As I took my first sip, I instantly felt my shorts recede to full King Gee stubby proportions. The light golden lager washed around in my mouth and had tasting notes reminiscent of stale human piss. If you were partial to human piss.
As the piss danced around my palate I detected notes of 17.5% interest rates and a distinctive watery taste that could only be likened to being fresh out of the garden hose on a warm summer’s day. Not an iPad in sight.
Having wet the whistle, it was now time to drive the flavour home. In a good, Australian made Kingswood, no power steering, no seatbelt, steers like a goddamn tank, drives better drunk, full leaded petrol. Not some woke electricity mobile that the Swanny had me fixating on with the anger of 1000 bus drivers.
After guzzling the first middy, it was time to commit to another and never touch another beer again. The understated effervescence tickled my fancy like working the same cunnova job for the entirety of my life. Not because I liked it but because that’s what real cobbers did. Not like millennials who think they deserve “work life balance”.
Out of nowhere, the malty tones swirled nostalgically through my mind and I was transported back to an age where you smoked heavily inside. Ash tray on the bar. Not a vape in sight. Was this heaven?
10 middies down, I noticed the change from my pocket had migrated to the bar in front of me. I had an irresistible urge for grey boiled meats and unseasoned vegetables. I could almost taste the apricot chicken with every swill. No beer pairs better with Depression era grub than Swan Gold.
By the 17th middie, I began to feel warmed by intergenerational trauma that made me want to never tell any future grandkids I loved them. Instead, I continued drinking until the street lights came on.
The verdict? It was Meekatharra in a glass. It was never wearing sunscreen. It was men never crying unless they won a club premiership. It was Burgo in his prime. It was wetting yourself on a stumble home and not caring because you wouldn’t remember it anyway. Your pants just smelled like Swan Gold anyway.
8 old mates out of 10.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
