Newsflash⚡ directly copies the world’s top headlines and imagines the stories behind them.
This story takes a look at humanity’s favourite fizzy drink, set in an Edinburgh pub, some forty or fifty years from now.
You certainly aren’t the looker you used to be, although, you do suit the bald head. You’ve still got the eyebrows for it. And really, it’s only a couple of years since you turned fifty. Someone will think you’re forty-something. Why are you thinking about your age? What’s wrong with your age? What’s wrong with this whole falling-apart business? Nothing! Nothing, surely. You haven’t been smiling, you notice, but you break one out as you dry your hands at the sink. Your reflection smiles back. It doesn’t look a day over twenty-six.
You make your way back out to the bar, pushing open a door that gets a bit stuck halfway, so you have to give it another good push before you can squeeze through. The room’s full - it’s always been full here - but you and the regulars are well installed at your usual table, the one where they put the high-backed chair that looks a bit like a throne, for Roddy, or, if you know the pub, for “The Vicar.” You make your way through the crowds of people and bubbling conversations as you squeeze into your seat.
“… but that’s not how anyone there says it, is it? No, no, it’s a much more gutteral sound, you’ve got to really get it back in the throat…”
“The be’arduzz!”
You give a laugh - Johnny’s always been good at the accents.
“Fucking hell Johnny,” you say, surprised at what he can do to his vocal chords. He’s already reached for his pint and is sipping it. The glass is still almost full. He puts it back down next to his glass of water. “What’s this here?”
“Jus talkin’ boot where ta’ take the bikes,” says Iain, “shame you’s on’ie got tha car…” He gives you a pitiful look, straight at you. Iain’s always been a bit of a prick. There’s a brief silence, which The Vicar breaks.
“Di’ya noe, s’bin a while since a’ bin ‘doon the way… is that bonny lass still werkin’ the Black Cat?” Roddy’s always been a bit of a perv.
You sit at the table. The five of you on a regular, Wednesday evening. Been like this for eons. Nice to have five; means you can say nothing. Nice to say nothing; means you can look around a bit. Leaning back in your chair, hand around your beer, it’s nice. The bar looks the same as it’s always looked. The red ceiling with the subtle, tipsy pattern, antique posters and maps about Scotland as it was a hundred years ago, a few mirrors and the wooden bar itself, chipped away by all those eager hands and bottle-bottoms. It’s a good room, you think, although you feel something deeper for this place. It’s a really good room, let’s say. A room that’s poured, no doubt, millions of pints. A good place to sit, a good place to drink. On that thought, you gulp down the final dregs of your beer and stand up.
“Alright, I’m going up, who wants one?” You stand and take the orders. It’s your round, after all.
“Hardly touched mine,” says Johnny. “I’m alright for now.”
“Guiness,” says Alex. You lean forward and take his glass. “Oh, cheers pal.”
“Anything bottled please mate,” says Davie.
“Whatever this was,” says The Vicar, holding up a nearly-empty pint of stout, “was nae bad.”
Iain makes a humming sound, just loud enough for everyone to hear, then says:
“I’ll try a pint o’ tha Stewart’s this time.” He grimaces a bit and leans forward to hand you his glass.
You go to the bar and exchange the usual banter with Murray, the new lad who’s studying, ah, what-d’ya-ma-call-it… ah, something to do with languages, anyway. You order the drinks. You remember ordering drinks here decades ago. Those were the days. The first few years of coming here are still strong in your memory - those taps, they used to be pure magic. Liquid gold. Some of the best pours you’d ever seen in your life. You thank Murray and make your way back over to the table, teetering a bit.
You lower the drinks, hand them around.
“Moore pish!” exclaims Johnny, who still hasn’t finished his drink.
“Och, is nae tha bad,” counters Alex, and the two start laughing, although a little nervously. You hand Iain his pint of Stewart’s. He grimaces again as he takes it.
“No thank you then eh, ya wee bastard?” you joke at him as he takes his first sip. He holds it up to the stained lamp hanging above the table. “Oh, come on, what’s wrong with it the now?”
Everyone turns to look at him as he wipes his upper lip and continues to stare at his beer. “Aye…” he says, a trace of sadness in his voice. “It’s a'right…” he trails off.
“… but it’s certainly not tha looker it used t'a be.”
read the original story (BBC News):
Climate change could make beer taste worse - BBC News
The views expressed in this publication do not reflect the views of the author. The stories themselves are based on imagined events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is fictitious and should not be taken as representative.
Did you model this on a favourite watering hole?