The House of Guinness: Netflix’s Frothy Love Letter to the Black Stuff

So, I sat down expecting yet another glossy corporate puff piece. You know the sort: a bloke in a tweed waistcoat banging on about “heritage” while stroking a sack of barley like it’s his pet Labrador. But no — what I got was essentially Game of Thrones, except with fewer dragons, slightly less nudity, and vastly more pints.

The whole thing is Guinness flexing harder than a bloke at the gym in January. Every episode is dipped in sepia, poured through a pint glass, and polished until it looks like the inside of an Instagram influencer’s brain. Sweeping shots of barley fields make you think a knight is about to ride through with a flaming sword — but no, it’s just some farmer moaning about soil like it’s a long-lost lover. Then it cuts to a master brewer fiddling with pipes and valves as if he’s preparing to launch Apollo 11, when really, he’s just making sure some lad in Dublin doesn’t end up with a pint that tastes like bathwater.

And the drama… my God, the drama. The way they go on about yeast, you’d think it was the lost Ark of the Covenant. “This strain has been passed down for generations,” they whisper reverently, like it’s the Pope’s underpants being unveiled at the Vatican. Then there’s Arthur Guinness, casually signing a 9,000-year lease. Nine. Thousand. Years. Most of us can’t even commit to a Netflix free trial without panicking, and this man basically betrothed himself to a brewery until the sun explodes.

Visually, it’s absurdly beautiful. The cameras glide over Dublin rooftops, through copper kettles, and across foamy pint glasses like it’s Planet Earth: Alcohol Edition. Every slow-motion bubble, every rising swirl of cream-coloured foam looks so majestic you half expect David Attenborough to murmur: “And here, the Guinness settles… forming a head more glorious than anything found in nature.”

And here’s the kicker: it works. It makes you want Guinness — badly. By episode two, you’re hovering near the fridge. By episode three, you’re pricing flights to Dublin. By the finale, when they start gushing about how Guinness unites humanity, you’re sat there nodding along like a hypnotised cult member with a pint in hand, muttering, “Yes… yes it bloody does.”

So is The House of Guinness just a slick, billion-pound advert? Of course it is. But is it also one of the most watchable, cinematic, pint-porn extravaganzas ever? Absolutely. It’s Netflix, after all. They could make a six-part series about toenail clippers and you’d be weeping by episode five.

But instead, it’s Guinness. Which means it’s brilliant. And by God, it’ll have you pouring one before the credits even roll.