Hey, I got cut off! Here's my post again in its entirety.

Can opener? Luxury! We had to go into my mate's dad's garage to find a bloody screwdriver to bash a hole (two holes were better) into the tin. Those seven-pint party cans were a miracle of nature. When you eventually managed to make a hole in it you got sprayed with "beer" (note the quotes), it was that lively. But pour some into a glass (or teacup if you were desperate) and it was immediately as flat as a w*tch's t*t. Amazing.

Another thing about Red Barrel (and its equally-repugnant partners-in-crime such as Watney's Special and Tartan Keg) was that you could drink eight pints and feel horribly bloated yet peculiarly unpissed. Very odd.

But who cares. I associate such memories with those necking sessions with slightly dodgy but suitably randy girls from the secondary mod in your mate's bedroom...it was only the fact that the last bus home from Bolton was at half ten that got in the way of, er, something possibly capable of long-term damage. Happy days, and what's a spot of NSU between friends!