What Your Choice of Tinny Says About You

Ah, there it is again: that craving. It's Saturday night and early enough in the month that you haven’t yet had to extend your overdraft to buy a loaf of bread, and there’s some house party or warehouse rave or something, pulsing away, pmf pmf pmf, and you need it. Your body needs it. A big blue bag. Of mother-fucking cans.

This party or whatever promises free entry and til-the-morning-light longevity, so you’re going to need several of these bags. The options are: you’ve got about five minutes to leg it to the Big Sainsbury's, half-pissed already, and purchase your beverages; or you can face the inevitable 45-minute round trip to the nearest off-license in the pouring rain instead. Either way, there’s just so much choice isn’t there. Do you go Polish or Belgian? Pale ale or pilsner? Or… how about a little pre-mixed gin situation?

Not to stress you out, but you don’t actually know that many people at this party, and your choice of tinny consequently serves as an essential signifier of what kind of person you are. The tinny decides whether you make friends here, or enemies, lovers or fighters. So – who are you?

This is who you are:

Topshop puffa 'n' scrunchie. Pink Air Max 95s. Pretends to like PC Music. Currently selling some old Urban Outfitters stuff on Depop to buy a Lovebox ticket. Has, at some point, handed over a crisp five pound note for one solitary can of Red Stripe Jamaican Lager at some sort of "street food pop-up" in east London, and knows deep down that this is a terrible, shameful thing to have done.

You are a grown adult male who owns a full 2017-18 West Ham kit, including fucking socks, and you haven’t missed a Premier League home match since 2012.

You’re a student and your loan just came through.

Maximum ABV:£ ratio here. An extremely practical lager beer. You probably go hiking or something. Maybe you can do basic mechanics.

What you doing this weekend, Strongbow Drinker? Ah, yes, you’re going to see your friend’s punk band in Camden, which is what you’ve done every weekend since Year 10, when your mum finally decided you were old enough to get the Megabus to London on your own. Tattoo of a bluebird (Camden Town, 2010) and a septum piercing.

The lead singer of a punk band, and you’re actually doing a gig at The World’s End this weekend so you reckon you’ll be signed within a few months for sure. You work in a guitar shop but you also do some stick and poke tattooing on the side, and all your friends are a solid decade younger than you.

It’s 3.30AM and you’ve already got through… was it, nine cans? Well, shit. Time to head to the nearest offie, and then the second-nearest offie when that one turns out to be closed. It’s 4:5AM before you finally manage to grab seven assorted cans of Polish lager beer, and 4:25AM when you’re finally done counting out huge handfuls of change at the till – one eye closed so you can actually focus – to a very tired, very patient old man in a big fleece and slippers, who counts it out again, correctly this time, and lets you off the missing 22p. By the time you get back there are only five people left at the party, and one of them is fully asleep face down on the living room floor. You’re getting strong "please leave my house now" vibes from the only host still awake. At least you’ve got some tinnies for the night bus, I guess.

An extremely "last person standing on Sunday afternoon at a squat rave" choice of tinny. Very "I bought all my clothes at Boomtown Fair". Strong "I didn’t wash my hair for two months so that it would start self-cleaning" vibes. Staunch defender of white person dreadlocks. Theory: the "K" stands for "ketamine".

In a tinny? Um, ok then.

VICE's beer company, Old Blue Last, is throwing a week of free events in Manchester from the 16th to the 19th of April. Get your tickets here.

The only time I have ever actually seen anyone purchase Tuborg is at Leeds Festival in 2011, and as such I can only assume that if you drink Tuborg you’re a Scouse teenager who idolises Liam Gallagher and will gleefully burn down your own tent on Sunday evening by throwing hot coals at it from a neighbouring group’s bonfire.

You still have a "Yes" sticker in the window of your flat in Glasgow.

Will only relinquish control over the AUX lead once you’ve had the chance to enthusiastically sing along to the following songs in their entirety:
– "Monster", Kanye West
– "My Number", Foals
– "Sweatpants", Childish Gambino
– "Retrograde", James Blake

You are a white man who listens to a lot of Mac Demarco and thinks that smoking rollies, owning (but not actually reading) a copy of Infinite Jest and having an anxiety disorder is an adequate substitute for any sort of personality whatsoever.

You, an intellectual, have got a subscription to a craft club where they send you six new beers to try each month. You wouldn’t go back to drinking commercially brewed lager now. It’s just a more pleasurable experience. You don’t just drink to get drunk anymore. But hey, the joke’s on you for blowing £38 on six very small cans of extremely dark, bitter ale that you now realise each feel like eating a very rich and hearty meal. Good luck with that hangover poo.

You’re going to post a Boomerang of some avocado toast on your Instagram story tomorrow morning with the caption "CURE ME".

If you’re honest with yourself, you haven’t genuinely enjoyed drinking since that fateful day in 2013 when your new personal trainer told you how many calories were in a glass of red wine and ruined your life forever. You’ve bought two little cans of Gordon’s and Diet Schweppes (despite the fact that it’s 3 for £5) and will leave the party at exactly midnight so you can make it to pilates in the morning.

You own a novelty apron for barbecuing things in.

It’s 5.30PM on a Friday and you’re penned into the outdoor bit of a central London chain-pub with Will, Charlie, Oscar and the rest of the work boys, all of you wearing the the same brand of ultralight gilet in slightly varying shades of blue. The tie has come off and the New Balance fresh foams are on. What’ll you have, mate? Peroni please, mate.

You’ve gone for a curry with the lads, an ostensibly fun activity, ruined by the fact you got a bit overexcited and ordered a fucking vindaloo for a dare, which you now have to finish in its entirety for fear of the unrelenting and merciless punishment you will receive in the group chat otherwise. Deep breaths, mate. Don’t cry. Wash it down with a nice cold bottle of Cobra.

Just buy a four-pack. Way cheaper.

@RosieHew

Old Blue Last beer is hosting a week of free events in Manchester from the 16th to 19th of April. Get your tickets here.