Fight For Your Rights

As I discovered this morning thanks to that tremendous invention, the Internet, the source of a wondrous array of facts, half-truths and the merely fanciful (not necessarily in that order of magnitude), America is one of only 14 countries worldwide in which it is illegal to buy and consume alcohol under the age of 21. Whatever the pros and cons of this, the law is the law, and deserves to be upheld.

Without revealing too much about myself, it is fair to say that I am in my mid-40s, and although I like to think I don't look my age, I have had independent confirmation from several third parties – Mrs Newbie included – that I could not pass for 20.

I have therefore been irked (yes, irked, no less) for some considerable time that I am required to prove my age whenever I shop at my local Kroger supermarket. A sticker by the cash register, which some similarly senescent person has clearly tried to peel off in their annoyance, declares "If you are under 40, we must ask for ID". Cashiers even have to enter your date of birth in their till in order to authorise any attempted purchases of alcohol.

Time after time, I resolved to resist this blatant overcautiousness on Kroger's part, and time after time I meekly pulled out my driver's licence, only to kick myself afterwards (metaphorically, I hasten to add) for my repeated temerity.

So annoyed was I by this flagrant injustice that I hatched a cunning plan: on a day when my children had wound me up to near breaking point and Mrs Newbie had failed to see my side of the story, I would charge into Kroger, grab some beer and defend my Congress-given right. I would make a fuss, demand to see the manager and win elderly people across America back the prerogative to go into a store armed only with some crumpled dollar bills and declare, "I wish to procure sundry libations" (or whatever the local equivalent thereof may be).

Although all is well in the house of Newbie and the Newblets have for the most part been their darling selves, I resolved this week that the time had finally come. So together with the kids (brought along for defensive purposes only), I drove over to Kroger, picked up a six-pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade, filled up a shopping cart with suitable alibi groceries to cast aside angrily should my demands remain unmet, and headed for the meanest-looking cashier in the store.

Trembling with anticipation and pumped with adrenaline, I thought, "This is my date with Destiny. Today is the day that will change America. Henceforth, baby boomers throughout this great nation will no longer live in fear, but be able to purchase alcoholic beverages unchallenged once more".

With my heart thumping in my throat, I unpacked my cart, brazenly placing the Mike's at the very front, and looked the cashier straight in the eye.

"Do you have a Kroger card?" he asked. And that was it.

A new sticker by the till read: "If you are under 27, please be prepared to show your ID".

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Postscript

Less than a week after writing this - on the first day in living memory when, through a chain of coincidences, I did not have my driver's licence on me - I was "carded " at Kroger in spite of the new sticker, which I pointed to (to no avail). Duly summoned, the store manager said, "I'm sure that'll be OK." And it was.

Sacred Cow IPA

Sacred Cow was undoubtedly named thus in a vain attempt to stave off criticism. With good reason: Sacred Cow, which one clearly inebriated online aficionado describes as "a bold, refreshing, hoppy India Pale Ale with superb roundness and balance" that makes it "uniquely and deliciously drinkable", is by far the worst thing I have ever drunk, and the holder of the dubious title of First Beer I Have Poured Down the Drain.

My advice to anyone considering trying Sacred Cow is: don't. Or rather: come round to my place; you're welcome to have the five I have left.

Wife-Beater

Linguistic differences can be so quaint.

Look at the photo on the left. In Britain, if used at all, the term "wife-beater" would relate to the contents of the gentleman's cup (typically Stella Artois), not because of the effect said beverage has on those who consume it, but the kind of person who drinks this particular brand of beer.

Here in the States, the expression refers to what he's wearing around his torso, though interestingly enough for the same reason.

Let me make one thing clear: In the summer I often sport what we in Britain call a "vest" or a "tank top" (partly because I find it cooler than a T-shirt, partly so you can see my tattoo), and I have in the past drunk the odd can of Stella.

I do not beat my wife (often).