I went out for a smoke after today's classes as I do everyday, because after a hard, nicto-free day my habit needs fed immediately. As always, after having a cigarette I generally find myself to be quite parched and my thirst in desperate need of quenching. Get that taste I craved so badly out of my mouth again.
I went to my local By The Way on the hunt for a suitable refreshment that would fit my mood and requirements at that particular moment. As I got to the beverage fridge my mouth was sent wild with the many different prospects. Grape Juice ("Nah, stinkin'"), Aloe Vera ("Bit of a suspicous texture, like water and semen"), Mountain Dew ("I want to sleep tonight thank you", Frappe ("I'd rather suck ma granny's pants fir refreshment"), Pepsi ("my usual tipple, but nah"), green tea ("Belongs in a cup, not in a bottle"), Corn juice (Whit?!"), water ("nae chance")...Nothing was quite rubbing me up the right way. I had semi at the thought of Tropicana but Minute Maid...I'm not a French pesant. I needed a full blown hard-on inspiring thirst quencher here, none o' yer pish. "Right cunt, there's no Tropicana, keep looking..."
My eyes were drawn to a bright orange bottle that sent sentiment and recollections rushing through my blood like hepatitis. It was sharp and soft memory of times long past and long in the future. Something I craved, something I needed, something my mouth wanted so badly I'd take it up the arse for mere droplet on my ever longing taste buds. The colour of this slender, feminine shapped bottle reminded me of Irn-Bru.
I knew what I was looking at. I also knew fine and well what I was not looking at. It was not my fair Scottsh mistress in a Korean dress. It was Orange Fanta. Bouffin.
You see, had I been from any other country in the world I probably would have known that this was Orange Fanta immediately, but in Scotland, Orange Fanta is yellow. I don't know why this is, maybe because there's only allowed to be one fluorescent Orange soft drink in my country and more than one will bring about Catholic and Protestant bigotry, "Ho!!! Wheres aww the green drinks then ya dirty Orange bastards?!? Change the colour of Coke and we'll talk!" So when I see a bright Orange drink in a glass paneled beverage holster, my hand rejects any obejections my brain may have (which is never I suppose) and goes straight for the good stuff, Irn-Bru, a bottle of ginger, jeg, liquid smack. Cook that shit up in a spoon and shoot it straight into my arm Renton!
I love her.
But I bought the Fanta anyway. Like a bird buying a football top, "I just bought it cause ah liked the colour" and thought that possibly, maybe, perhaps, I could trick my mouth into thinking it was getting the same thing as my eyes thought they were getting. But no, sadly, it tasted precisely like Orange Fanta has always tasted...fuckin' mingin'.
Anyways, most of you won't know much about this hard drink (if poppers are a soft drug and smack is a hard drug, then this is no soft drink) so I had a wee look on wikipedia and found this little bit of information that truly sums up how the Scots feels about their true national drink.
"When McDonald's restaurants first opened for trading in Glasgow they did not serve Irn-Bru. This was seen as an insult by some Scots, and a campaign to correct this oversight was launched. After many of their restaurants were picketed, McDonald's relented and began to stock Irn-Bru alongside their other soft drinks." - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irn-Bru#Cultural_influence