THE SIGNATURE BREW
Never try something different, as you never know what will happen if you overindulge. This is my fall from grace.
The Fall from Grace
I went to quite a good event, full of great people and full of unique beers that I'd never tried. Unlike myself last year, I decided not to get a pick and mix of everything on tap and instead pick one and really go for it. Staying on the same alcohol is not only easier for ordering when you've had a few, it's also familiar. Since beer gets slightly better the more you drink it, I would at least be disciplining myself into some sort of routine, and if that was the only thing I did in my day, at least it's something.
I'm no sommelier. Does that have anything to do with beer? Probably not. A beer monger, maybe, or just an alcoholic.
The Allure of Signature Brew
This Signature Brew was golden, it shone in the sunlight, and the happiness it brought through fruit and other bits commonly found in beer was quite intense. One down and I was here. I was enjoying the peaceful sound of hundreds of mildly tipsy business people yapping. I couldn't hear very much due to height, not because I wasn't drunk yet, but because at my height the sound wasn't reaching my ears. So I had to slant, I had to keel over structurally and soundly, not alerting my fellows that I was indeed temporarily making myself much shorter to enjoy a conversation I will most likely forget the next day and for sure will repeat the next time I go to the pub. It's the thought that matters.
Another Signature Brew down, and I was reminiscing over why I chose this drink. Was it to expand my portfolio of lagers, or to step out of my comfort zone? No. I bought it because it sounded like a cup of tea. A brew, which is the last thing anyone would want a tea to taste like. A tea is brewed to perfection, a hint of milk, no sugar, and then enjoyed on a blue sofa whilst watching some great true crime. So why a beer that looks like a beer, tastes like a beer, but is named like a cup of tea? Why, why, why?
Spiraling Out of Control
Pondering this led to my next pint, which I drank faster than I'd drink a cup of tea when it's almost too cold. Someone shouted, "Anyone want a drink?" and my reaction was, "Fucking yes I do." Not in words, but in action: downing my pint, placing it on the floor, and screaming, "Ahaha." That also didn't happen, but you get the idea. I was losing it.
The motion to dismiss myself from the event was overruled, and another pint fell into my hand. I placed it there, but it makes me look less bad. It was around 10 PM, and I thought I should hit the road, Jack. I also thought maybe I should run home, but then realized I could stay and just talk. Some days I go without speaking, mainly out of nothing to say. People say you should be able to deal with silence, but I can't—not me. I like to talk about nothing and almost everything, but it's never silent in a pub, so it's a bad place to start that routine.
After slowly drinking another pint and pulling myself from a table, using the vine to hold me at ease, I decided now was the time I shall make my getaway.
The Tube Strike Catastrophe
TUBE STRIKE. I SHOULD HAVE CHECKED AND I DIDN'T.
A night out should be fun but organized. I knew where I was, but not where I was going, so finding my way back would be quite a trek. The first bit was figuring out Google Maps when my arms were spaghetti, not brittle, but almost fully cooked. I chucked them on the wall to see if they were cooked, and they did stick, which impacted my attempt.
I got Google Maps online, pulled my headphones on in transparent mode, and decided to perform an a cappella version of "Mamma Mia" to keep myself company. Walking whilst trying to play "Waterloo" in a stomping format is difficult sober; now imagine it with tunnel vision and Jack Sparrow running across a tightrope. That was me.
Can you read a compass? I did DofE, yet I couldn't read one. I wasn't much help, but I was great at emotional support. It was my superpower.
A Nightmarish Journey Home
I made it to Bishopsgate, knowing it was a good flat straight to London Bridge, so what did I do? I turned Google Maps off and started running. Six pints in, after ten feet, I was keeled over a wall just painting the tarmac with my insides.
I wanted to try something different food-wise, but it was too late; nothing was open except fast food. I ended up in Leon, still singing Mamma Mia, though thankfully by that point, I had completely lost my voice.
I ordered chips and a spicy chicken wrap. The wrap was orange, lava-hot spicy, yet the more I ate, the more I loved it. By Norwood Junction, I had eaten half of it, and my stomach decided to revolt.
The Aftermath
The first course of my inbuilt blender came up with ease, spilling over my jumper. Mixed with rice pudding and Just Stop Oil paint, I was decorating creatively. I lifted the top of my jumper to avoid further disaster, but orange splotches covered my white top. Still eating the wrap, it went in and out like a tennis rally.
I tried to clean up, but every effort just added to the mess. I wanted a taxi home, a warm breeze, but instead I sprinted, gagging, across East Croydon, before finally catching one kind driver who took me home.
Final Advice
Never trust a pint named after a great cup of tea.