The Demon Grog

The second week in April 1983 and as it was my thirteenth birthday, metaphorically I had just passed from the world of the child and in to the angst filled years that are teenage. 1

Gone were the days of being easily pleased in the present department. Yes shin guards and boomerangs were most definitely requests of the past. From now on it was going to be paisley pattern shirts, all manner of electronic gadgetry and Brut 33 aftershave. For there is nothing a young chap about town likes more, than to look the part, while twiddling with knobs and smelling like a Chinese knocking shop.2

You must remember to keep in the forefront of your mind that this was 1983, a much more innocent, trusting and naive time. Kajagoogoo had plundered the hit parade a mere two months earlier with the art nouveau and gender confused classic “Too Shy!” With the ringleader of the aforementioned whoopsies, one poodle haired Limahl, leading the line in a never-ending parade of sickeningly frilly shirts and eye makeup.3

Then there was the man of mystery that is David Bowie, rumoured early on, for reasons clearly apparent to all, for being an infamous switch hitter, you know a bit hotel / motel. He seems nowadays to have put that rumour well and truly to rest, having successfully bedded and then married supermodel Iman Abdulmajid. 4

David Bowie then clearly a bit of a weirdo but undoubtedly a top, top shagger.5

Yes even at the cinema there was no escape, as the gaylords favourite Flashdance was showing everywhere. A tale concerning a conniving pikey female steel worker and her dream to be a ballerina. Honest to god, I am not making this stuff up, you couldn’t, and even if you did no one would believe you. 6

You can see by these examples what I am driving at, the music was to say the least dodgy, the films were imported American tat and on the whole, as is sadly still the case today, British society was more easily taken in by style over content.7

My main concern on this day however was not the content of the mass media, but more the content of my birthday presents which now sat before me in the lounge. Top marks to my family as all manner of lucky shirts and aftershave were contained therein. Then I opened a large heavy box given to me by one of my uncles.8

Jackpot! 9

Every young chaps ideal thirteenth birthday present.10

Was it a book, explaining in layman’s terms the mysteries of the female form and their unfathomable thought processes?11

No!12

Was it a pair of boxing gloves for me to wear at bedtime, in the forlorn hope of preserving some vision?13

Again no!14

What this box contained was the Holy Grail for all teenage chaps, namely one, forty pint, homebrew lager kit and all of the necessary paraphernalia to crack on with the alchemy that is brewing beer.15

My mother ever the diplomat, shot my uncle a look that chilled the blood, while still maintaining a happy façade and uttering the words “Well isn’t that nice?”16

Perhaps it was not nice from a parental perspective, however I was by now completely enthralled and I thought to myself. “Once this lot go home, I’ll get stuck in to the old brewing manual, let it ferment all afternoon and with any luck be able to get three sheets to the wind on it by close of play tonight!”17

Alas the best laid plans, as on studying the instruction manual I discovered that this was a far more scientific and protracted process than I had first anticipated. 18

For a kick off all of the beer making receptacles had to be thoroughly sterilized, the ingredients added and the initial fermentation process took around three weeks. Then upon transferring the beer to the bottles, it had to be held at a constant temperature next to the radiator in my bedroom for a further one to six months.19

“Give me strength!” I thought to myself. “I’ll be shaving, have lost my virginity and be getting served in pubs by then!” My uncles present suddenly loosing its immediate appeal.20

Still the scientific process adhered to, the forty pint bottles sat cosseted next to the radiator, covered in an old grey blanket, purloined from the airing cupboard to act as insulation. 21

Wind the clock forward eight or so months and it is the arse end of December 1983. Being a bit more specific, Boxing Day and my chum Oss was round early that evening for a game of darts.22

I think you may be able to sense where this one is headed?23

I snuck in to the kitchen under the pretence that we were in need of some crisps and secreted in my hip pocket a bottle opener. Bedroom door closed, stereo turned up slightly, to conceal the soon to be heard sound of beer bottles being cracked open and we got stuck in.24

The initial taste was far from pleasant, but not the stomach emptying slurry I had feared. The lager itself was quite cloudy and did leave a very unpleasant yeasty aftertaste especially when belching.25

Three bottles each down and I was feeling decidedly the worse for wear, with the room suddenly becoming very hot and the dartboard did not seem to want to stay still. 26

As for my old chum Oss? 27

Well let’s just say I was fresh as a daisy in comparison. I do know however, that my mother finds the part where he was projectile vomiting while hanging bodily over the garden wall particularly memorable.28

Not only was I in trouble with my mother but also with Oss’s as well, as both parents tore into us lecturing us about the perils of the demon grog.29

That was by no means the worst of it; as for the next few days I took what can only be described as a long walk through Shit City. My arse felt like it was hanging in tatters and the brown laser beams only subsided as the clock struck midnight to herald in 1984.30

Once again and quite literally arses!31