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The worst beers in the world, officially (N.B. not officially)

Beer is great, but the beer that – apparently – most people drink is piss and shit mixed up into one dickhead-shaped can. No, really, it is. I reckon if you put through a freedom of information request you’d get that in writing from some kind of government official. It’s bad stuff, so for the benefit of Chris “But I Like Carlsberg” McMahon, I’m going to review some of the more popular/ubiquitous brands.

Now, I’m not stupid or ugly enough to claim I have never drank these shitty beers, nor that I don’t still indulge every now and then. But I don’t drink them anywhere near as much as I used to, and it’s getting to the point where I visibly shudder in a pub if forced to utter the phrase “a pint of Carling, please”. In fact, it’s increasingly rare for me to drink any beer at all, post-EA Sportsageddon. Just thought I’d clear that up. ONWARDS.

Otherwise known as ‘The Worst Thing In The World’, I have heard rumours Carling is actually one big joke being played by beer company owners across the world. They wanted to see how gullible the British public could be by introducing a beer so utterly without merit it can only be called ‘beer’ because they paid off Trading Standards and trying to make it the most popular ‘beer’ in the country. These days, the beer company owners just sit around all day, laughing in utter disbelief and counting their money.

Brother of ing, berg was introduced to the market to try and mop up those twats who will only drink things if they sound foreign. Not too foreign, mind – you don’t want no Vlablowski or anything. Nah, berg is much closer to home, and we all know a Carl.

For some reason Heineken gets a bit of an easy ride from people – I think it’s the American influence, as they seem to like it over there. While I appreciate they’re one of the few lagers that offer themselves up in tinycan format, I still can’t get over the fact that it tastes like piss water.

Coors Light
Do you know what it tastes like when you’ve lightly heated cabbage in unsalted water for thirteen months – just enough to raise the temperature, not enough to boil the water off – strained the chunks out, chilled the remaining liquid and then drank it? Yes, you do – because you’ve all had a Van Damme-approved Coors Light.

Stella Artois
When something is HILARIOUSLY referred to as ‘wife beater’, you know it’s definitely a beer worth drinking. Originally brewed by mysterious types in Leuven, Belgium, all records of the lager’s inception were lost after the entire town brawled itself to death.

John Smith’s


Not even bitter is safe from my ire here, as I rise up in protest against that most Northern of beverages. Aside from the bloke on the artwork (I’d guess he’s called ‘John’, or ‘Busey’) looking like a twat, the beer itself is bland. Cheap, yes. But utterly without merit, unless you want to pretend to impress Southerners by drinking ‘real beer, like’.

Just get fucked, yeah?

People seem to think this is better than the other beers listed for some reason. Details aren’t my strong point right now as I’m very hungry, but safe to say: they’re wrong. Kronenbourg is just as shitty as the other stuff.

I’m sure there’s more, but I’m done being a big arrogant prick now. And for all my eulogising about things like Sierra Nevada, the fact it’s readily available in the UK – albeit imported – means it’s not as edgy and cool as I want it to be. Must find more obscure beers to like, to keep up my beer-hipster status…

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Self indulgent, self-pitying nonsense goes here

I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts recently, and I’m quite annoyed because I can’t quite narrow down why. But that’s the thing – I don’t think it is any one thing, more a combination of many factors coming together and just bringing me down. And no Anna, I don’t mean you. Shut up.

I feel disjointed, like I can’t settle. This isn’t a feeling I’ve had since moving 300 miles away from anything I ever considered home, so I find it hard to believe it’s any kind of homesickness. Though maybe it is. Maybe I’m missing the life I had up north, which tended to involve sleeping, finishing all the games I owned and drinking. It certainly couldn’t be me missing the people from that part of my life, as I am a hateful man full of hateful hate.

Maybe I want a dog or something.

Maybe it’s because even though I work a full-time job I’m still no better off than I was before. Some things have changed, but they’re not down to anything I’ve done. Maybe the stress of that is still affecting me.

Maybe it’s the thought that at some point Anna will have to go back to Manchester. Even though she has been sitting next to me for about a week now not saying a word and just playing WOW, I do like having her around. The thought of not seeing even for another week is enough to make me want to cry myself to death*. I fucking hate Bournemouth for being where it is. Not that I was forced to come here, and I like it here. I’m just saying.

I am tired, and when I’m tired I tend to go a bit mental and emotional. LIKE A WOMAN HA HA HA. It’s probably just tiredness. I’ll get some proper sleep down my gullet and before you know it I’ll be back to my usual, happy-go-lucky self. Oh no, wait.

Whatever it is, I know it’s been making me squiffy, and making me seem ‘off’ for a while now. To anyone why has been confused, annoyed, offended or worried for/by/with me: shut up and leave me alone. No, wait… the other one. I don’t know. I’m confused.

Thus ends a diary-like entry and a shameless display of self-pity. I apologise for nothing.

*Original, less-funny line deleted for this hyperbolic-but-funnier line.


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I am afraid of the summer

Things are starting to get ominous. The air is warmer. I can smell it coming in to ruin my life for a few months. I’ve started sneezing a bit. My nose itches just a tiny amount, but enough to be noticeable. My eyes don’t yet feel anything, but they’re preparing themselves for when they do. But no matter how my body or mind is prepared for it, there’s never any way around it: Hayfever is coming to fuck me up again.

I can write this now as it’s before the diseeeease has taken hold of my frail body. If I tried to put these simple words together in a half-legible fashion a couple of months down the line it just wouldn’t be possible. The streaming nose would make me lose concentration, the streaming eyes wouldn’t let me focus and the streaming… well, just the streaming. And the itching. And the fucking itching. God I hate hayfever.

Now I don’t intend this to come across as one-upmanship, but my hayfever is particularly bad. It’s an allergy to grass pollen, which I’m sure many of you either have or know people who have. The obvious problem there being that summer is an outside time where everyone sits on various different types of grass, and if you say you don’t want to do this you are looked on as some kind of troll-like weirdo who needs to be shunned. Plus there’s the fact that park days are ace. But I’m sure many of you are aware of the irritating effect this has on hayfever sufferers.

Problem is, my body decides to take it a step further and completely dismantle my ability to function as a human being. I have sneezing fits that can last 10 minutes or more. My eyes go bright red and, well – I look a lot like this. It is completely debilitating, even with all the medication, treatments, showers and washed clothes I can think of. But the worst – oh! the worst – comes when someone decides to cut the grass near me. This, quite literally, nearly kills me. My throat tries to close up and my entire head puffs up into this weird ball of steaming red nonsense. It’s definitely when I’m at my sexiest. As well as being something to look forward to for Anna.

I’m looking into new/different treatments this year, as I’m tired of this ridiculous suffering. I mean, for fuck’s sake – it’s hayfever. It shouldn’t get in the way of the whole ‘being alive’ stuff I hear so much about. It’s not like it’s even a real illness (it’s a diseeeeease) or anything to compare to people with real medical worries. But it still completely fucks me up and I really am not looking forward to it coming to ruin a few months of my year. Again.

Plus it’s just bloody embarrassing. For all I laugh at the poor fools allergic to peanuts or cats, at least they’re not allergic to the fucking planet. Ho hum.


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