Guinness: You're Losing Me
You’re losing me, Guinness.
Once upon a time, you and I used to be really together. You used to be a dependable beer that I could count on for a challenge to my appetite. We’d spend lazy afternoons, with newspapers, or books, or the sport. You used to be there for me, top to bottom, a delicious fistful of sour-bitter stout. When I used to come back from the bar with a single pint, I remember I could easily spend an age just enjoying the trip from a creamy head to the bottom of the glass.
When I was 16, and you and I would show up together to parties, we’d have a great time together, and you made an honest beer drinker out of me. You were a great and loyal friend over how many? I can’t count how many long nights of young going-out.
I’ve got a keyring from the Trades Hall Inn in Goulburn Street from the days when you and I did politics. My name was on the 100 pints club board, along with quite a few stoush.net readers, and a five-timer called Maurice. We used to have such a good thing going.
So what went wrong? Can’t you see what you’re doing?
Where’s the taste anymore? Where’s the bitterness, the solidity, or, let’s face it, the alcoholic effect? Since when are you putting so little effort in? I think you’ve been phoning it in for a while, and it’s just only now that I’ve separated the thin excuse for a beer that you are now from the chunky meal you used to be. It’s not you… no, actually, it’s you.
I’ll be honest… I’ve been drinking other stouts. Look, let’s just be adult about it. I’m sure you’ll find other drinkers.
Look, they’re just putting down their alco-pops now.
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