Linda Kennedy
There is a drink that raises questions. It’s a raspberry Sourpuss. I’d like this to be extended into a complete collection – others in the range could be the Strawberry Battleaxe. The Plum Frump. A Needy One.
The Sourpuss is a low alcohol craft beer. It’s sour, pink and has an intense raspberry flavour. I am not ascribing any intentions to the makers of this beer, but I am pretty sure of the role it plays in the beer tavern. It’s a lady pacifier. Something to soothe a wife or girlfriend who doesn’t much like beer, doesn’t really like going to the pub and particularly doesn’t like going to the pub with her chap and his friends.
Who, in the eyes of a befuddled bloke, is the best butt of a joke? The wife or girlfriend who is bored by his drunken stories. ‘Oh aye, the sourpuss is pushing to go home.’ This drink is a drunk’s dream. It’s the abbreviation of a sentence; instead of ‘order something for the sourpuss’ it’s ‘order a Sourpuss’. It’s a cheap shot, although actually a beer.
(An aside: why are you there, sourpuss? Go to the gym. Go geocaching. Race ferrets. Do your own thing.)
I came upon this drink in Hong Kong’s finest craft beer hostelrie. The Sourpuss was a promoted drink, that week’s beer steer. I was meeting female friends for a catch-up, and we sat drinking this pink berry beverage.
‘How are the Sourpusses?’ asked the owner, peering into our booth. A guffaw came from a couple of blokes at the bar.
The Sourpusses were actually very nice, but the potential usage irked me. It was time to plan a strategy. And so, right then, Sour Power was born, turning our nook into a feminist craft beer coven.
What, inadvertently, this drink has done is create the feminist booze muse. Think about the normal power dynamic, muse-wise: it’s artists or writers, or fashion designers, being inspired by beauty, gamine physicality, wispiness etc. Show the slightest sign of those traits near someone with a paintbrush, atelier or a factory in China, and suddenly you’re a handbag. The Birkin. Etc.
The Sourpuss blazes a trail. It has distinguished, in alcohol, the slightly irritated female who yearns to go home rather than listen to 80 more stories about Xbox or rugby. Which is great – better to inspire a pint than a perfume. The trick is seizing the Sourpuss from blokes, without spilling anything. Becoming empowered by reclaiming this tipsy taunt.
What we’re facing, and drinking, is an alcoholic version of Trump’s ‘nasty woman’ comment about Hillary Clinton. It’s an insult, until you own it. Women have the right to be sourpusses – hey, everyone is entitled to a bad day. And while we’re being sour, sisters, shall we turn other female archetypes into booze? As well as the Strawberry Battleaxe, why not The Slag – a beer that never goes in the fridge, but stays out all night? The ProsecCow. As for the Plum Frump, it would come in a shapeless bottle with a label that was past its best. Let these drinks flourish: let them be the go-to flask-filler on Pussyhat marches. Or the drink of choice on girls’ nights out.
And request them often enough in beer taverns so the tenant has to stock them. Then relish the following conversation when you send a bloke to the bar with your order.
‘Darling, I really feel like A Needy One tonight.’
‘Right, love, what’s that again? In case the barman asks.’
‘It’s got every ingredient in it. And that’s still not enough.’
Cheers.
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