My Views on Splitting The G

Guinness has exploded in popularity these last few years. Celebrity endorsements, the House of Guinness and even a perceived shortage last Christmas have all helped drive demand for the black stuff.

Another oft-cited reason is the rise of the phenomenon known as splitting the G. For those of you living under a rock, this is where you attempt to nail your first slug of stout down to the small midpoint of the ‘G’.

Walk into any pub and you’ll likely see the resident banter brigade and fitness-fuelled dullards attempting to master this art, baying loudly as each one takes aim and fires.

But what’s my view?

I’m certainly a traditionalist. Anything that causes a fuss, I’m immediately minded to dismiss. But if you perform your little party piece with minimum disruption to the drinkers around you, and you’re not desperately trying to impress your mates with your knock-off schooner-scorer’s ability to inhale stout down to a given quart, then by all means, fill your boots.

If, however, you are that guy… then you can squarely fuck right off.

Once you clock the type, you start spotting them everywhere.

Winter Wonderland. Hyde Park’s yearly utopian nightmare, overran with pot-noodle heads in low-slung jeans and knock-off Gucci belts, will be dripping with them.

And it isn’t just the seasonal circus either.

So too will The Devonshire. Despite my own view of the pub as an establishment of the highest quality, it can at times be a victim of its own success, attracting an Insta-famous crowd with about as much self-awareness as… well, insert your own comparison.

Its owner, Oisín Rogers, a man who could write a short novel on the virtues of a high-quality pint of Guinness, must observe in dismay at some of the carry on on occasions.

And watching all this, you almost wonder whether the suits at St James’s Gate sit back with a grin.

They’ve pulled off some masterful marketing tattle over the decades. From iconic TV ads (the Tom Crean one springs to mind) to last year’s “shortage” and the ill-fated Arthur’s Day. A half-way-to-Paddy’s-Day celebration Dublin City Council swiftly kicked into touch owing to the carnage it brought.

All told, I’m increasingly becoming that grumpy bloke in the bar who wants nothing more than to drink his pint undisturbed. Call me out of touch, or a traditionalist if you will, but please… just let me enjoy it in peace.