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In our modern age, we have
lived through natural disasters and floods in various

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parts of the world, and no
matter what, they are always tragic.

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But tragic floods are not always a
cause of nature. In episode seven,

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we discussed the Great Molasses flood that
occurred in Boston and the ensuing devastation of

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that event. Well, today we'll
be taking a look at a similar,

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albeit less gloopy, tidal wave of
destruction that occurred one hundred years before that

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one. And as much as any
of us may love a beer every now

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and then and dream of swimming in
a pool of the bubbly liquid, this

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tragic event was unfortunately no laughing matter. These are the bizarre but true stories

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from history and in some way involved
food. I'm Nick Charlie Key, and

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this is the fantastic history of food. It's late afternoon on the seventeenth of

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October eighteen fourteen. Men and women
are rushing about the streets of London,

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just like they would any other day
of their lives. To them and the

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general population as a whole, nothing
seemed particularly remarkable about this day. Ducking

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down one of the alleys, a
small boy on an errand from his mother

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passes an enormous twenty five foot high
wall that to him seems like it stretches

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all the way to the sky.
He marvels at it for a moment and

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then continues on his way. This
mammoth facade just happened to be one of

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the boundary walls of the vast Bainbridge
Street Mew Brewery, in the heart of

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London's Irish enclave. The brewery,
which had been founded during the early years

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of King George the Third's reign,
had become particularly famous for its porters,

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of which it produced more than one
hundred thousand barrels each year. It was

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by this time one of the two
largest breweries in London, having been purchased

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in eighteen o nine by Sir Henry
Meu, who had transformed the old Horseshoe

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Brewery into the now thriving namesake.
Mew came from a brewing family and had

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chosen to simply follow in his father's
footsteps. His father, Sir Richard MW,

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had previously owned a brewery of his
own called the Griffin Brewery, in

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which he had constructed the largest beer
vat in London at the time, capable

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of holding twenty thousand barrels by itself. This enormous vat had proven so useful

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to his father that Henry Mew decided
to build one of his own that stood

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almost over twenty feet tall and was
capable of holding around eighteen thousand barrels of

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the bubbling porter. Now to build
a that of this size was no mean

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feat, and besides the sheer amount
of reinforced woodertook to create the barrel sides,

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they would also need a significant reinforcement
around the vat to make sure that

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it held its shape even under pressure, and so to create the iron hoops

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used to strengthen the vat, they
needed eighty one metric tons of metal.

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The porter inside the vats was left
to age for anywhere from a few months

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to a full year, and notably, the longer that it was left,

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the more pressure would build up inside
of them. George Creek had been an

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employee of the brewery for the past
seventeen years, and during that time had

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watched in amazement as the brewery had
grown larger and larger, until it was

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now the second biggest producer of porter
in the city. He was a diligent

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man for the most part, and
in his role as storehouse clerk, it

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was his job to inspect the barrels
and the vats of beer on a daily

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basis, making sure that all was
in order and that there were no leaks

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or cracks that could drain away the
beer inside. On this particular day,

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the sun was already on its descent
towards the horizon. At around four thirty

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p m. In the afternoon,
George Creek, as was his routine,

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unlocked the heavy iron lock on the
doors to the storehouse and began meandering through

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the vessels inside, inspecting each one
as he went. He climbed up onto

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a walkway above the vats and inspected
the triple story high wooden containers to see

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that all was well. Approaching one
of the last ones in the line,

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he noticed that one of the metal
hoops on one of the vats, which

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alone weighed over seven hundred pounds,
had slipped from its place around the enormous

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cask of beer that just so happened
to be storing a ten month old batch

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of Porter. Now, this vat
had been filled right up to the very

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brim of the enormous container, leaving
just four inches spare at the top.

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With twenty two feet of beer below
it. Now in the moment, George

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didn't panic when he saw this,
and in fact didn't even really think too

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much of it, as this sort
of thing happened a few times each year

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without consequence, But being the diligent
sort of man that he was, he

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still made a point of reporting it
to his superiors, who, like him,

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weren't overly concerned by the news.
His boss told him not to worry

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and that quote no harm whatsoever would
ensue, before instructing him to write a

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letter to another employee of the brewery
requesting that the hoop be repaired and replaced

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at a later date. Little did
any of them know that inside that very

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cask of ten month old porter,
the pressure from the fermentation process was growing

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at an alarming rate. A little
over an hour after George Creek had first

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noticed the missing hoop, he found
himself inside his office in the middle of

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writing out the note that would request
the repair for the giant mental hoop.

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In what was an otherwise fairly silent
warehouse that stored the vast quantities of beer,

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any sound echoed throughout the cavernous chamber, and so it was when George

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first heard a loud pop from somewhere
in the depths of the storehouse before he

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had time to react. Another sound
followed quickly after, but this time it

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was a roaring noise, explosive in
both sound and force, and George,

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knowing what was happening, threw himself
to the floor beneath his desk, just

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moments earlier, on the vat that
was missing one of its immense hoops.

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The pressure had continued building and building
to a point where the enormous container could

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no longer remain structurally intact. Within
seconds, the three story high cask exploded

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outwards, shattering the wooden supports into
mere splinters. From this vat alone burst

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forth the equivalent of one million pints
of beer. The force of the blast

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blew off the valve of a nearby
cask, which spewed out its own contents

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towards its neighboring cask, setting off
a deadly chain reaction as vat after vat

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was crushed under the hundreds of tons
of liquid, smashing everything within its path.

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The storehouse itself could not contain the
violent tsunami of liquid and crumbled in

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its wake. In fact, the
force of The explosion had been so immense

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that bricks from the st Storehouse building
had been sent flying hundreds of meters into

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the air and came subsequently raining down
on to the rooftops of the houses on

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the nearby Great Russell Street. The
liquid, having burst through the storehouse walls,

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didn't even stop to slow down as
it toppled the twenty five foot high

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perimeter wall and crashed into the Tavistock
Arms Pub. Inside was a young teenage

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bar maid named Eleanor Cooper, who
was unluckily caught beneath the rubble as the

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building collapsed around her like something out
of a fever dream. An enormous fifteen

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foot high wave of porter swept through
the streets and alleyways of the surrounding neighborhood,

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taking with it anything that wasn't nailed
down. The city had not yet

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installed proper drainage systems into the streets, and so the tidal wave of black

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liquid had nowhere else to go except
around or through local homes. Residents who

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for the most part had never learned
to swim, clambered onto dining room tables

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or any other furniture that would save
them from drowning. In the swirling black

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mass that threatened to engulf them.
Basements and makeshift housings surrounding the brewery were

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either washed away or crushed under the
deluge, but it was on New Street

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where the most significant damage occurred.
Hannah Banfield and her daughter Mary were swept

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away in the middle of their tea, both unfortunately drowning in the river of

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beer in what was surely the most
horrific twist of fate. Inside of a

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cellar nearby, five mourners had gathered
to hold awake for a two year old

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boy who had died the day before. They had no time to escape as

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the beer flooded into the subterranean space
and took their lives in a matter of

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seconds. Between them Elinor Cooper and
the Banfields, eight people had already lost

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their lives to this tragedy. Within
just a few minutes, however, the

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deafening roar of the flooding beer became
eerily silent once again. The surrounding neighborhoods,

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already soaked in poverty, were now
saturated in hot malt liquor. The

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silence was soon shattered by screams and
cries for help from those trapped inside the

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nearby buildings. Rescuers wasted no time
in getting to the source of the cries,

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wading through still waist deep beer in
some sections and picking through the tangled

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debris that had been left behind.
Soon onlookers and gawkhas from surrounding neighborhoods came

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flooding into the area to see what
the noise had been. Rescuers shouted at

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them to keep quiet so they could
better hear the cries for help that floated

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out of the ruined buildings. London's
Morning Post put it this way, the

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surrounding scene of desolation presents a most
awful and terrific appearance, equal to that

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which fire or earthquake may be supposed
to occasion. In the days following the

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event, rumors began circulating throughout London
and beyond of people rushing to the area

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to fill up tubs and buckets of
beer, taking it home for later enjoyment,

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and even stories of men drinking it
straight from the streets in an uncontrolled

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mass drunken revelry. The stories even
went so far as to claim that another

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death had occurred from the beer flood, but this time due to alcohol.

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Poisoning from the man's over indulgence on
the streets, and while it is possible

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that this happened, and most certainly
is a likely event, knowing human's propensity

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to grab at anything free, there
are no reliable sources to confirm whether or

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not this truly occurred. Perhaps surprisingly, all of the brewery employees who had

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been closest to the incidents had survived
relatively unharmed, with the superintendent and three

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workers needing to be rescued from the
rubble. The brewery itself, however,

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was not quite so lucky. The
incident not only severely tarnished its reputation but

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structurally put it on the point of
bankruptcy. In what was seen as a

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contentious verdict, the coroner's inquest ruled
the tragedy an act of God rather than

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negligence on the part of the brewery, and in so doing meant that they

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would not have to pay any compensation
for the disaster. But the company would

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not have been able to pay anyway, as after the loss of millions of

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gallons of porter, the damage to
their own buildings, and the replacement cost

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of the vats, they were in
debt of around twenty three thousand pounds,

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which in today's money would be almost
two point three million pounds. Utilizing connections

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they had in Parliament, they successfully
petitioned the Crown to help bail them out,

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receiving seven two hundred and fifty pounds, just enough to save them from

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declaring bankruptcy, and after the chaos
had died down, the Horseshoe Brewery went

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back into business before moving to the
Nine Elms Brewery in Wandsworth. On the

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old brewery site now stands the famous
Dominion Theatre in what is today London's West

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End. As a lingering legacy of
this tragedy, enormous wooden vats were soon

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phased out, to be replaced by
lined concrete vessels with a significantly higher capacity

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to withstand pressure build up. The
tragedy left an indelible mark on the community

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and especially on the families of those
who lost their lives. For months,

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the sickly sweet smell of the malt
liquor hung in the air as an inescapable

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and constant reminder to all of what
had happened on that faithful day in eighteen

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fourteen. This show is made entirely
by me Nick Charlie key, with our

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theme music having been made by the
Enigma that is the mysterious Breakmaster Cylinder.

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If you'd like to support the show, the simplest way to do that is

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over on our Patreon account. There's
just one option, so for just two

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bucks a month, you'll help me
keep producing this show, and in return,

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you'll get your name forever etched onto
our supporter's Wall of Fame over on

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our website and then maybe listen out
for your name in an upcoming episode.

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So until next time, bonte a
petite