I say, old boy, only this week, I was given a bottle of British cider. Do you know what? It was jolly well made by Carling!
Ok, so that sounded English, more than British. Well, black and white English when chaps spoke like that as the strolled towards their their Spitfires during a damn annoying air-raid, before flying off to bash the Bosch.
I was excited when i received a can of Carling cider, ‘oh a new cider, there must be something quintessentially British about this that, let’s say that foreign muck, Stella cider, doesn’t quite have.’ Then I became dubious, ‘hmm what expertise does a lager manufacturer have to make a cider?’ Then I found it outside a Dagenham nightclub, beating up a Korean beer (see main image), ‘E was arskin for it!’
On investigation, turns out this British cider stems from a North American company (Molson Coors seems to be based in Denver, but plays on a Canadian heritage), probably saw that the Belgian wife-beater brought out its own cider, and thought they’d make something that England football fans with tattoos on their fists, that they did with a compass and a biro when they were 14, might drink cos it’s British.
Ok, so let’s get down to the taste. It’s like a dry Magners. Slightly burnt aftertaste, possibly aiming at an oaked taste. 4.5% so you can’t get chucked out of the trendy bar too soon.
But in a positive light, if it’s going to turn some lager-drinking neanderthals into cider drinkers, then I’m all for that. I mean, when did you last get beaten up by a cider drinker? Drinking cider makes one peaceful and happy. And so, it is on the most dark, desperate edges of the cider world, that this cider acts as a missionary, lighting the way to those who know no better, and welcoming them on the path towards the golden apple press.