Wednesday, May 28

Beer Review - Tenerife Special

During the recent Peter/Joe/Phil/Kathryn/Gracious trip to Tenerife, myself and the Applebys sampled a few of the finest foreign lagers, whilst Kathryn got all exotic and cultural, drinking blue WKD. Of course, we had to be robbed blind in Newcastle Airport (which suddenly resembles a building site) before our holiday began.


"Three Carling, please."
"Carling's off"
"Off as well."
"What have you got then?"
"Yeah, you deaf or something?"
"There's no need for that sort of aggression, 3 Grolsch then, and a blue WKD."
"£17.90 please"

Grolsch is a nice pint, but it was certainly not worth four and a half quid a pint. For £4.50, I would expect it to be poured and delivered to the table by a fleet of roller-skating page 3 girls, not spilt in front of me by a fat Deidre Barlow look-a-like.


Seemingly the 'stock' beer in Spain, served almost everywhere, and given when you ask simply for a lager. I seem to remember Dorada being foul when I went to Spain previously, but this time it was thirst-quenchingly perfect. Especially, after a day under the fire in the sky, with your mouth full of chlorine and the taste of someone else's feet/sticking plaster/cockroach, it felt like the Water of the Gods.


€1.50 a pint. For a fucking reason. I imagine this is what battery acid tastes like. Served up in a 'pub' (and I use the term lightly) called the Geordie Pride, if this is what makes you proud to be from Newcastle then you can keep it. Stupid fucking bridge and all.

Too fizzy, but somehow too flat at the same time, and with a cheek-stripping after taste. Genuinely horrific.


We went for tea one night, and asked for the now standard 3 pints of lager and a blue WKD for the culture vulture. Waiter brings back 3 glass boots, with frozen sides containing slightly frozen lager. It was astonishing. Phil, who is definitely not a lager man, gulped his down with such reckless abandon that he left most of it on his T-shirt. You see, if you hold the boot so the toe is facing upwards, once the boot itself is empty, the air rushes into the toe and deposits ice-cold Tenerife lager on you, much to the hilarity of your holiday companions.

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