Reminder: We only ship beer within the state of California.

Long ago, when Gregory was in the latter stages of speech acquisition -- say somewhere in the neighborhood of three years old -- we moved to the Bay Area. Our new home looked just like a gingerbread house and I loved it. It was a rambling, spider-filled, bright red ranch house with white, doily-like running trim that, for all the world, looked to my SoCal eyes like what I imagined icicles to be in a season called winter. Gingerbread was not the look our mom was going for, so she hired some housepainters to, you know, paint the house and remove the running trim. The housepainters cussed like housepainters, and I ate it up but kept my mouth shut. Apparently little Gregory ate up these new words, too, because soon after, whenever his toddler ass got upset -- a frequent occurrence -- he'd squish his face together, turn as red as that gingerbread house, and mutter "Befuggèd!" under his breath. The coinage was his best approximation of an obscenity. He has since learned how to properly drop F-bombs of all sorts, including Fuggle bombs like this bitter. Now, when we're brewing English beers, if we're not dropping EKGs (East Kent Golding hops) on the hot-side, we're dropping F-bombs (Fuggle hops) for that earthy, spicy character that's more English than Gregory's early attempts at profanity.