…In fact, this beer might be the third from the left on the evolutionary chart. Its knuckles are scraping the ground, its forehead is about four feet too wide and it’s smacking you over the head with a club and dragging you behind it by your hair…
…It’s said that more than half the women in Lone-lands (are there any?) can blame their unwanted offspring on this brew. Despite this popularity, this cider is as flaccid as an impotent scholar locked in the dungeons of Carn Dûm…
…It tastes like the scorched flesh of one of those pretty Shire cows, who’s still roaming the plains because the Hobbits are too busy eating its friends. Rejoice! You want ale?…
…This is a break-up letter from your brain to your liver (or the other way). It’s so smooth and creamy and refreshing that I thought the mug was made of magic. It packs a hell of a whallop and costs next to nothing. After finishing this one, I sent a letter to Balin that I wouldn’t be returning and vowed never to wash again…