Coors and the art of museum maintenance
What's in a name? Not, unfortunately, a sense of history and heritage when it comes to Burton's former Bass Museum
When Madame Tussauds purchased Warwick Castle did it rename it Tussaud's Castle? When Peter de Savary bought Land's End he called it Land's End.
So when Coors acquired the Bass Museum what on earth possessed them to rename it? In the Midlands half the locals think the Coors Museum is a tribute to an Irish pop group full of ravishing beauties. The museum was about Burton and its breweries, especially William Bass who had commenced brewing in 1777, and has nothing whatsoever to do with an 1873 Colorado brewery.
It's all very well Coors complaining that visitor numbers are down, but you try finding it in Burton! One roundabout will say "Coors Museum", another "Bass". If Coors did not want to keep the name Bass then Burton was the obvious choice. Attendances post-Coors have declined.
While I sincerely hope a rescue package is forthcoming, frankly, it's a self-inflicted shambles and an unnecessary loss of our heritage.
"The USA, the only country that went from feudalism to capitalism and missed civilisation on the way!" (anon)
An encounter with a bring-back-the-birch believer
A couple of days after appearing on BBC Radio 2's The Jeremy Vine Show in February I took my elderly parents to the island of Madeira. On the show I had a rather fierce argument with a retired senior police officer, who was advocating raising the drinking age to 21.
I, of course, disagreed. There is a far stronger case to go down to 16, not up to 21. The exchange was full and frank, and I like to think I gave as good as I got.
Just before we set out for the Atlantic Ocean island, our four-star hotel was changed to its five-star sister. My second unintentional five-star experience in a matter of weeks. On arriving, I was clearly intimidated by one of the hotel's several awards — "The Savoy Hotel: the Daily Telegraph readers' second favourite resort in the world" proclaimed the banner.
Seeking solace in the bar, I chatted to a gentleman with an RAF-type moustache.
"And what do you do?" he enquired.
I mumbled on about working in the licensed retail sector, in other words the brewing industry.
"Oh, really? There was a discussion on the wireless the other day, some idiot suggesting children should be allowed to drink beer in pubs!"
"And what age would you propose?" I asked.
"Any age as long as they have completed two years' National Service."
It was not a meeting of minds.
Ale ambassador on tour
Just before Christmas, I had decided to join some members of my cricket club, Cookley CC (National Village Champions 1977 and not a lot since), and make the long trip out to Sri Lanka to watch the opening two Tests.
All was well until the Sri Lankans announced the Galle pitch, which had been ravaged by the 2004 tsunami, was not ready and switched the first Test to Kandy.
A sort of UK equivalent to "it is not fit to play at Taunton so let's move it to Chester-le-Street".
Accommodation was scarce — all we could find was a five-star hotel, the Mahaweli Reach, which, some Googling revealed, was clearly up a river (Mahaweli) in the middle of nowhere.
"It will be isolated luxury," I warned my compatriots. Indeed, it was so isolated that it was chosen for security reasons as the base for both the English and Sri Lankan teams.
On the eve of the opening match we were propping up the bar slurping the local Lion beer, when I felt a tap on the shoulder and, in familiar Yorkshire vowels, a voice said: "Excuse me, but shouldn't you be drinking Pedigree?"
It was England pace bowler Matthew Hoggard, above. I had
had a long chat with him at the Marston's awards, but never thought we would be staying in the same hotel.
What an ambassador! The night before a big comeback game and he is in the bar promoting Burton's finest, 5,451 miles away from the UK's brewing capital.
The next morning he took 4-21, a brilliant performance only slightly overshadowed by Muttiah Muralitharan's world record 709 wickets. I was present at the hotel's celebrations for this extraordinary feat and, sipping Champagne, witnessed Murali cutting a large cake. I have to confess, while slicing through the icing and sponge the right arm appeared incredibly straight!
