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I don't get to drink cask beer every week. Let's think when last I could. Right. Last century. Not even the final decade. Perhaps my views are rose-tinted. Or seen through red-raged eyes. Who knows.
For me, cask beer is sitting in the Cardigan Arms drinking pint after pint of Tetley's Mild with Simon. Beer that just flowed down the throat, without interrupting the conversation. Or a Friday night after-work pub-crawl in Leeds. When a dozen pints of Tetley's Mild might have disappeared by the time we ended up on North Street. Lusting for a curry.

Recent trips to the US and the UK confirmed cask's social role. And why, when it comes to flavour and sociability, it can't be beaten.

Cask beer doesn't intrude. It's happy to sit in the corner reading a newspaper. When you pay him attention, with a raised glass, he'll smile back, lifting his own pint. But he'll never talk over you. Or start aggressively pointing a finger.
Other beer may clamour for attention. Waving its arms saying "Look at me." All jagged elbows, flashy clothes and too much cologne.
I've always loved cask beer. Since I was at school. I really appreciate it now, as an old man. Who, after decades of work, is done with being shouted at.



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