Reading this, I’m mildly, just mildly, inclined to think that this guy is on something entirely else than Cask Ale.
Like most men, I struggle with my primal self. It’s genetic. Put in Freudian terms, the battle between my id and my superego can be epic. And in the age of #metoo, the dilemma has grown. The pendulum has swung too far. One aggressive move and a man’s career can derail. I feel the walls closing around me, my room to move shrinking. My instincts to bed every woman I see are reducing from a king-sized mattress to a cot, the size of which I only remember from a tour in Iraq. Today’s rules put men like me in the equivalent of a feminazi re-education program instead of ceding to my genetic makeup and behaving like that great seducer, Don Juan. I’m not boasting here, but there are times when I’ve given the legendary womanizer a run for his money, especially in the days of internet dating.
But I’m here to discuss beer. One specific type of beer: cask ale.
Scotland’s history is a metaphor for what I’m trying to say about the male being. The country’s history is rife with the exploits of manly men raiding villages and ravaging maidens, then retreating to their castles to guzzle ale.
(This GIF is pure sarcasm.)