Choose an off licence. Choose a brewery. Choose a glass. Choose a beer. Choose a fecking big beer. Choose cans, bottles, kegs, and casks. Choose Real Ale, choose Craft, choose Real Craft and life membership. Choose fined, choose unfined. Choose a public house. Choose a working mens club. Choose a New York loft style drinkery. Choose bar snacks and matching beverage. Choose a three piece suite by a plasma screen or a wobbly chair with worn fabric by the fire. Choose homebrewing and wondering who the feck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on your couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, syphoning junk to your mouth from two cans mounted in a ‘beer’ hat. Choose a train beer to take away with you at the end of it all, investing your last pounds on an American import, nothing more than the evening deserves, share it with others or drink it yourself. Choose your future. Choose cooking lager . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose cooking lager: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got taste buds?