Wild Moose is the greatest New Zealand/Canada collaboration since Gallipoli.
Much like the mythical beast of Fiordland for which it’s named, our country is resigned to its existence and must drink in its honour. That moose is never going to turn up. You’d have an easier time finding Noah’s Arc in Central Otago, or so I’m told. These seem to have faded from the forefront of RTD supremacy, but they were all the rage when I was in school and you can still find a box kicking around somewhere.
Wild Moose comes in 4% bottles or 7% cans, which is like having the choice between a good night's sleep or pissing in your family's shoe cupboard. This is one of the few circumstances where I would edge out the higher percent brew for the lower. The bottles are exactly how this should be drunk. With a somewhat respectable flavour and ease of consumption, you’re likely going to plough through a box without even realising it. For the cans, I’m unsure what deal was made to gain that extra 3% of alcohol, but I am damn sure whoever signed off on its production has the devil inside them. “I don’t care how you do it, just get it done!” they shout as they molest each and every ham being handed out as a Christmas bonus.
The few times I’ve been close to (and likely was) poisoned by alcohol have been with Wild Moose cans. It is the reason I cannot stomach dry drinks to this day. Even thinking of the wretched stuff is conjuring an ancient nausea from my gut. The slurry of whiskey, ginger ale, and Dominos pizza barraging my uvula as they are ejected from the depths of my churning innards is as close to torture tactics I’ve experienced. If it’s a choice between Wild Moose and waterboarding, you’re likely in Guantanamo Bay.
There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a 16-year-old in the depths of a Wild Moose binge. I recall asking my older sister to get me some bottles for that night. Knowing I could handle the alcohol without coming home absolutely fucked, she brought me a box of cans. Unbeknownst to my 16-year-old self, I was about to endeavour upon an illustrious career of alcohol-induced brain damage. I don’t remember much of that night, but I do remember how it ended: face down in my mother’s mint bush. Yep, right in the mint bush of the garden, which I had brilliantly used to stifle the sounds of my incessant vomiting. With no end to the vom-athon in sight, it was easier to build a nest of shrubs in which I could lay cockheaded as I pleased. Only to get up in four hours to play some of the drunkest (and then hungover-est) volleyball anyone had ever played at the Howick recreation centre.
While the initial story is quite tame, it bears the fruit of considerable guilt. I thought I had gotten off scot-free, but the following weekend on a scorching Summer's day, the air turned sour with the scent of bile and mint. Mother was in the vegetable garden. She was weeding the mint bush, and found herself completely engulfed in a cloud of festering pizza and whiskey, “I think the neighbour's cat has been vomiting in my vege garden!” Yeah Mum, I’m sure it was.
Tasting notes: Ginger and stomach acid.
Chugability: 4/10. Sickly sweet.
Hangover depression level: 10/10. Sorry Mum, and sorry to the bathroom floor of Macca’s on Fatty Lane.
Overall: 3/10. No moose, but definitely an ass.