THE Pub Column used to believe that awards ceremonies and those who entered them were the last refuges of the big head and the scoundrel.

“I’ve got far too much integrity to lower myself to such depths in order to have the ego massaged,” was the somewhat lofty proclamation Yours Truly would make to anybody (or should that be nobody?) listening.

But I was just lying to myself. Behind the smile there were always gritted teeth as the usual suspects marched off with trophies and fat cheques leaving me growling Yozzer-like: “I cudda won that! Gizzit!!!”

So I started to throw the hat in the ring because, as they say, you’ve got to be in it to win it.

And, although the haul is nowhere near as big as that on display in the trophy room at Anfield, a few debts – and a trip to see the Reds win the European Cup in Istanbul – have been paid off with prize money in the mean time.

This week was the annual awards dinner of the British Guild of Beer Writers held in London, for which The Great Liverpool Pub Crawl, the book wot I wrote, had been entered for the best regional writing section. There is a delicate bit of diplomacy to get over, however, in finding out whether it’s worth turning up or not.

Time was creeping on and so when the Pub Column was on the phone to Geordie colleague Alastair Gilmour, there came a slight pause in the conversation – and a change in direction.

“Alastair, in your capacity as chairman of the judges and mine as a Liverpudlian chancer, do you think it’s worth the train fare in coming down nudge, nudge, wink, wink, knoworramean like?”

Of course, he couldn’t possibly say – which in secret beer writing speak usually means slightly more “might” than “might not.”

This explains why, on Thursday night, the Pub Column was mixing with the great and the good of the brewing industry at the London Bridge Hilton. These occasions are very useful for catching up on the hot gossip behind the pumps, and this year the future of Cains was very much on the lips of the beerglasserati.