“If you use the word ‘hangover’ on your blog again, social services are going to come and take you away.”
That’s what Dad said to me last Sunday, just before he pushed this glass of Fijian lager into my clammy, shaking hand.
I was in the throws of kind of hangover that makes food poisoning or violent gastroenteritis seem desirable. I literally could not have felt worse, or less enthused about drinking even one drop of alcohol.
But a beer a day is a beer a day (and sometimes much more, apparently,) so I reluctantly bought the glass of Vonu to my nose and inhaled.
It was hard to think clearly while riding the rocky waves of nausea, but I detected something pleasant and floral on the nose. It wasn’t much, but it was more than I was expecting from a lager from Fiji.
“Yup, that smells good,” I said to Dad. “I don’t think I even need to taste it really.”
“Just do it Al,” he said sternly.
And so I took a sip. I shuddered, I winced, I may have momentarily blacked out – but I took a sip and I even swallowed it.
“K…K…Kinda crisp,” I stammered, “might be nice if you were on a beach in F…Fiji,” before handing the glass back and crumbling to the floor.
It’s a shame I was in such a sorry state when I tried this beer, because I actually think it might have been nice. I mean not really nice, but refreshing and hoppier than your average pale lager.
And now I must dash; I think I hear social services at the door.