Issue 149

One race among thousands

20th November 2006

I'm in my final year, and this was my final beer race. In all likelihood, it would be the very last beer race of my distinctly dubious career. It was important to win. I was quick last year, but not quite winning quick. There were cavemen or ninja's or something that I remember though the haze as being freakishly fast.

The route was longer and more difficult this year, with eight bars to run through. There was a great atmosphere in the queue outside Play at the start, with a vast variety of fancy dress. Stood between a team of Monty Panesar's and a bunch of not-very-official looking police officers, we all felt a little underdressed in our Waterfront tshirts. It was busy: bad news for trying to run a fast time.

This was realised right inside, as it took what seemed like forever to get served the first drink. The crazy barman even threw a dash of blackcurrant in to make downing that drink a little slower. But never mind: the race was on.

Tearing out of Play and towards Que Pasa, it was quickly evident we'd be slow through the first few bars. Stuck behind some ninja's it was nearly ten minutes before we got the next round of drinks. Not that they lasted long mind, as all three of us dispatched our halves in about 15 seconds.

The next couple of bars were a similar story; at one point we got crushed up against a wall between a dodgeball team (with dodgy moustache, of course) and a Thomas the Tank Engine, which must have had fifteen guys in it. Time was ticking by, and the drinking certainly wasn't getting any easier.

We were breaking through the crowd however, and with each bar we got served a little quicker. Through Chicago Rock in moments, it looked like the win might just have an outside chance of being possible. Three pints down, in about 25 minutes, by this point, things were beginning to get a little hazy. Insanity set in, and we were flat sprinting. Walkabout and Yates were dispatched with minimum effort thanks to great bar work, and it was time for the long run to the finish line at the Orange House.

Vaguely aware of stewards shouting greetings and directions at us, it was like the final stretch of a marathon (which I've never run, but never mind). Pulling up onto the Kingsway, the Jumpin' Jacks signs looms out of the darkness. Collapsing through the door was great, until we were told the winning team had run hours earlier, and finished about ten minutes quicker than us.

Anyone wanting to win the race needs only to do only one thing: race in the earliest possible time slot. But then town is dead and it's not half as fun.

You wouldn't want to do it more than once a year, but the Beer Race is outrageously good fun. While it does take a little while to start feeling normal again, it sets everyone up for a great night, and we raise money for charity to boot. Drinking four pints in 35 minutes, sprinting around town and generally having a laugh is up there with the most effective ways to get wasted, and one of the most entertaining ways to set up the night. Winning would have been cool, but as the old adage goes, it's the taking part that counts.

Tim Sculthorpe