The Belleville Brewing Company, Balham

What a shit fucking day. The existential dread of the morning was slowly replaced by the anxiety palpitations of the afternoon, only to then give way to the existential dread that comes from the knowledge that there's an identical day yet to come. I need a treat.

Getting on the stopper train by mistake could have tipped me over the edge, but as cunts always say, the Chinese word for crisis is the same as opportunity. No idea of it's even true. Like swans breaking mens arms. Or that story about Grant Shapps. It's been repeated so many times there must be a kernel of truth in it, right?

My opportunity was the opportunity to make a long anticipated visit to The Belleville Brewing Company, visible to me on each journey through Wandsworth Common station. Part of the reason I think that it has been so tempting was probably simply because it's west facing, and therefore as I crawled past on a sweaty commuter train I could see a throng of people with better lives than me soaking up the afternoon sun with a fresh beer. What a convivial scene! And today was my turn. I began to perk up a bit, in anticipation of a foaming pint freshly drawn on the very site of its conception. Pure bliss.

Like almost all breweries that aren't Three Tuns or Six Bells, the actual site is not exactly breathtaking. It's an industrial unit next to a busy railway line. I reckon they've done the best they can with it though. The benches outside are bedecked with umbrellas and fairy lights, which have performed their intended role of attracting me to drink in a car park, something I would normally only do when I'm fucking dogging. But that's besides the point.

I can't wait to catch some rays with my pint, but first I need to venture into this dark corrugated metal hutch. The bar is up a flight of stairs in the roof space. It's fairly busy up here, clearly I'm not the only one to be enticed off my train. I survey the menu. Alas, it's exactly what I feared.

Pale Ale.

Session IPA.

IPA.

NEIPA.

Hazy IPA.

Kolsch Lager.

All on keg. How wildly adventurous for a South London brewery. I've often wondered if in reality there is only one brewery in London and identical bright yellow, fizzy, hoppy, freezing piss is just sent in subterranean piping to Belleville, Brixton, Camden, Gypsy Hill, Drop Project, Five Points, Meantime, Pressure Drop, Two Tribes et al. Who would fucking know?

The bartender approaches. My first instinct is to ID him. I go with my second instinct and order a pint of the session IPA. This detail is important. I ordered a pint.

I am served, I pay, and notice that my pint is not as complete of a rip-off as I expected. No doubt there is a cost saving on logistics that has been passed on to the consumer. How thoughtful. Thank you Belleville.

I perch on a bench outside and prepare to imbibe both my beer and some evening sunshine. I take a big glug of my beer. It is perfectly serviceable. No more worthy of praise or opprobrium than any other of the multitude of beers of this style available from keg taps across the UK. Perfectly serviceable.

But hang on a muthafucking minute....

My singular glug has diminished the contents of my pint glass far more than one could reasonably expect. There are two possible explanations for this. Either I really, really needed that pint, far more than I'd realised or...

I rotate the glass on the table. Etched onto the side is the evidence of a craven deception.

2/3 Pint

The red mist descends. The fucker shall rue the day!

Now I've been in many places over the years that choose to serve some or all of their beers in two-thirds or half pints. In fact, I take a completely misplaced sense of pride in the fact that the landlord of The Ship in Aberystwyth would happily serve me pints of harmfully strong ale that lesser mortals were strictly limited to halves of. But the point is that you're always informed in advance. Ideally before you make your final decision, and definitely before you've handed over any fucking payment. What makes things even worse in this instance is that I didn't notice immediately, and I genuinely believe that the bar have selected two-thirds glasses that conform as closely as possible to the feel of a pint glass in the hand. I have been hoodwinked, and I am not happy.

I finish my beer, which doesn't take fucking long, obviously. I return to the bar. I observe. Above the bar is a chalkboard advertising the beer range, the alcohol content, and style. The snacks are listed, and various inconsequential trifles. Nowhere can I see, and I looked hard by the way, any notice that beers are served in measures of two-thirds of a pint.

The potentially pre-pubescent bartender approaches. I lay my trap. 

"Can I get a pint of the IPA please?"

Notice that I said "Can I get" rather than "I'll have" as if I'm in a fucking Starbucks or somewhere. I must remain inconspicuous. The toddler reaches for a two-thirds glass and begins pouring, with no repartee or even eye contact. The trap is sprung.

He places the full glass on the bar near to me (almost within arms reach!) and points a card machine at me. I don't proffer my card, but feign interest in my beer.

"Is that a pint?" I ask, quizically.

He hesitates, before eventually providing, cryptically

"Well, it's the equivalent."

I leave his answer hanging in the air like the rotten fart that it is. Time passes.

"It's two-thirds" he adds by way of explanation.

"But I asked for a pint, and you didn't tell me it was going to be two-thirds."

"Yeah, well two-thirds is all we do here" is his not in any way getting the point attempt at an explanation.

"But you chose not to tell me that until I asked. It's misleading isn't it." I try to get him to see it from my, correct, point of view.

"Look right" the embryo responds with, "I don't make the rules."

I pay for my second thimble of gassy vivid beer.

"Well, it's pretty fucking naughty to serve people short measures and not tell them isn't it."

No response is forthcoming. I take my lilliputian glass outside and drink it to cool my anger. 

I think they know what they're doing. On my second visit to the bar I searched for signs that all prices were two-third pints. I couldn't see any. The bar staff chose not to tell me, both times. When challenged they tried to tell me that two-thirds of a pint was equivalent to a pint. I can't wait to repeat that one at work.

"Gwen, that budgeting forecast that I asked for last month; you didn't notify me of any issues so I assume we're on target?"

"Yeah, we're the equivalent of on target.....

....We're over by two-thirds."

 

Heart surgeon being questioned by recovering patient.

"Did you complete the triple heart bypass successfully then doctor?"

"Yeah. Well, the equivalent."

"The equivalent? What the fuck does that mean?"

"Oh, we only do half bypasses here."

 

France, Spring 1940.

President Lebrun: Is the border or France absolutely secure?

General Gamelin: Yes, the Maginot Line is completely impregnable.

Lebrun: Excellent. And that covers the entire border does it?

Gameline: Yes. Well, the equivalent.

Lebrun: The equivalent? What the fuck does that mean when you're talking about defending the entire border of France?

Gamelin: Well, it covers two-thirds.

Lebrun: But when I asked you to defend the entire border, I expect you to defend the entire fucking border, not just two-thirds of the fucking border you prick!

Gamelin: We only do two-thirds at the Ministry of War.

Lebrun: And which bit, out of interest, is the third that is left entirely undefended by your completely arbitrary self-imposed rule?

Gameline: The Ardennes.

Lebrun: Great, well we'd better just hope that the Germans don't attack through the fucking Ardennes then.

Writing helps my anger. Possibly. Or maybe not. I've never really thought too much about it to be honest. I left Belleville Brewing Company with the tadpoles words ringing in my ears.

"I don't make the rules."

No of course not. He's quite correct in this at least. Trading Standards make the rules, and they will be in touch.