What your choice of drink says about you
Mine’s a blue VK
First you got Camilla to braid your hair, then you started listening to dancehall because you thought minimal house was too 2014. Now you’re angling for the last bastion of Caribbean cultural appropriation by pretending that drinking warm Red Stripe in Notting Hill somehow makes you a soca queen. It doesn’t.
Vodka lime soda
Get all the gals together and all order a vodka soda and fresh lime (never cordial). You sip on your “refreshing summer drink” while lecturing everyone else on the dangers of sugar and how nice it is to be hydrated while drinking at the same time. You think you’re a cut above everyone else, but face it, you’re the most boring person at the party.
Gin and tonic
Constantly drinking above your age bracket, I bet you have a “Keep Calm and Have a Gin” poster, iPhone case and fridge magnet. “Gin comes infused with elderflower, mint, blueberries, ginger these days,” you tell us over and over again. “It’s also got like zero calories.” But since when was alcohol supposed to be healthy? You’re only nineteen and have somehow become really middle-aged.
Reserved for those who haven’t outgrown their market town roots. Is White Zinfandel really a region in California? I’m pretty sure it’s a marketing ploy by Echo Falls to trick you into thinking you like the taste of wine. Grapes aren’t even pink. You’re going to drink it through a straw, aren’t you? It makes it easier to put your other hand in the air. After all, this is a big one with the girls.
Ah, nice glass of white. I’d just drink one of these every night if it was acceptable, wouldn’t you hun? Unfortunately, your sophistication fell by the wayside after that second bottle of Tesco’s own brand Pinot Grigio, which is always on offer by the way. It looks a bit like piss, and tastes like it too. Yet you’ll soldier on for three long years, because you just love a nice glass of white.
Unless your fillet steak’s on its way, this is not the time for a chateauneuf du pape. Tired, lip stained, red cheeked and a bit slutty are the best things that can happen on a bottle of red.
Shine on you crazy diamond. No one really likes champagne anyway and Bullingdon is no longer sexy. Prosecco tastes better and costs less. And you have the confidence and bravado to pull it off.
You’re a Tory.
Vodka red bull
VodBulls! VodBulls! VodBulls! There’s something mystifying about mixing a stimulant and depressant together in a cup and pouring the resulting concoction down your throat. What will happen? Where will the night take us? I don’t know, but it’s not doing your heart any favours.
You can take the boy out of Essex, but you can’t take the Essex out of the boy. You’re either drinking this in a play park in Dagenham or in an Oceana in Market Harborough. You think that Maga was a cultural experience and you probably play left back in a Sunday League team, buy Nuts magazine and spend your week nights wanking and eating pringles. Either that, or you go to Exeter University, where other drinks haven’t quite made it yet.
You’re really really really proud of the 1/16th of you that is Irish and boy have we heard all about it. You grew up in Surrey but apparently your heart “belongs to Dublin”. You pretend to remember the riverdance your parents forced you to learn when you were 10, but in reality every time you choke down the creamy black tar, you die a little bit inside.
They’ve got loads of flavours now you know. Passionfruit? Strawberry and lime? Kumquat and coriander? Where will it all end? On you mate Steph’s Kitchen floor, alongside the bang average Pizza Express you and the girls went for to celebrate the fact you’re just such good mates. You don’t really like alcohol but fruity cider does the job.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Was anybody else a little surprised and upset when they found out Stella is Belgian? I’d been drinking it for years when it suddenly hit me: this chippily aggressive liquid was the product of a country almost French in its capacity for surrender and lack of martial prowess. But I kept drinking anyway. Because if you drink it you’ll know what I know, despite it’s inexplicable Belgianess, despite it’s bewildering sponsorship of Wimbledon (could two brands be more poorly suited for each other), Stella is a glorious thing drunk by glorious drinkers: primitive, furious, unhinged.
Primarily defined by your complete absence of taste, everything you own was bought in a multi-buy offer. From your two for £30 Topshop jeans to your buy one get one half price polo shirt, you’ve never been satisfied by only having one of something. The result is a style best defined as repetitive, glacial at adapting to new trends or ideas. It’s why you’re still listening to Foo Fighters when half the planet doesn’t even remember Nirvana, or why you think cinema peaked with Pulp Fiction. As a result, your commitment to three Jägers for a tenner is unwavering and terrifying. Like a cult you try and force it on everyone else you know. Sure, they bought you a pint when it was their round, and nobody’s drifted away from lager all evening, but it’s 11.20pm and someone needs to step the fuck up. That’s why you’re ordering nine bombs for the (three) boys, ignoring their looks of disgust, before desperately heading to the nearest underground dive to try and charm a “lady” (you don’t call them women). The night’s not going to be successful, but don’t worry: the best thing about two for £5 microwave dinners is you can put one in the freezer.
This isn’t a wood panelled lodge in the Scottish highlands, and I am not your Laird Grandfather. Take off the tweed jacket – it’s 35 degrees outside – and lose the red wine coloured chinos. Your vintage bottle sits on your mantlepiece with a model of the Mary Rose, a picture of the Queen and a locket of your childhood sweetheart’s hair. Drop the act, you broke up with them four years ago.
The only thing worse than a prissy blonde from Surrey yelling “Woo Tequila!” on the first night of Freshers’ Week, is the show off rugby boy who dares you to a Tequila suicide. Snorting salt and squeezing lime in the eye isn’t clever or funny. No one has ever had a good experience with the South American poison, so stop trying so hard and take it down a notch. There’s nothing wrong with Corky’s.
“BUCA TROOPER” they shout, as you stand next to them at the bar politely declining the syrupy, alcoholic liquid you know this person is about to force upon you.
Oooo look at you, Bertie Big Bollocks. You’ve just spent £80 on a bottle at a club where everyone else is drinking VKs. Everyone’s jealous now because you’ve got a sticky table at the back of Oceana and two pitchers of flat Diet Pepsi, but they all know that when you get home you’re actually dead inside.
Double Vodka Cranberry
“Come on boys, let’s get to the bar and sink a few more DVC’s.” A few more what? A few more eh? DVC’s for those in the know, are Double Vodka Cranberries. Double. Vodka. Cranberries. Remember the name, remember the acronym: the DVC isn’t a drink, it’s a stage in your life. Post redbull voddies, post jagers – you’re bored of those, in fact, you’re sick of those and you’ve decided to move on to something that doesn’t remind you of David Guetta and your mate getting bottled outside that club in Tenerife. Cranberry, with it’s ameliorating, numbing taste, almost fools you into thinking you’re not wasted – but you are wasted (thank God) and thanks to the all the DVCs you’ve had you’ll keep making a fool of yourself well into the night.
Glenn’s and squash
It’s you. You’re the one shouting “on the lash” far too often and yelling “cabs are here” like you’re in Jersey Shore. The next day is spent watching Entourage episodes on repeat. The only thing stopping you from going out is your mum’s impending weekly arrival to deliver your clean washing on Sunday morning. Never too far from a Chicago Town pizza, once uni is over you’ll be back under your dear parent’s roof and in a dead end job before too long.
“Can we go to The Three Wheatsheaves before we head out boys? I know it’s full of old people and they play Coronation Street on the TV instead of the football, but they serve Doom Bar.” The sort who prefers a meal to a nightclub and plays indoor cricket in the middle of winter, don’t expect them to swing their shirt round their head unless it’s an Engineering social gone too far.
Oh, you watched The Big Lebowski this weekend?
It’s the second week of uni. Some guys a lot bigger than you forced you to come to the Football Club’s welcome social. The bowl is lukewarm and bright pink, the pungent aroma of cheap squash and spirits fills your nostrils and takes you back to a time when park drinking and fingering were the way you spent your weekends. You gingerly take a cup and fill it up with the sticky nectar with an alcohol percentage anywhere between 5-50 and then you remember nothing.
Disaronno and coke
“Seriously guys, try it, it doesn’t even taste like booze. Go on, trust me. It’s amazing, you can drink loads and not even notice the alcohol.” In short, anyone this determined to avoid the pain which comes with the pleasure is a freeloader and your father wouldn’t want you associating with them. Steer clear.
You forget your name. When the policeman found you trapped inside a drain, naked, scared and alone, you forget your name. When he tried to get the handcuffs through the grate between you, he couldn’t lock them onto your wrists because you were shaking uncontrollably. All while nuzzling yourself into the lifeless armpit of the Drifter you headbutted to death last night. “The Bucky made me do it, the Bucky made me do it.”