I have hit my mid-30s with a thud and picked up various pretentious hobbies, as if driven by biological imperative. Any given Sunday, you might find me pickling some onions to go with the meat I am smoking while a vinyl record plays. How quaint. What a chore of a person I am.
One of these afflictions that has come about in what is either the middle of a short life, the end of a very short life, a quarter of the way through a remarkably long one, or somewhere in-between, is an appreciation for simple design. This is a slow-burning understanding for most people, as we realise that the everyday objects we have become accustomed to in our world are not inherent but rather expertly crafted, often perfected over generations, and now taken for granted. There is perhaps no greater example of this than the glorious object we know as the schooner.
It seems at long last, by hook or by crook, the British public are about to become properly acquainted with the glory of the schooner, even if they wish to call it “the two-thirds measure” in part of their centuries-long quest to use the language they invented in the most displeasing ways possible.
As Elle Hunt has already mentioned, the pint is an unwieldy and indulgent size, guaranteeing a warm beer by the time you’re finished and at least two stumbles on your way home. But I am not here to talk about the failings of a pint, I am here to speak of the glory of the 425ml glass.
Aesthetically it’s perfect. A schooner in the hand has the same feeling as Indiana Jones putting on his hat. You are at last complete. You understand the purpose of hands. An evil friend once, upon becoming a father, remarked that with a baby in one hand and a schooner in the other, he felt as if he could rule the world. Such is the feeling of psychological completeness that comes with this perfect glass. Not to mention that, practically speaking, this fit is also very useful in times when grip strength is paramount while reaction time might be a little waning, for some reason.
Philosophically the schooner represents a kind of egalitarian ideal. The perfect glass for beer and soft drink enjoyers alike, for the “I’ll just have one” crowd and the “settle in, folks, it’s been a long week” veterans. It is a rare bit of Australiana that crosses class divides, perhaps only equalled by the Bunnings umbrella, in the way that it is enjoyed by kings and paupers alike, hailed for its practicality, appreciated for its beauty.
One impressive sign of the overpowering strength of the schooner is that the name has managed to cross state borders. In a nation that loves to pointlessly argue the name for battered discs of potato, thin discs of anonymous meat and breadcrumb labelled chicken, somehow wherever you go, a schooner is a schooner is a schooner. Except for Adelaide, which just gets a kick out of being different.
This is not to condemn the pint, or the pony, which both have their occasion, but rather to apply the Goldilocks principle to the whole affair. I am thrilled that more of the world will soon know the glory of the schooner.
The schooner is the starter’s pistol, the full-time whistle, it’s Friday night and Sunday arvo, it’s an amber fluid and a bit of fizzy (with lime if you’re fancy), carried in perilous pyramids or lifted alone with the other hand on your phone, it is proof that art and function can serve the save master, that humanity is capable of beauty and that we are meant to live happily among one another and partake in all the pleasures this world has to offer.
Either that, or it’s just a bit of glass. Depends on how many you’ve had, I guess.
• James Colley is the head writer of Gruen and Question Everything as well as the author of The Next Big Thing published by Pantera Press
