Pub History: 'A Bottle of Porter on Draught'...?

In April of 1902 a curious case was heard at the Limerick Petty Sessions where a publican named Patrick Fennessy came before Mr. Hickson, a local magistrate. The publican had been summoned by a Sergeant Kennedy, who was an Inspector of Weights and Measures, for selling 'two bottles of draught porter.' The magistrate Mr. Hickson appeared a little confused as to what the legal issue was, and what was meant by 'bottles of draught porter' - his thinking presumably being that you could have bottled or draught porter but it could not be both..

A Head Constable called McAree was also in attendance and he went on to explain that publicans had previously used a draught beer measure called a 'Medium'  - which was smaller than a pint and cheaper more importantly - and as these were illegal, as they were not a verified and accepted volume, the publicans had been fined for using and selling them. But now the publicans were just using the same glasses 'and they called the porter supplied in them "bottles of porter on draught."'

Mr. Hickson was still understandably confused by this (as are we at this point) so he asked if he was to get a bottle of porter and pour it into a measure and said bottle contained more than a pint but less than a quart what would be the legality, to which the Sergeant replied that this would be a legal sale, but that in the case before the magistrate the porter was drawn from a cask into a 'medium' glass but this was just called 'a bottle of porter on draught' - presumably by the customer to differentiate it from any other porter pour or 'real' bottle. The defendant Mr. Fennessy claimed he was just giving the customer the volume he would have had from a bottle (this may indeed have been less than a pint - see my article in bottle sizes referenced below) but the magistrate naturally ruled against him - ignorance of the law being no excuse - and told him to forfeit the illegal measures and pay the costs in the case.

I have covered some of this before in articles such as the one on the Meejum (Medium) measure - and there are grey areas as far as the legalities are concerned for those selling beer, or so some claimed at least. It appears that the publican was referencing the reputed pint or another size bottle that was less than a pint (I have written on here previously about bottle sizes) so he may have genuinely thought he was doing no wrong with his medium measure of porter, and it meant he could sell that size for a certain cost to keep some of his poorer customers lubricated - little like Dublin's 'Loop-Liner' too perhaps - but as with much of this reported history we might take this whole piece with a grain of salt, as at times reports like these are not entirely accurate.

Either way it appears on paper at least that in the early 20th century Limerick drinkers were asking for 'A Bottle of Porter on Draught' in order to receive a medium measure!

We really did have odd drinking terminology in this country ...

Liam K

The Weekly Irish Times - Saturday 5th of April 1902

All written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. Newspaper images © The British Library Board - All rights reserved. With thanks to The British Newspaper Archive (www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk) from whom I have received permission to display this image on this site.

Pub Tales: First Drink

The place was heaving.

I forced my way towards the bar, squeezing through the crowd by turning sideways and shoulder-leading my way slowly forward using baby steps, gentle manipulation and repeated sorrys shouted into already overloaded ears. Two guys with one guitar were on the small stage butchering ‘Dancing in the Dark’ but nobody seemed to care. The dance floor in front of them was full of twirling snow-washed denim jackets, sweaty mullets and jumpsuits in too-bright primary colours. Spinning, twisting lights penetrated the smoke and gloom and flickered across the crowds seated on stools at wet-circled Formica tables loaded with glasses and overflowing ashtrays. Small pockets of boys and girls hung around in separate groups tight to the wall for protection, occasionally casting glance towards the tables as the waited for a group to leave so they could commandeer their seats like some full-on game of musical chairs.

But the people here were all just extras in a movie scene to me as I finally approached the long countertop and prepared to ask for my first drink ever. The narrow space behind the counter was filled with a large bearded man who was calmly serving the waves of drinkers that were lapping up to the bar. I waited patiently for my turn, trusting that the barman had a mental queue of who to serve next once eye-contact had been made and the nod given. I gazed at the sparse collection of taps deciding what to have, suddenly that bearded face was in front of me, he leaned over the bar with his left hand cupped around the back of his ear, which was aimed in my direction.

‘What’ll be head?’

‘Er, a glass of Harp…?’

‘Sound, lad.’

He grabbed a glass from the shelf behind him and I watched as he pulled the tap forward and a yellowish cascade of liquid and bubbles quickly filled the glass. He straightened the glass and filled it to the top, always checking who was next up to the bar. He plonked it unceremoniously down on the bar and I paid him.

‘Cheers head,’ he said as he slammed the change on the countertop and went to his next customer and the ritual began again.

I stared at it for a minute watching the bubbles rise in quick succession from the base of the glass and breaking on the surface. This was my first proper drink in a bar, my first proper beer too, and I had somehow expected it to be a more momentous occasion. I picked up the glass and put it to my lips and had my first taste of beer…

The music abruptly stopped with a mistimed twang of guitar strings.

Everyone in the whole bar turned to look at me silently …

… before erupting into applause.

I raised my glass and toasted my adoring fans.

The girl next to me smiled coyly and put her hand in the small of my back as she brought her lips to my ear and whispered…

Of course none of this happened, when I woke from my reverie I took another cautious sip and with a grin on my face I made my way back through the crowd. I held my glass high to prevent it spilling and it flickered flamelike as spotlights pierced the liquid and for a split second I felt like some ancient champion returning from my first battle basking in the glow of heroism.

But this was 1984 in a grimy student pub in a provincial town in Ireland, and when I arrived back to the comfort and company of my friends that spark of elation dimmed and died. We somehow engrossed ourselves in inane conversation, a common occurrence, and my moment was gone.

But for a brief, special moment I was a hero - I was a somebody …

I had drunk.