ST MARY’S INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH INCIDENT REPORT

Competition entry by Patrick Morton

Jump: 26/J139-BA2

Reporting Historian: Miss Halliday designated lead as a development opportunity.

Jump Objective: St Mary’s commissioned by the Brewers Guild to develop a holo celebrating the brewing history of the UK: Birmingham, Wrexham, Newcastle, London. This was jump 4, London, 1814, Meaux and Co. Horseshoe Brewery, corner of Great Russel Street and Tottenham Court Road. Meaux and Company being the proud owners of a massive 22-foot-high wooden fermenting tank holding around 3,500 barrels-worth of beer. In this case, porter.

Reporter’s Statement:

I would like to make it clear, Director, at the outset that this is not my fault. Please stare severely at the security section officers attending the jump, known in the department as “the St Mary’s Bar Crawl.”

I began at the far end of the brewery, getting a long shot to capture the full building in one image whilst my fellow historian, Mr Burridge, was getting close-ups of the super-vat. We planned a floor walk after to help viewers feel they were there. Having captured my footage, I moved to link up with the others only to find our security support – Messrs Ursten and Hardy – and Burridge with a drill they ‘found’ and a small firkin, making a hole (or holes, as it didn’t seem to be going well) in the vat to siphon off some of the ferment to continue the process at St Mary’s “for research purposes.” The argument being since it would be drunk anyway it would be destroyed and thus could be brought out of its time. This ‘recovery’ was being made up near the top of the vat in order to be out of sight.

It was at this point Mr Burridge noticed a very large crack in one of the metal hoops around the vat and that it had slipped from its place. You could see the different shade in the wood. I noted to the others that this was not, in fact, good. Cue the wood near the drill sites making an ominous and unsolicited creaking noise, and we were all set to make a hasty retreat, were it not for the oft-heard phrase “who the hell are you?”

We were St Marys’s. This was George Crick, storehouse clerk. In the defence of the security section, Mr Ursten handled him expertly.

Ursten: There’s a crack down there, gaffer.

Crick: I know, I reported it earlier and have a note to send to Mr Young* right here. Now, what are you doing? *Note: one of the brewery partners

Cue Hardy desperately hiding the drill behind his back whilst skinny Burridge tried to mask a small bloody barrel bigger than his head.

Ursten: We heard noises. Don’t sound right. You hear that wood gaffer?

An almighty groan issued from the vat, and I’m surprised they didn’t hear it across the building as Mr Hardy jumped very high at its issue and may have required new underwear.

At this, Mr Crick starts running and shouting at the brewery workers, and we take advantage of our momentary unimportance and pelt the other way to be well clear of any legal repercussions vis-à-vis trespass and theft. We were fortunately upon an upper gantry, because no sooner were we clear from the immediate area than an almighty ‘spang’ of shearing metal echoed through the brewery and the band dropped to the floor, followed by a horrific splintering alongside the shouts of very panicked brewers and the confused cries of not nearly panicked enough St Mary’s personnel.

I saw it in slow motion. It was like a holo. Beer exploded everywhere. Steamy, thick, dark ferment burst from its home like a boozy Pompei. It smashed against the back wall of the brewery, blowing out the brickwork to rush asunder out the new and extremely large back door, and off towards Great Russel Street.

Of course, because we’re St Mary’s, it also came our way. Not only were we soaked by warm fermenting beer (also left sticky), the eruptive force also blew the beer back into the brewery and crashed into its neighbouring vat, who in turn decided to take out the whole street. Metaphorically speaking. Also literally, as I will explain. There were six fermenting vats lining that side of the warehouse. I’m not entirely sure of their liquid volume, but the scientific description given by the security section was “bloody huge.” The destructive force of the first eruption shattered the surrounding vats and each one set off a chain reaction causing gallon upon gallon of beer to burst forth and follow big brother’s example racing out the breached back wall.

I made it to the window with my recorder to capture what looked like that bit in The Lord of the Rings where the Ents break the dam, except instead of the filth of Isengard being washed away, the filth of London was being pushed forwards with the force of a Bullet Train as 3,500 barrels-worth of porter were racing away from Tottenham Court Road like Noah’s flood. And it was biblical. You never truly understand the danger of water (per se, in this instance) until you see it. The beer-nami was smashing down walls, opening houses, picking up pedestrians and dragging the detritus of the street to form a roiling wall of destruction that hit George Street two miles away scant minutes after eruption.

You could see whirlpools of beer draining down into cellars. People were being caught up in the wave everywhere. There were actually two kids who had been bathing in the street now stuck in their bath tub and left riding the wave like white water rafters (captured on film, time stamp 00:45:46), surprisingly jubilant and clearly lacking any concept of the danger recognised by their shrieking mother as they careered near the forefront of a 12ft beery tsunami, her being swept along and desperately trying to swim to them. One enterprising individual seemed to be trying to bucket up the beer into his house, no thought given to the fact it had come off a London street. Indeed, his neighbour was doing the same, but with a fiddle case.

We took advantage of the chaos to tactically – if stickily – withdraw and get away from Mr Crick and back to the pod which the beer had blessedly left alone, though we had to wade through the residual malty marsh in the brewery yard. I believe Wardrobe would like a word with you.

Following up back at St Mary’s, it would seem Mr Burridge missed the Great Beer Flood of 1814 and the 8 casualties caused by it in his preliminary report. You may also stare severely at him. Given Mr Crick’s having already found the sheared band, St Mary’s actions did not cause the event, though we certainly didn’t help. It is my understanding that some clandestine ferment did still make it back to St Marys, not that it matters as apparently the security section could not, in fact, organise a piss up in a brewery. Just a cock up.

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