I have a for a while contemplated a crap lager fest where I rank the worse of brewed-under-licence bilge. Fosters, Carling, Stella, and their micturitional kin. The sort of foul fluid that sprays from the severed aorta of dying pubs, their final customers trying to staunch the flow with soggy salt-and-vinegar crisps and a packet of pork scratching that is on the verge of becoming an archaeological find. Beers where the main flavour isn't hops, it's distilled despair, and even that is stale. But wait, I'm too cruel, there's also hints of domestic abuse, sodden piss-soaked crotches, and leave-it-Darren-he's-not-worth-it.
My wife, ever supportive of my quests, says do it when I'm not here, correctly recognising for the self-abuse it undoubtedly is, the sort of thing that should be done alone, in front of a computer, with one hand occupied. So I might. The suffering, I suspect will be existential, like the time recently when I watched all the Nic Cage movies I could find over a weekend. That's was like the cinematic equivalent of running the bad lager gamut and ending up submerged in an ocean of Fosters with only a leaking snorkel. The rum-flavoured one. If you've seen Left Behind, you'll understand, and I'll arrange a care package. Some things can't be unexperienced, sadly. They say these things build character but that's a bit like saying hey, I'm going to build a house with this bulldozer. My previous quests have involved writing a multi-volume sci-fi novel à la Hamilton and attempting to read Dan Brown's Inferno. I'm not sure where this challenge falls in the spectrum of stupid compulsions that pop into my head.
