Boddington's Pub Ale Draught

Boddington's Pub Ale is one of the finest beers I've ever had the pleasure of pouring down my gullet. The "Cream of Manchester" for centuries (aside from a short period in the early 90s when the term was co-opted by Happy Mondays groupies to describe the band member's "DNA juice"), Boddington's used to be merely a keg-tapped beer until the miraculous invention of the "draughtflow" system in beer cans was introduced.

Now the sweet, delicious brew can be bought at the local grocery store in sharp-looking, brown and yellow cans, four to a pack. I'm sure this availability has infuriated many proud Mancs who now have to share the one thing that they could take pride in on this godforsaken hell-on-earth.

Boddington's thoroughly delicious, with a rich but mellow taste that's great by itself as well as being the perfect accompaniment to any meal. In fact, I absolutely have to have Boddington's with every meal, and it is, in fact, is delicious on Rice Krispies, or used as a salad dressing.

Just pouring Boddington's is a pleasure—you have to be careful upon opening because if you're too hasty the pressurized contents could explode orgasmically all over your countertop—but all patience is rewarded when the contents are poured into a tall, preferably clean, beer mug or pilsner glass. Drinking Boddington's from the can just doesn't do the experience justice, even if the taste is still there.

While one pours, the bubbles dive to the bottom and swim up the sides of the glass, quickly building up a delicious, creamy head. In fact, the more head the better with Boddington's, as with orgies – American beers with their crappy tasting domestic brew heads don't get it at all.

Another amazing attribute of this ale is the fact that it is delicious both warm and cold (albeit a bit creamier when at room tempertaure)—the only brew I've yet tasted to hold this distinction. Which is fortunate, because I need to keep a stash of the stuff handy wherever I go (under the bed, in the car, crammed behind the computer at the office, hidden behind a bush at the day care center), so when the oppressive weight of this murderous world again falls inevitably upon my shoulders, I can dull the pain with the nectar of Manchester.

Finally, the canister that allows the billions of little bubbles to do their pseudo-keggin' thing also makes a pleasing jingle once the can is empty, much to my squeals of delight. How many beers deliver such thrills from beginning to end? Boddington's is so much better than real life.

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Review by HIP