So there I was last night sat at my desk (aka my breakfast bar, ironing board and general junk table), desperately scrabbling around for something to write about today (Ha. And you all thought these lovingly crafted words of wisdom were cobbled together at the last minute over my morning coffee. Hell no. I saved that less than reccomended approach for my minor works such as my disertation), when the idea grabbed me that a six pack would possibly give me the level of inspiration needed. And so it came to pass that I grabbed a tinny out of the Nectar Nivarna that is the bottom of my fridge and bugger me if I didn't fall over without the aid of a single sip of the old golden throat charmer. My fucking beer can came complete with a customer helpline number.
Now as I am sure you are aware from my previous posts, I am pretty well versed in the mechanics of drinking alcohol. Indeed I was reasonably sure that the whole concept wouldn't need a great deal of explaining to anyone. I mean it's not like we are trying to teach astrophysics to a bushman here is it? Open mouth, tip glass, swallow, repeat for 10 pints then dance like a demented octopus on speed. Hardly rocket science is it? It would appear however that I may have been wrong in my assumptions and that an unnatural (in every sense of the word) number of people may have been using this wholesome beverage as an enema. How else could they have justified the helpline as being cost effective?
Or maybe I have got the whole purpose of this sterling service wrong. Perhaps the idea of the helpline is you phone them after a skin full and they reccomend a local taxi firm to get you home or give you the name of a decent kebab house "and watch their chilli sauce mate, Its scorching". Maybe they put a fellow pisshead on the other end of the line so you can say "I fuggin lovsh you matesh" to each other for an hour or so until one of you finally passes out.
And of course I haven't discounted the possibility that the reason that I don't get it is because it is a woman thing. Like asking for directions way before you hit Lands End when you were really trying to get to Lanzarote. Maybe thats the reason my idea of an exotic drink is a pint of Guinness with a shot of Tia Maria thrown in (try it!! trust me, its the dogs bollocks), while every girl in my aquaintance is returning from the bar with cocktails that look positively radioactive and come adorned with half of Del Monte's annual fruit crop. I reckon that must be it you know. The reason these numbers exist is so the ladies can bend Bacardi's ear for recipe ideas. Jesus this beers good. Gives you a solution to every problem.
I would have loved to have been able to give you a definative answer to this booze based brainteaser and to be fair (in order to save those of you with a life the bother) I did give them a call in the spirit of research. Guess what? Fucking answerphone!! Friday night, When you would have thought the less alcohol aware would be most in need of their services and the bastards had all fucked off out on the piss. Just can't get the staff these days.....