A brand new beer is being launched in memory of a Sheffield cutlery legend who died last year.
Stan Shaw, last of the “little mesters”, will have an ale produced in his name by the Little Mesters Brewing company in Meadowhead.
The world-renowned knife-maker crafted blades for clients including the Queen, Elvis Presley and US presidents.
Little Mesters Brewing said all proceeds from sales of Stan IPA will go to the Stan Shaw Memorial Trail Appeal.
The ale will be launched at the Millowners Arms, which is a small pub within Kelham Island Museum where Stan Shaw’s knife collection is held.
Shaw was profiled in the April 2021 issue, right around the time of his passing.
That article is paywalled, but here is more from our free side, including a video of Shaw at work…
More on Stan Shaw, Preeminent Sheffield Cutler (Public Post)
Discussion of this post around the office led Mark to mention “Saint Monday” which was a tradition among tradesmen, often cutlers, of taking Monday off when hungover.
From Wikipedia:
An 18th-century folk song from Sheffield, England, “The Jovial Cutler”, portrays a craftsman enjoying a lazy Saint Monday, much to the dismay of his wife:[7]
View Linked ArticleBrother workmen, cease your labour,
Lay your files and hammers by.
Listen while a brother neighbour
Sings a cutler’s destiny:
How upon a good Saint Monday,
Sitting by the smithy fire,
We tell what’s been done o’t Sunday,
And in cheerful mirth conspire.Soon I hear the trap-door rise up,
On the ladder stands my wife:
“Damn thee, Jack, I’ll dust thy eyes up,
Thou leads a plaguy drunken life;
Here thou sits instead of working
Wi’ thy pitcher on thy knee;
Curse thee, thou’d be always lurking
And I may slave myself for thee.”“Ah, the bright, fat, idle devil
Now I see thy goings on,
Here thou sits all day to revel
Ne’er a stroke o’ work thou’st done.
See thee, look what stays I’ve gotten,
See thee, what a pair o’ shoes;
Gown and petticoat half rotten,
Ne’er a whole stitch in my hose.“Pray thee, look here, all the forenoon
Thou’s wasted with thy idle way;
When does t’a mean to get thy sours done?
Thy mester wants ’em in to-day.
Thou knows I hate to broil and quarrel,
But I’ve neither soap nor tea;
Od burn thee, Jack, forsake thy barrel,
Or nevermore thou’st lie wi’ me.”
