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I’m really not this desperate

My little drinkie I am treating myself to with lunch today is tequila flavoured beer from France. ‘Oh dear’, you may be thinking; I think that would be an overly generous assessment.

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Desperados beer flavoured with tequila, 5.9%

I’m smelling this and the civilised parts of my mind are screaming, “Why did you buy this, you moronic, rancid fool?” It actually smells a bit like Gueuze, only with all of the weird but nice aromas replaced with totally repulsive filth. Ah OK, I know exactly what this smells like: shandy. And the taste? Oh deary, deary me. Look, will you excuse me from writing about the taste? I’m trying not to think about it and I don’t want another mouthful to remind myself of the sweet, dirty and generally vile characteristics that dominate the palate. Oh bugger, now I’ve thought about it again and I feel utterly consumed with horror that I actually swallowed such nauseating crap. You’ve got to hate this and curse the name of its inventor.

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