Real cider is fermented with dead rats in haunted barns adjoining run-down orchards in the shadow of Glastonbury Tor; it's sold for 20p a pint in pubs like The Riflemans and is so potent you can't even remember drinking it when you finally emerge into nominal consciousness at some point the following day whilst trying to hitch north on the M5 on a slipway somewhere near Bridgwater.

In the words of Mark E. Smith:

I was so sick I couldn't walk or sit;
Since then I've not touched it.

Actually that's one of my all-time favourite Fall songs; essential listening on the Juke Box in the re-Imagined Village pub. Here it is:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CJsD_LzXt0