There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest

John Birmingham has a post about how the economics of home brewing are well and truly rooted.  He’s right.  Personally I have never trusted any home brew.

I recall little of my own first experience of home brew but I do recall the next day, waking, whimpering and clinging to the carpet, ripping my eyelids open and having a vicious little pixie with a pick-axe rise up and smite me between the eyes, and go on smiting for the next two days.

God help me, I was only 17.

A few years later, at uni,  a bloke I knew produced some lovely homebrew at a party:  tasted like a particularly light and refreshing cider. It slipped down easy and was about 12% proof. To the unititiated, it said ‘drink lots of me, I’m easy’.

To wiser heads, it screamed BEWARE.  I had half a glass and kept steady while the rest of the room degenerated into mayhem, wreckage, and debauchery.

The bloke who made the home brew now heads up one of the country’s more prominent and successful  fund managers.  Read into this what you will.

The spiritual home of the Home Brew kit is of course the all male flat, something which Mr Birmingham alludes to….there is a reference back to his meisterwerk, ‘He Died With A Felafel In His Hand’, where he notes all male flats tend to bring out The Beast.

I am still friends with the blokes I knew in my last all-male flat.  Wonderful chaps, who have gone on to  become sober and upright….well, upright-ish… citizens and family men.

But the day a couple of them decided to make home brew in the new wheelie bin the council had thoughtfully provided was the day I decided to move out.  I could see where this was heading.

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