The evil that men brew

The big yin: Yang is an absolute
brute of a beer

Brought to you by Rob Orchard

Let's just make one thing perfectly clear: I do not want to drink this beer. Not at all. It's just, well, evil. Yes, a malevolent sibling of an IPA that frankly wants your half of the inheritance.

Preparations haven't gone well today. 'Testing' another homebrew at 5am once I'd got back from the Purple Radio Christmas bash at The Castle wasn't ideal, but at least I got the chance to sleep that off.

Trouble is, I'd stupidly left my rucksack (containing laptop) at the venue, so had to drive to Streatham to reclaim it from the kindly souls who rescued it. Picked about the worst time to head southwestwards as well – Sunday drivers out in their droves didn't do much to salve my creeping hangover and general sense of nausea.

But duly reunited with technology, things began to pick up. A clear drive back and a parking space right outside my flat lifted the mood. Sometimes it's the little things that bring cheer. And so it was with almost genuine enthusiasm that I peeled back the cardboard flap marked 14. 

Then I saw it. Evil Twin Yang. A bloody ridiculous beer that weighs in at 10 per cent ABV. My heart sank. It was about as welcome as an open sore on your eye and I half considered swapping it for something else.

So instead of what I need – lots of water, perhaps some nice food and a good, old fashioned rest – I'm sitting here typing this while drinking something that should justifiably carry a government health warning.

I don't mean to complain, really, but 10 fucking per cent? For heaven's sake, why?

Beer: Evil Twin Yang

Strength: A tear-inducing 10%

Smell: I swear there's a hint of Parma Violets hidden among the overpowering alcoholic fug.

Tasting notes: I don't think I've ever had a beer that I fear will kill me, but this comes close. A mean Doberman Pincer baring its teeth and dribbling angry saliva onto the tarmac. It lunges forward, straight for the throat, pawing, clawing and fastening its considerable jaws around the windpipe till it senses you weaken. You drop to the floor – how can you not? Now it has you at its mercy, thrashing its head from side to side and biting ever deeper into the soft, vulnerable flesh of your neck. As the last flickers of life slowly drain away, you lift the glass to your lips and sip again.

Session factor: Zero.

Arbitrary score: 20,603

Sponsor: Rob Orchard