“This is Tommy, he had his own brewery in France,” said Lee, the deputy head of brewing at St Austell. 

A gang of seven or eight hard Cornish brewers lying around the processing room on the piles of hops and malt, black St Austell outfits faded by years of hard graft, stained by acid and caustic, stared at me with a sort of amused disapproval. 

“Hi guys!” I chimed, like an absolute cockhead.