going up, going down – let's talk about booze
July 25th, 2008Going up: Longnecks
I have this recurring nightmare. I walk into the Party Factory* at about 11 on a Friday night. I realise I recognise every single person there, and every single person there recognises me, then turns to all their friends and whispers behind a cupped hand about all the horrific things I did last night in the Brighton Bar and (kinda mercifully) don’t remember.
I do have that weird prickly feeling though. You know the one? Where your brain knows something embarassing happened but can’t quite bring itself to remember, so it just tries to warn you to stay in the house until it all blows over and everyone who might have seen the spectacle unfold eventually dies of old age. That feeling.
I hate that feeling. I should also admit that this isn’t so much a nightmare as just a dream version of actual life experience. The downside of having a gigantic white girl fro is that complete strangers can walk up to you in a bar and say ‘I remember you! You’re the girl who …’
Excuse me while I kill myself.
And there’s only one thing that makes this better. Surprisingly, no, it’s not vodka this time. Vodka has no going up, going down. It’s a classic, like a quilted lambskin Chanel.
It’s the humble longneck. Full of nourishing carbohydrate-laden beer to fill your belly and soothe your brain. Swaddled in a paper bag so no one knows whether you’re drinking something disgusting like VB. Ideally shaped to avoid accidental spills. Ergonomically designed to nestle in the crook of your arm like an adorable beer-baby, so you can drunkenly look down at it and think at least somebody loves you.
Oh, longneck. Why’d you stay away so long?
Going down: Jaeger
I hate to admit I’ve even tried Jaeger. It’s the drink of American douchebags who can’t hold their booze, who stagger from the bar with their frat buddies all “DUDE! I JUST HAD TWO SHOTS OF JAEGER AT THE BAR … AND I’M WASTED“. Blech.
But I caved. And all the embarassing things I alluded to just then? They are all Jaeger’s fault. If the devil was a fabric, he’d be satin. Reflecting light on all your fatty bits, redirecting all your money to the dry cleaner, and bunching up in wrinkles at your crotch so you look like your vajayjay is prematurely aged.
And if the devil was a drink, he would be Jaeger. And if you’ve ever seen a boy vomit Jaeger into a bathtub, you’ll know it’s true.
* [Also known as the Oxford Art Factory]
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