After been told repeatedly by various editors/people in the street to "report on important things" and "why don't you get an actual job" we decided to knuckle down and do some real reporting.
By that we meant we bought some Becks and reviewed the shit out of what is a great smooth beverage. In the hope that Mr Becks will see this humble review/tribute and pay us handsomely for it, we have sent it to everyone in our email address book.
Beginning with a B Becks is often found at the front of any alphabetically arranged beer aisle and easily discovered by anyone who never gets past K. It's green bottle gleams brightly in the middle of lame Belgium beer that you only drink to impress that sexy jazz singer that performs at your local "hip" bar. It's bold label throbbing with promises that you know it can't keep but you're willing to trust it. Much like her in a way.
Gathering up your Becks in your arms and paying with a handful of change you retire to your favourite place to drink. The ice arena's car park.
The lid pops off with a childlike squeal of delight and a tiny bit of precious liquid froths out the top. Resist the urge to lap the alcohol off your fingers and just enjoy the sensation that the fizzing brings. As a reward for your self control your hands will smell of Becks for the foreseeable future.
As the froth dissipates the aroma spills forth assailing your nostrils with tendrils of scent and tingles your taste buds. The smell invades you like an army of Ottomans in Constantinople and begins banging on the walls of your brain to give in and take a swig.
Breathing deeply and preparing yourself for that intoxicating rush you raise the bottle to your parched lips. The first thing that you notice when the beautiful liquid washes onto your tongue is a sensation of wonder. It grows with every pop of ever tiny bubble in your mouth and builds to a crescendo as you swallow (like your mum did last night).
It snakes down your neck like a thousand tiny....snakes fuck it you think of a animal. You begin to feel invigorated and content at the same time, like you could fight a polar bear or you'd be just as happy watching a trio of panda cubs do cutsey things. Then as the Becks settles in your stomach you feel something else something stronger growing inside you. A root, a flower, a sapling, a tree a mother fucking redwood of godlike powers shoots through all of your veins and nerve endings. This feeling culminates with you believing you can do anything. Learn Polish? A doddle. Find Lord Lucan? Easy. Write a convincing review of a beer whilst trashed and try and pass it off as actual journalism to cover up for the fact your drinking in a car park? Absolutely!
As the feeling fills you to the brim your last thought on
the beer is "This is going to be a good night".
It normally isn't.