When I was but a wee bern (Scottish for child for any culture vultures out there), my diet consisted of two things: excessive amounts of pasta-pesto, accompanied by excessive amounts of apple juice. Henceforth, my consumption of this particular apple-based beverage returned me to a simpler, purer time.
The addition of alcohol to this drink – since, it is a cider after all – brought a more adult edge to what would otherwise be, a nostalgic journey to my past. Truth be told, these days, my juice of choice would definitely be OJ (orange juice), however, apple juice still stands as an occasional luxury. The important word being “occasional”, as apple juice is so incredibly sweet and sickly, meaning that it can be difficult to consume a lot in one go. This will be important later.
After purchasing the apple Rekorderlig (with a 10% discount mind you #notbragging) I took a few sips and immediately stated out loud to my fellow Fringe-goers that this drink is a five star drink. No doubt about it. Five stars – boom. However, as the evening progressed, it appeared that my luck would change.
The initial taste of an apple cider is rather luxurious: it’s so gosh-darned sugary and sweet that it fucking tricks you into thinking it’s just as pure and innocent as any other juice based beverage. I sipped on this drink continuously throughout the splendid Shambles performance, and began to grow tired of it’s relentlessly sweet flavour. Bear in mind that I’m a simple man who enjoys a nice old fashioned pint of lager every now and again. I’ve grown accustomed to sipping on beer and now enjoy the bitter taste. Perhaps this is why this fucking sweet apple Rekorderlig is such a drag to drink. The rating quickly plummets to a devastating three and a half stars. Those Recordinglick fuckers.
This seemingly innocent drink quickly becomes tiresome and downright unpleasant on the bus ride home from Edinburgh, as I begin to feel nauseous and bloated. The worst part is: I’m not even drunk. Not even slightly. This drink has not affected my perception or bodily sensation in any way, and it may sound pretentious to speak of drunkenness in this way, but hey, I’m a pretentious guy who likes to over analyse alcohol. Sue me. Fuckers.
Walking home from the bus stop, this drink is swiftly falling to a one star as I become paranoid that I’m going to chunder it all out again at any moment. I even warn my fellow Fringe-goers that this event is perfectly likely. They pay no heed. Fuckers.
I get home. I drink some water. I start to feel a bit better, but I am still bitter (no pun intended) that I achieved no state of drunkenness. My fond childhood memories of this fruit in drink form have been dashed against the fucking wall. The past is dead.
Rekorderlig ruined my childhood. Fuckers.