An excess of Essex glamour-puss gold, clear glass, barely legible tedious guff draws the eye in the same way a puddle of vomit outside your front door does.
With a great deal of squinting I deciphered the script on the front label: some turgid prose along the lines of “a horse is classed as a thouroughbred if its father is blah blah blah, its mother is blah blah blah.”
I turned the bottle around. The back label carries exactly the same text with the addition of “Thoroughbred is brewed from the choicest Marris Otter barley and Fuggles and Goldings hops.” Blimey, how can you resist?
Sure it doesn’t have alliteration, Carry On humour, scantily-clad ladies or Dungeons and Dragons, but, by crikey, it’s awful.