Close your real-life eyes and crank your third eye wide open. Elaborate patterns start to form weaving an elegant fourth dimensional transatlantic feedback loop. Empire ships laden with heavily hopped ales disappear in a swirling dream-like half-remembered fallacy, returning through a lupulin miasma riding on the back of giant Carhartt wearing bearded American men smacking of citrus and stone fruit hollering none sense like ‘mouthfeel’ and incomprehensible rubbish like ‘dank’. These giant aquatic hipsters crash on the White Cliffs of Dover spilling their coarse American flavours on her fair beaches. Like a seal in some horrendous environmental disaster, trad beer perishes in a sulphury parp easily overwhelmed by something with flavour! From the twig laden ashes, a phoenix rises, soaring out to sea bearing Olicana, Harlequin and Jester upon its firey wings.
