I woke up this morning, smiled with the rising sun.
And felt an instant, paralysing, choking craving for a beer. A nice cold brew, enjoyed slowly in front of a TV showing either rugby or anything with Jessica Alba in it.
So I told Her, and she smiles at me, and I ask her if that makes me an alcoholic, and she mumbles something incoherent in reply. Probably “Oh hells yeah, motherfecker.”
Really though, I haven’t been drinking much beer for the last few months, for two reasons. Firstly, my beer baby has been growing, and this is one of the measures to try and control the paunch. My choice, before you ask.
Secondly, I’m pretty annoyed with beer pricing in Zimbabwe. If a Miller costs $1,20 in the shops, I don’t want any part of it. And with the fecking Keg raising the prices ($2,50 really?) and Symphony being Symphony ($3,00) I generally tend to stray … towards whisky.
Yes, the Famous and Red Label and Grant’s are singing my song, with either a Schweppes or (God forbid) Chele tonic water on the side.
But the way I’m feeling now, struggling against deadline and with tummy grumbling about lunch, I would absolutely murder an ice cold Zambezi Premium Export Lager.
Well, maybe not today’s stomach-churning diarrhoea-inducing hangoverrific Zambezi, but pre-Delta-collapse Zambezi, that smooth sweet flow, that light crisp after-taste … that cheap price.
Am I an alcoholic? Not yet. Do I have appreciate good alcohol?
Hells yeah, motherfecker.