2006 Thomas Hardy’s Ale, Finally I Can Drink a Beer That Is Older Than My Clothes

Everyone always gets an alerection when they talk about how old their Thomas Hardy’s is. It’s like all of a sudden sucking down old old ales is hot shit and everyone else missed the boat. Big ups to my homie Anthony for this bottle so we can see what the aleworld was like back in the days of dial-up internet (for the midwest.) Fear no more, I am rocking a 2006 in today’s review, back when your boyfriend still had frosted tips and retainers, shit was popping off. Let’s see if this little bottle delivers or, like Better Than Ezra, leaves me desperately wanting.

Man, 2006, what a fun year, wait, I am looking at the Wikipedia for 2006 and I literally remember none of this shit happening. A Final Fantasy game must have come out that year or something.

O’Hanlon’s Brewing Co. Ltd.
United Kingdom (England)
Old Ale | 11.90% ABV

A: Oh man, you know when tame old England (sans Brewdog) comes out swinging with an 11.9% old ale, shit is about to get real. The beer is completely flat and looks like Dr. Pepper that was left out during your 6th grade sleepover party. No lacing, no legs, no stems no seeds no sticks. You swirl it around and things don’t get much jazzier. It just sits there limp, sad, and swears that this never happens.

Maybe I am not old enough to fully enjoy this beer but, it makes things pretty difficult the next morning.

S: Mmm, that’s a damn fine bouquet, especially for a 6 year old. Well, you know what I mean. It has vanilla, aggro caramel, nice subtle bourbon presence, oak, and toasted marshmellow. It kinds reminds me of a sticky kettle corn with more of a butterscotch presence. Nice wafterburners on this Maverick.

T: This almost goes from O.G. Ale to quad in the way to pulls you gently to stone fruits, plum, currant, and raisins. I am thankful for the relatively small bottle size as this guy is a bit of a turn off after a while. I enjoy the panoply of fruits and sticky gooey campfire treats presented but, it is a bit much after 5 ounces. Maybe I need to put up with month after punishing month of depressing weather to really “get” the selling points of this UK gem but the taste gets to that point of like “ok, ok, enough already” of sticky sweetness like the hostess at Chilis.

I hate to push this bit incessantly but, things are almost always best enjoyed fresh. Ba dum tish. wakka wakka.

M: The mouthfeel has zero carbonation and a light stickiness that just hangs around like an officious gym partner that, while cloying, has a gentle aspect to it that you don’t outright hate. I dont think this will really improve with age and that fresh TH that I tried wasn’t really much better. You ever revisit a game that was bad fucking ass when it came out and then realized that you used to be content with crude polygons? Well, this is a beer from the tail end of the Ps2 era, if you know what I am saying. Go pop in Devil May Cry, tell me if it is still palatable. I will wait.

D: This is not exceptionally drinkable due to the sheer alcoholic content and sticky morass of saccharine notes that jumble up the mix. It is worth trying and showing off your alecock for cellar bragging rights but most people into beer won’t give a fuck if you have a 1996 TH because, like Aaliyah, age ain’t nothin but a number.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, if you were a boring jerk back then, well-

Narrative: “Listen Trevin, I am your agent and, quite frankly, I am your friend. At this point I think it might be time to give it up, seriously, I can’t spin you in different ways for 12 consecutive years, you’re…you’re too fucking old, Trevin.” Theodore Olsmly had changed his name to conform to Hollywood conceptions of name values, he had dyed his hair, undyed it, taken improv classes, unlearning improve classes, holistic acting, deconstructive scenework classes, and even melody workshops taught by the Spin Doctors: nothing worked. Even those gentle poets of Two Princes told him at the crest of 2008 that maybe a solid decade of annoying the shit out of audiences and producers alike, might signal a perfect time to bow out. Trevin refused to do so. He slammed the door of his shanty Burbank studio apartment and tossed on the Reality Bites soundtrack and paced the 405 square foot layout and devised a plan to start auditioning for the estranged older brother turned uncle roles that the writers had heretofore so obliviously overlooked.

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