate?

 
(Left to right) Lord Howard de Walden, William Archer, J.M. Barrie, G.K. Chesterton and Bernard Shaw (Hat tip to The Bioscope blog)

Science!

Is bacon good for you? That depends... what time is it?

In a nation that apparently is producing more scientific research grants than paying jobs, the latest eye-opener is that eating bacon for breakfast might not be the death sentence that we have for so long been led to believe it is. Then again, all this subtly interpreted data could be upended and turned inside out next week, when bacon might again - by the same experts - be declared The Worst Thing Ever.

"Above all, there is the happy and holy custom of eating a heavy breakfast. I cannot imagine that Shakespeare began the day with rolls and coffee, like a Frenchman or a German. Surely he began with bacon or bloaters. In fact, a light bursts upon me; for the first time I see the real meaning of Mrs. Gallup and the Great Cipher. It is merely a mistake in the matter of a capital letter. I withdraw my objections; I accept everything; bacon did write Shakespeare. - G.K. Chesterton, The Riddle of the Ivy

 (a tip of the slovenly, shapeless hat to Old World Swine reader M.B.)

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In more groundbreaking research, according to NPR, A major report out Wednesday says that many former foster kids have a tough time out on their own.

Who'd have thought?

(Seriously... pray for them, and all wards of the state)

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Now, a labor strike I can really get behind; The AP reports that workers at the Carlsberg Brewery in Copenhagen have walked off the job "after the Danish brewer tightened laid-back rules on workplace drinking and removed beer coolers from work sites.".

My favorite detail;

Carlsberg's truck drivers joined the strike in sympathy — even though they are exempt from the new rules, Bekke said. The truck drivers are permitted to bring three beers from the canteen because they often don't have time to have lunch there.

A steady intake of beer throughout the work day is not as strange as might be supposed;

Those great men — Marlowe and Jonson, Shakespeare, and Spenser before him — drank beer at rising, and tamed it with a little bread.- Hilaire Belloc, The Path to Rome

Hot Dog Wars

In the combox of a previous post, esteemed Leaguer Will Duquette comes to the defense of the humble hot dog, and the ever-reliable John Kasaian responds with a theological meditation on the frankfurter, pouring rhetorical gasoline on a furious partisan controversy that threatens to rival the divisive, antagonistic power of the Reformation. Is there no middle ground on hot dogs? Can't we all just get a foot-long?

There is a great deal of satisfaction in defending anything that is really humble, and if anything is humble, a hot dog is. A hot dog has no pretense, no social ambition.

I like hot dogs. Hot dogs are associated with fun and with informal socializing of a particulalrly American kind, like at a ball game or a summer picnic. Pretty dreary if that's all you have to eat, though. A single dude microwaving a hot dog for dinner is not in a very enviable state, and I speak from experience. It's better than nothing, but...

Hot dogs could be made at home, perhaps, but one hardly sees the point. The whole rationale of the hot dog is to work in industrial volume... to convert a huge amount of seemingly irredeemable processed leftovers into a homogeneous, reliable and continuous stream of extruded meat product. It's like pro-active recycling!

But the hot dog stands as an icon of the entire highly processed, mass produced and centrally distributed approach to food (and everything else) that signalled the sad downfall of the American kitchen. Along with reflecting some of the best aspects of American culture, a hot dog embodies some of the worst; a hot dog is unpretentious, versatile, reliable, fun and simple... but it is also (in the worst sense) cheap, easy, unhealthy, homogeneous and bland. Hot dogs are for the appetite what television is for the brain.

It actually appears that the hot dog is a surprisingly complex and significant symbol of American life and culture. Even as I write, I begin to become convinced that if we can ever figure out the true iconographic significance of the hot dog, then balancing the budget and providing universal health care will almost take care of themselves.

In the poem below, G.K. Chesterton speaks highly of the Sausage, but his opinion of hot dogs is, as far as I know, a subject only for speculation.

A Ballade of an Anti-Puritan

  

THEY spoke of Progress spiring round,

Of light and Mrs Humphrey Ward--

It is not true to say I frowned,

Or ran about the room and roared;

I might have simply sat and snored--

I rose politely in the club

And said, `I feel a little bored;

Will someone take me to a pub?'

The new world's wisest did surround

Me; and it pains me to record

I did not think their views profound,

Or their conclusions well assured;

The simple life I can't afford,

Besides, I do not like the grub--

I want a mash and sausage, `scored'--

Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found,

Anger and clamorous accord,

And virtues growing from the ground,

And fellowship of beer and board,

And song, that is a sturdy cord,

And hope, that is a hardy shrub,

And goodness, that is God's last word--

Will someone take me to a pub?

 Envoi

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword

To see the sort of knights you dub--

Is that the last of them--O Lord

Will someone take me to a pub?

 

• Poems of G.K. Chesterton - 1915

Dr. Bootstrap's Anti-Freeze & Bone Strengthener

To help get us all into the proper frame of mind for Fat Tuesday, a couple of inspiring tidbits on the importance of Drink;

First, Eric Scheske at The Daily Eudemon (who does a drinking post every Friday) passes on the latest acknowledgement of some of the health benfits of C₂H₅OH, while giving the topic a little Chestertonian perspective;

Never drink because you need it, for this is rational drinking, and the way to death and hell. But drink because you do not need it, for this is irrational drinking, and the ancient health of the world.

And Leaguer John Kasaian e-mailed a link to what is called a Super Important Discovery News Alert at Fr. John Zuhlsdorf's blog What Does the Prayer Really Say?.

Seems some burly bearded guys have discovered, half buried in permafrost underneath an abandoned cabin on the extreme southern tip of New Zealand, some long forgotten crates of whiskey and brandy that were part of Ernest Shackleton's Antarctic expedition of 1901.

Shackleton and his colleagues had apparently brought about 20 cases of whiskey, originally.

Do contemporary scientists think to pack that thoroughly for modern research junkets? Truly, if I traveled to Antarctica, I would need a fair amount of the stuff just to screw up enough courage to step off the boat.

This is the kind of thing that fueled the age of discovery.

Heavenly Hops

A ditty my college friends used to sing*:

In heaven there is no beer,

That's why we drink it here,

And when we're gone from here,

Our friends will be drinking all the beer

Theologically, technically correct (maybe), but for all the wrong reasons. The implication is that heavenly life will be unspeakably dull, so we'd better get in some good times while we can... the exact reverse of the truth.

The Bible gives us images of stuff in heaven - streets of gold, the Temple made of jewels - and of course we are told and affirm that our bodies will be resurrected, but spiritual and incorruptible. What all this will actually be like, the actual experience of what C.S. Lewis called "the furniture of heaven", is impossible to know, and probably useless to speculate on.

Beer in heaven?  I will only say that, whatever creative ideal beer expresses, whatever aspect of God's glory is dimly reflected in it, will be fulfilled in an ultimate sense in heaven.

In Hell, I'm almost certain, there will be great, foaming pints of every kind of beer imaginable to tease and tempt those tormented in the flames, but it will all - no matter how rich and dark - taste like Bud Light.

*This demonstrates how extensively the art of the Drinking Song had been corrupted since the time of Hilaire Belloc, mere decades before.