Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking good can.

Super Kestrel. Scottish, 9%.

In the words of Trainspotting's Begbie... "Fuck". If the strength doesn't worry you, then the can alone will. It stands over me, imposing, glistening with condensation and in all-black with gold trim. I half expect it to headbutt me as soon as I speak to reveal my southern accent. It opens with a great fizz to it, like a cartoon, and doesn't come across too gassy. No offensive aftertaste but Christ does it burn a when you take a breath - like you've been gargling with Olbas Oil. The can is littered with words such as "holy", "devine" and even "heavenly"; this must be because I can feel my very soul exiting my body with every slurp. With the can finished, I feel like I'm watching myself in the third person, having had a can of Stella with a few whiskey chasers. Would I drink again? You know what, worringly I probably would. 6/10.