Drunk again

Tonight we went to a restaurant in Tanjong Pagar that served lots of different beer and cider. There was one common theme: it was all far too strong.

I had a bottle of Swedish wild berry pear cider. It was bright pink and arrived with a champagne glass, as if they had tried to find the most girly receptacle for my girly drink that they could think of. Unfortunately, despite tasting like fruit juice, it was the same strength as Stella Artois, the beverage of choice of spousal abusers up and down England, and I was drinking on an empty stomach. Then again, I was in a right huff, after spending too long at work, so perhaps it was a good idea to get drunk.

Perhaps because it tasted of fruit, rather than rage and disappointment, I didn't feel any need to beat my wife. It's strange that while the Scandinavians used to be feared raiders of Northern Europe, Swedish drinks make you mellow, whereas Belgian drinks get you ready to kick off, when they've only ever spent time being invaded by the Germans. (Although that would probably get on your nerves after a while.)

Oh, unless you live in the Congo, in which case the arrival of Belgians didn't mean extra consignments of lace and chocolates, it meant slavery and genocide. I'm glad I stuck to the Swedish booze now, rather than going on the 'Beater.

Although it's unfair to blame all Belgians for that. I've been reading King Leopold's Ghost, and somebody told me I hate all Belgians. Well, I don't hate *all* of them. Yet. That King Leopold was a rum one though, and no mistake.

Hmm. Rum.

After the cider I had a pint of mango-flavoured beer, and then couldn't feel my own elbows, so I cut my losses and went home. Alhough can you ever feel your elbows? Should I wait until I sober up to find out?