Call it as it is.
I can be a snob. The turn your nose up, not for me – how dare you even think I would do such a thing, kind of snob.
The type who grinds his own coffee because the bags aren’t right. Drinks wine made only through certain methods – keep your mass produced, button pressing stuff. Wouldn’t drink a beer unless it has a factor appropriate of my elevated status on Rate Beer.
You get the idea.
Then it goes out of the window. On the moments when I am faced with a coffee machine in an office, on a business park in Newcastle. Where the coffee costs (and tastes) 25p (twenty-five pence).
When I am in a strange city and I want to watch football on TV. Where the beer in the pub – continental lager – hasn’t seen a sea port in its life.
Then I stop being a snob. Then I become a caffeinated, beer drinking regular joe. Who eats wings (frozen) by the bucket and drinks fizzy, gassy lager until my knees can barely hold my weight.
Much like today – most probably like tonight.
Tomorrow I will be a snob again. Tonight I will join the ranks and put pleasure before purity.