We've all supped bad beer in our time I know, but the very worst thing ever to cross my lips was a pint of scrumpy in a pub in Dudley called the Gipsies Tent in 1973. The cider was incredibly cloudy, like the residual water of a two-week underpant wash mixed with urine, was almost lukewarm, as flat as a witch's tit and had what I can only describe as a thin layer of scum floating on top. The mates who took me in to try it had eulogised about it, possibly from a much earlier visit, but even they had to admit that it was the vomit of Satan. I didn't drink mine after the first sip.
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