‘Beer was dripping from the roof and curtains’: Max Futcher’s home brew disaster

Everything was going well until it wasn’t: the day of the great home brew debacle

I like a beer. My dad likes a beer. His dad liked a beer. (In moderation, of course.) About
40 years ago, my dad decided he only liked his beer, and so began a lifetime of home brewing. I never really understood the patience and the passion, but as a nine-year-old
boy, I’d dutifully help my father concoct his fine creations. A mix of malt and yeast and water would be fed into a barrel.

Early on, I remember a black plastic drum being filled but years later, as he became more of a purist, a friend from the Castlemaine brewery at Milton “loaned” him a discarded stainless-steel keg. He still has it today.

Weeks later, it would be time to bottle the next batch, so we’d line up rows of glass bottles. One barrel of brew filled about 24 tallies.

Of course, these tall beer bottles had to be drunk first, emptying them of so-called “pub beer”, to be replaced by the homemade elixir. Then, those bottles would be carefully washed and recycled, over and over again.

It was my job to put a teaspoon of sugar into each bottle. I didn’t know it then, but this was perhaps the most important step, impacting its colour, flavour and alcohol content. To know now that a nine-year-old was instrumental in this bootlegging operation makes it a bit exciting in hindsight.

Channel 7's Max Futcher. Picture: Tara Croser.

As years went by, my dad perfected his brew. I must stress, he perfected his brew. He made it exactly to his liking.

In winter, he’d create a black stout. Over the sweaty Brisbane summers, he’d brew a crisp lager. Any visitors would bring their own beers, and though they’d have a try of Dad’s beer, most stuck to their own supply.

Dad would pretend he was offended that they didn’t like his beer, but I knew he was secretly happy.

“They don’t appreciate the good stuff, so I don’t want to waste it on them,” he’d say later, “more of it for me.”

I do remember that we had to be very careful with the home brew. When we travelled, it was like cradling a nuclear bomb.

As well as bootleggers, our family were also caravanners (today my father is still a bootlegging caravanner).

Each year we’d head off in our old van, bound for the tropical north, with no particular plan or destination. This was long before the current caravanning craze, and I felt like we were the
strange ones.

Most families stayed in motels or cabins, but we’d drag our accommodation across Queensland, through town after town, fighting off boredom with games and arguments and stops at rest areas.

On one occasion, around Gladstone, we took a turn-off and headed for Agnes Water.

In those days, it was an unsealed road, and the corrugated dirt sent vibrations through our old Ford Falcon, sending the caravan bouncing and weaving in the dust behind us.

After enduring the shaking for 20 minutes, mum and Dad decided it was time for a rest stop. When they opened the door of the van, the damage was instantly apparent.

Every bottle of Dad’s beloved batch of brew had exploded. Beer was dripping from the roof and the curtains, while broken glass and foam were covering our sleeping bags and clothes. The whole caravan stunk like a brewery. Mum wasn’t happy but Dad was devastated.

Years later, when I turned 18, I’d occasionally
try Dad’s beer. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bitter and nasty. He didn’t mind if I stuck to my own supply.

In fact, I’d often buy him a six pack of expensive European beers for a birthday or Christmas.

“Oh thanks mate,” he’d say, and stack it in the back fridge.

The next time I’d visit, he’d serve me up a bottle of that same European pilsner, and I’d discover he hadn’t touched any of them.

“I keep them for you,” he’d say. “You don’t want my stuff anyway.”

Even if I did, I reckon he’d rather keep it for himself. Why waste the good stuff on me?