More eco tales from the pub

The frothy beer hypothesis and the 15 minute city

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The Pub owner has ‘gone green’ and changed the bar menu, no more beef, we get insect or precision fermented burgers instead. This has seriously upset Clementine as she had changed her beef cattle for kangaroos because they don’t produce anything like as much methane. The owner also decided to buy a solar cooker to prepare the food which now means we can have ecological Pub meals but only when it’s sunny. The summer is the sunniest period and also when most people want a salad. The evening Pub meals are even harder as the sun is noticeably absent at night. We salute the owner’s efforts to go green but feel that the strategy has some flaws.

The frothy beers lead to a discussion on the instability of modern societies.

Alice the postal worker turned up earlier than usual in the Bellender Arms. She explained that the Post Office had equipped her with an Ebike which is much faster than her old boneshaker and had knocked 30 minutes off her round. It was also faster than the local dogs who like to chase her, which was another advantage.

Alice took her place behind the bar and immediately found that there was a problem with the pump. The first glass came out full with a minimum of froth but then things went downhill. The next 6 glasses had increasing amounts of froth and decreasing amounts of beer. Alice aligned them along the bar.

George was quiet that evening and seemed fixated by the line of beers on the bar, after a time nervously adjusting his beer mat, George spake thusly. “Those glasses of beer bring to mind the evolution of modern societies and their agricultural base.”

Long leaps into the dark are quite common amongst us but this seemed longer and darker than most leaps. Foreheads were puckered, mouths hung half open and beer glasses halted their rise to said half open mouths. Aristotle, the Pub dog, barked loudly.

George paused to take a handful of our local organic, low salt, low fat, wild harvested horseradish flavoured crisps. We observed the usual outcome which is coughing, streaming eyes and a collapse of any capacity to proclaim on any subject whatsoever. This generally lasts 2 minutes, our local horseradish is pretty lively and isn’t the most gentle of flavourings.

George used his beermat to wipe his eyes which we all considered an unusual way of repurposing such a resource. George confirmed that it wasn’t ideal and that maybe we could make softer beer mats in the future.

The horseradish crisis passed, he seemed motivated to explain his strange statement.

“Observe,” he said, to our concern. “consider the first glass filled to the brim with our local organic ale. It reminds me of our paleolithic and mesolithic gatherer-hunter forebears.”

Explanations of how this could possibly be the case had to wait as Alice had sorted out the beer pump problem and there was a rush for the bar. It was obvious that George’s revelations would need to be accompanied by some fortification.There was also a hurried discussion as someone explained to someone else that ‘forebears’ has nothing to do with Goldilocks.

Aristotle stood next to George and placed his head in George’s lap. This was probably a feast for Aristotle as George keeps a variety of animals and comes to the Pub in his work clothes. I should add that George’s trousers were another reason we appreciate the warm seasons when we can use the outdoor terrace.

“At that time all members of a group would participate in getting the food needed for the whole group. Just as the beer glass is almost 100% beer and no froth,” George continued. “The next few glasses bring to mind the rise of the Froth until we get to the last glass which has a tiny amount of beer and a huge quantity of froth.”

Aristotle, head still resting in the fragrance of George’s trousers, growled quietly. We knew that this meant that George needed to be more clear, an opinion shared by us all.

Alice, from behind the bar summed it up “if you want another beer, ever, George, you had best make yourself clear.”

“Frankly I don’t see why you haven’t grasped it yet,’ he complained.

“Little by little our socio-economic systems have transformed from groups in which everyone was involved in food production to today where vanishingly few people produce.” He continued. “The Froth’ depends totally on these few food producers and this is not a stable situation. In this country less than 1% of the population are involved with producing food. What is even stranger is that those people on whom we all rely for food don’t have a very high social status in the eyes of most people.”

He paused for a sip of beer as he was getting agitated, we had quietly moved the crisps away from his reach as we didn’t want any more interruptions.

“How is it possible that food producers have a lower status and are so terribly badly paid when, without them, we would all starve?” He stormed. “Take the greatest of philosophers or the President of a country, without food they die, to be buried with their hubris.”

George had stood up.

“The greatest play, the finest artwork, the most profound speech. Valued, esteemed, lauded yet contain zero vitamins, minerals, carbohydrates and proteins. We cannot eat words and there is no nourishment to be had in the most profound of philosophies. There was even that one geezer who reckoned that he existed because he caught himself thinking, the idiot! Cut off their food and you’ll soon hear people like that singing another song.”

Alice contributed from the bar. “But don’t you think that art and culture are important George?” She asked.

“Yeah of course a bit, but nowadays we got loads of Froth and too little beer, it’s upside down. You can only have so many artists per hectare otherwise they exceed the ecological carrying capacity of the land.”

Whilst we found that describing the major part of the population as ‘Froth’ was a bit rude we couldn’t help agreeing with his analysis which of course we recklessly called the ‘beer froth hypothesis.’

We go to the Mayors meeting to discuss the 15 minute city idea.

The Mayor had invited an urban planner, expert with the 15 minute city thingy.

Things started badly as the Mayor had organised a buffet but had bought everything in a supermarket rather than from our local organic producers. The snacks were delivered in plastic disposable containers with plastic disposable cutlery. The shame of it! The members of our local folk dancing club walked out en masse in protest.

We decided to stick it out and listen to the 15 minute city presentation which was pretty interesting and didn’t last too long which is what we prefer. The seats in the Mayor’s office were not designed for humans and even Robin, our local yoga teacher, can’t get comfortable on them. But I digress.

With our usual acumen and collective intelligence we quickly grasped the concept. It boiled down to designing urban areas in such a way that everything a person needs is a 15 minute walk from their house or flat. Around the room one could hear noises of approval, especially from the back row which was occupied by our local Ramblers association, their approval seemed surprising in some ways.

We are a village of people who leap quickly into action when it’s needed. A pioneering group headed off into the village to check its ‘walkability’. Now I need to give some context here, the last Mayor, with the approval of everyone in the village, had stopped anything but essential vehicles from coming into the village. I say into and not through because if you go through the village you will simply end up driving off our cliff. Clementine, our local Kangaroo herder, lent a patch of her land to be used as parking and earned a small income transporting tourists to the village and back using her tractor and trailer. Clementine used locally produced organic vegetable oil to run her tractor and her ferrying service was pretty popular. The Pub owner encouraged it as the tractor fumes smell very much like potato chips frying. After spending 20 minutes breathing in the chip fryer perfume the tourists arrived in the village with a bit of an appetite.

Anyway, the pioneering group spent a few hours walking the village and then, as previously arranged with theMayor, turned up at the Pub to share their findings. The meeting continued in the much more comfortable Pub chairs.

“We have a problem,” announced the leader of the pioneers. “Except for Clementine's farm, no home is more than 8 minutes walk from all the services.”

There was a collective groan as we had quickly become attached to this post-modernist idea of the 15 minute city. Heads bowed over tables, pens started to scribble calculations on beermats, telephones appeared as people made web searches. A passer-by might have thought that an exam was taking place.

“I‘ve got it!” Went up a cry from the Wee Nook corner of the Pub.

“You’re supposed to say Eureka,” came a voice from the shadows.

“I haven’t even got a bath, I've got a shower,” came the retort. “And if Monsieur will allow me to get one in edgewise, I have the solution to our 15 minute problem.”

“Well spit it out will you?” The voice came from the local hunting and fishing club which had only one member and she doesn’t get out much anymore, limiting herself to potting the odd tourist with her BB gun.

“Everybody has to walk more slowly, except for Clementine who will have to walk much faster; job done.”

As I mentioned, we are a population that leaps into action. Two days later the sign at the entrance to the village proclaimed us as being a modern 15 minute village and tourists became accustomed to seeing us all plodding very slowly around the place. They also got used to seeing Clementine come racing through, usually with a scowl on her face as she was feeling a bit like the White Rabbit.