Hmm… Non-alcoholic lager. There’s a weird notion to contemplate while staring into the bottom of an empty glass and not feeling in the slightest bit tipsy. Rather like ‘government intelligence’ or ‘overjoyed goth’, non-alcoholic lager is something of an oxymoron with ‘non-alcoholic’ and ‘lager’ not appearing to be particularly happy bedfellows. I mean, why would anyone really choose to drink lager unless it was guaranteed to give them that warm fug of well-being (before the inevitable slide into self-loathing)? And just who is it aimed at? Drivers tired of Coke? Pregnant women tired of tomato juice and Tabasco? Anyone tired of life? Having said that, Beck’s Alcohol Free certainly looks the part. It comes in the same kind of green glass bottles that ‘normal’ Beck’s lager comes in and when you pour it out looks very similar to the real stuff, too. But rather than brewing it as a normal beer and then removing all the alcohol, Beck’s simply doesn’t add yeast to the mix of hops, water and malted barley so that it never ferments. The resultant taste is rather ‘hoppy’, and there is something of a lingering sweetness, but it is, nevertheless, as close as you’re going to get to lager without actually sticking any alcohol in it. Think of it as a Stars In Their Eyes version of Beck’s: looks bona fide, but on closer inspection is just a watered-down version of the real deal, and not particularly satisfying on a Saturday night. RM

In trendy new bars up and down the land, condensation-beaded bottles are dispensed from their own icy cold bar-top fridge, the metallic blue and silver label with the name Baltika engraved in that mystical Cyrillic typeface drawing you in. The promise of Russian mystique coupled with those heady days of Glasnost conjures up thoughts of friends with rosy cheeks, clinking glasses all enjoying a night out together in big furry hats. Baltika produce nine numbered beers, and they’ve selected number three – Russia’s bestseller – with which to tempt us Brits. Once tasted, though, there’s no getting away from the fact that Baltika number three is pretty much the Steve Davis of bottled beers: bland and weirdly dry with an non-refreshing aftertaste. A few bottles of Baltika left me feeling like I’d been done over by a Muscovite prostitute, which, let me tell you, does not make for a pleasant experience. Perhaps the trouble is that any Russian product, especially beer, will struggle to seem fresh, invigorating, vibrant or particularly drinkable to Western punters. Instead, we’re conjuring up images of Stalag-like industrial towns, queues for beetroot, and dogs being rocketed to a certain death in space. Crucially, by jumping on the imported beer bandwagon, and advertising itself as a fresh new modern brand with Trafalgar Square launch parties and glamorous scantily-clad girls, the bods behind Baltika have forgotten that decent taste counts for a lot. My advice? Stick to vodka. That’s something the Russians are undeniably good at. GT

If you have any doubts about dipping into something connected with sheep, then don’t. This is a first-rate bitter – crisp and with a good head to lace your glass. If ever proof was required that competition is good for consumers, then this must be it. The small North Yorkshire village of Masham has two breweries owned by different branches of the same family, and both the Theakston’s and Black Sheep breweries manage to produce excellent and successful beers. This one, along with some more unusual brews, including the famous Holy Grail (named in tribute to Monty Python and recently presented to the Pope by the Archbishop of York), is brewed in antique vessels that have been restored by the fifth generation of the family. It is also fermented in the Yorkshire Square system developed over 200 years ago, and this produces a distinctive and full-bodied ale, with a strong, smooth and bitter taste. I first enjoyed it at the brewery in Masham after an informative tour where you can watch the brewing process and be wafted off your feet by the smell of the boiled wort (the combination of malted grains boiled with hops). I also like the design of the bottles – this one has a nice label with a black sheep, and clearly states the ingredients – simple and informative. Bottles of Black Sheep are now widely available in many major supermarkets, which is handy if you can’t make a round trip to North Yorkshire. HC

Drinkers in continental Europe must surely chuckle as they recline in their chairs by the canal, crack jokes surrounded by four generations on the sun glazed terrace, or even wobble off their bicycles in sheer mirth at us useless, feeble British boozers. Only in a nation that allowed an advertising campaign describing Carlsberg as ‘probably the best lager in the world’ (akin to describing a city council dry ski-slope as ‘a genuine rival to Val-d’Isere’) would the powers that be take a perfectly decent German pilsner and decide to do almost nothing with it except make it very slightly weaker for lily-livered Brits. Beck’s has been ticking along just fine for 135 years, hinting that it’s doing something right. And it is – it’s crisp, it’s clean… but that’s another review. This tastes fairly similar, if – obviously – a little weaker, but, really, why? The original tastes nicer and is only one percent stronger. It is hardly like drinking meths. Stick five pints down you and you’ll feel a bit drunk. Likewise here. Beck’s didn’t really need a weaker younger sibling, but it’s got one to its own detriment. There’s nothing really bad about it from a taste perspective, I’ll admit that. It’s a German pilsner, so surprises are not really in the offing. But original Beck’s was a decent pint, and you’ll be even harder pressed to track it down on tap now that it’s been usurped by this Vier stuff, which is a real shame. DA