Monday 15 December 2014

Ben McCormick is unwell

Wax factor: for no other reason other
 than it has a candle on the bottle
Brought to you by Simon Hogg

For the first time in my life, I was taken ill on a train this morning. Just outside London Bridge, I began to feel distinctly unwell. In a Jeffrey Bernard way.

All was fine until the train lurched to a halt in sight of Tower Bridge Road. Perhaps it was the sudden stop that provoked it, but I began to feel extremely warm, then cold, then sweaty, then faint, then incredibly nauseous. At one point, I thought I was going to be physically sick.

It was all I could do to remain standing. I had visions of clutching my chest and falling helplessly to the floor. But instead of just being concerned for my own welfare, uppermost in my mind was the overwhelming sense of shame and embarrassment that would follow were I to succumb. A remarkably stupidly British thing to think, but what can I say? It felt real.

Luckily, I just about managed to hold it together. The train pulled in to platform nine and, once I felt the mild chill in the air on my head, I regained a bit of composure and shuffled my way along the platform with my fellow slow-moving, sloth-like commuters.

And it got me thinking. I’m approaching the age when I really ought to pay attention to warning signs such as this. OK, I’m at that age. And the kind of lifestyle I’ve been living for the past few months is just not sustainable any more. Assuming it ever was.

Time to slow down. Take more care. Heed my mother’s advice. I’ll ensure I do that as soon as this ruddy calendar’s finished. Right now, following an early evening of yet more Christmas drinks at the Draft House on Charlotte Street, I’ve a bottle of Omnipollo to drink.

Beer: Omnipollo somethingorotherwithacandleonthefront
Strength: A perfectly reasonable 5.6%
Smell: An awful lot of bubblegum and cheap detergent.
Tasting notes: OK, so I'll declare my disinterest: a couple of client entertainment drinks followed by a visit to an old haunt has rendered my tastebuds pretty irrelevant. Throw in a peanut butter sandwich and, frankly, I'm amazed I can taste anything at all. Yet this is a real curve-ball of a beer. It makes me believe I don't really like it, but has a distinctive charm all the same. It's like someone you fancy for no apparent reason other than they just have something you can't quite grasp. There are no seemingly redeeming features, yet oddly enough, you're drawn in almost despite yourself. The worst kind of allure; inexplicable yet utterly enchanting.
Session factor: Can I think about this and get back to you?
Arbitrary score: 51,014

Sponsor: Simon Hogg

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