I was having a drink with this home-brewer at the local pub when the publican called last drinks.
We’d put a few away but needed a roadie to clear the head. This was in the bad old days when bottle shops closed earlier than banks and it was looking pretty bleak.
Jim — well, that’s what I’ll call him in an attempt to keep his guilt anonymous — suggested I go back home and try one of his home-brews.
Now, other blokes had done this in the past and those that had survived the experience described a drink that while alcoholic was so bad not even the most hardened alcoholic could come near more than one. It had the odour of month-old witches’ knickers and a flavour not unlike the slops that you find at the bottom of an abattoir’s wheelie bin after a hot day.
I must’ve been a bit more pithed than I thought because somehow I found myself on the way back to Jim’s house.
His horrible old wife greeted us at the door with a face that would scare Mike Tyson and an order that we take ourselves out to the back shed and not bother her or her equally ugly sister. Fat chance of that.
Anyway, Jim was also pleased to be banished to the shed and so we slunk through the house and made for the backyard.
Out in the shed he opened the fridge like a man opening a treasure chest. I swear the bottles were squirming and seething on the shelves and there appeared to be a foul green gas rising through the corroding tops.
Jim grabbed a bottle and then reached in the drawer for a bottle opener and a gun.
Yes, a gun.
Shit, I thought, he’s gonna kill me.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Jim. ‘This is just to make sure we both have a nice drink.’
I was absolutely petrified as I didn’t really know him that well and I was even more scared when he poured out a huge glass of this bubbling, burping, stenching, farting liquid and told me it was all mine.
‘I, I, I, I might have lost me thirst, mate,’ I said. ‘I think I might’ve copped a poison pizza back at the pub.’
Jim went all strange and quiet. He looked at me, pulled the hammer back on the gun and pointed it at my temple.
‘Drink the beer,’ he said.
Trembling and gagging I raised the glass to my lips and apologised to God for being such a useless specimen, adding that I would never again get drunk, ignore the wife or ogle women if He let me out of this spot.
God is a bastard and I was forced to knock back the home-brew. Knowing not to sip, I threw it all down in one gulp.
I started to shake and sweat and everything spun for a while, but somehow I stayed on my feet and, despite feeling like a rat was decomposing in my stomach, I realised I was going to live.
Jim looked quite pleased about this and seemed to relax.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now it’s your turn to hold the gun while I have a glass.’