I received a letter from an old friend. It felt like something I should post:
I’m hoping you can help me. I’m worried my parents don’t love me anymore.
It started when they sent me away to boarding school at Meantime. Lost in a foreign land of cockney accents and jellied eels, they promised I’d be made here for the export market only, but people are drinking me in the UK and they’re asking questions. They say I’m slowly losing my punk spirit, becoming more Meantime by the day! My noble hop character and biscuity malt base seem to be vanishing, replaced by indifferent aromatics and a cut-green-apple flavour so similar to London Lager that it’s difficult to defend myself.
Things move so quickly at home and Christmas was as busy as ever. The new bar was opened in Camden and everything went to plan. Everything, except my invite to the party. They were all there, the parents, my brothers - Punk IPA and Hardcore, the cousins - Paradox and Tokyo*, even friends of the family - the foreign imports. Not me though, no space for me on the draught lineup. Overlooked again.
I feel like they just want me out of the way. They hide me in an Equity for Punks blanket, my bottle label says nothing about me anymore, nothing about the way I taste or the ingredients that make me, just generic blurb about shares and international importers. Why me!?
So what do you think? Am I overreacting?
I’m just worried. I used to be their pride and joy. I used to be a statement. You could compare me to mass-produced lager and I’d stand head and shoulders above, encapsulating the Brewdog ethic and mission statement in every mouthful. Now I just feel neglected, like I’m no longer part of the family; I don’t feel like I’m the type of beer that Brewdog should be associated with.