Lost in a sea of beer

It’s a week for sombre anniversaries in London. First we had the burning of the old Houses of Parliament (Diary yesterday), which by this time 180 years ago were a smouldering ruin. Then, today, comes the bicentenary of the “Great Beer Flood” of 1814.

Yes it sounds like a joke, although it was anything but. In fact, the beer flood was a greater human catastrophe that the fire at Westminster where, amazingly, nobody died. By contrast, there were eight known fatalities from the flood, most of them Irish emigrants.

The disaster centred on a very poor area of central London, in the Parish of St Giles. The “St Giles Rookeries”, as they were known, were the city’s most infamous slums then, including as they did the model for Hogarth’s “Gin Lane”.

Alcohol was a problem at the best of times, as that visual parable on the dangers of hard liquor illustrated. But on one day at least, 17th October 1814, it was beer (the subject of a contrastingly cheerful Hogarth print) that had a deadlier effect.

The disaster started when an iron hoop on a giant porter vat at Meux’s Horse Shoe Brewery fell off. This was a routine occurrence. There were more than 20 other hoops on the vat, and the loss of one usually left time for repairs. On this occasion, unfortunately, before remedial work could happen, the 22-feet-high vat burst.

The resultant wave of beer crashed through a wall while simultaneously forcing open several other beer containers. Within seconds, a tsunami of porter, 15 feet high, was sweeping down New Street, at the brewery’s rear, collapsing walls and flooding tenements.

One victim, a teenage girl, was found hours later in a standing position, but dead, among the debris. There was also tragedy within tragedy. In a New Street cellar, Irish emigrants were attending the wake of a two-year-old boy who had died the day before. Five mourners lost their lives in the flood, including the child’s mother.

Despite this, even then, the nature of the calamity lent itself to colourful stories. A popular theme was that bystanders, not caught up in the emergency, took full advantage of its aftermath, helping themselves to as much free beer as they could.

This may even have happened. But author and “beer historian” Martyn Cornell, who wrote a very authoritative account of the disaster for his blog Zythophile (it means “beer lover“), scoured the archives for actual reportage to that effect, and the only example he could find was from an unlikely source: the “Bury and Norfolk Post.”

There, it was indeed reported that the neighbourhood, “consisting of the lower classes of Irish” had scrambled every kettle and cask available to drain the beer river. Yet no London newspaper, even the Times, saw fit to mention this. And as Cornell implies, The Times was not usually found wanting when opportunities to highlight the depravity of Poor Paddy arose.

Wherever it ended up, the lost beer caused a financial crisis for the brewery, which had already paid the excise. But business, at least, was not allowed to suffer. The Government bailed the brewers out, passing a bill to allow an equivalent amount of duty-free product. The company recovered fully.

At least one local pub, a micro-brewery called the Holbern Whippet, will commemorate the bicentenary of the flood this weekend. Customers are offered “free roast chestnuts” and special beers. The beer is not free, which is probably wise. But if anybody plans to use this sad anniversary as an excuse for inebriation, my advice — to coin a phrase — is: enjoy alcohol sensitively.

Moving forward a century from 1814, meanwhile, commemorations of the First World War, now well under way, bring me to an appeal for help from readers. I’ve written here before about Ultan Cowley, best known for his epic chronicling of those lost generations of Irish construction workers: “The Men Who Built Britain”.

Well, having rescued their memory from obscurity, he now wants to do the same for another group, this time women. Inspired by a line from the war poet Wilfred Owen — “And each slow dusk, a drawing down of blinds’ — he aims to recover the forgotten stories of those left behind after 1918, mourning “dead fathers, brothers, husbands, and sweethearts” while themselves forgotten.

To this end, he’s appealing to readers with “letters, diaries, memorabilia or inherited family narratives”. Anyone who can help is asked to contact him by phone (+353 (0)51 563377), email (ultan.cowley_at_gmail.com), or post at The Potter’s Yard, Duncormick, Co Wexford.

@FrankmcnallyIT