Scrumpy is an arsehole of a drink. It’s the fake friend who pretends to be your mate, and then talks shit about you to all of your friends and family (I’m talking about you, Steve). It’s labelled sweet, but it’s as sour as my ex that one time I took her to Macca’s on date night.
You get Scrumpy in a few different flavours but most people go for apple or raspberry. Both are equally shit. It’s like fizzy pop that’s been spiked. It’s a real fucking menace to society. You pick them up for around eight dollars, which is cheap, but is it really worth it? I walked out from the warmth of Gardens New World into the cold, cold, Dunedin night. I took a swig, hoping it would warm my cold, dead heart. How wrong I was.
I would like to say that this drink dances on the tongue, that the bubbles pop lovingly across the tastebuds. I would like to say it was really pleasant, fruity, and went down nicely without a acidic sensation like deepthroating Satan’s dick. I would like to say that.
Instead, it’s like funnelling someone else’s bile. The more you have, the more you want to throw up. Or punch a phone box. Or punch a kitten. Or your nan. This drink just makes me angry. My experience with apples has always been pleasant, but this fucker is as rotten as the stray fruit at the back of the flat fridge. It hurts. It’s like someone acid hatefucking my face.
It is a really unpleasant experience, but for eight dollars and a quick swig you’ve already committed, like going down to give somebody a rimjob with the lights off, only to find out they haven’t wiped. Lastly, it’s going to leave your night in a flaming wreck. Scrumpy will drag you away from your mates, and flirt with you in the corner of the room (just like Stacey from 10 Bar, hit me up if you’re reading this). Scrumpy will then proceed to knee you in the crotch, take your wallet, and leave you to cry about that final you have put off doing and now it’s due in twenty-two hours. Worth it? You decide.
Taste Rating: 4/10
Froth Level: 3/10
Tasting notes: a burning orchard, regret, déjà vu, big savings.
Pairs well with: your flatmate spewing on your good town outfit as you put them to bed, Steve talking shit about the whole flat, carbon monoxide poisoning.