why beamish is better

Fosters? Bavaria? Ptsh...

If you had asked me yesterday I would have told you I had only driven in the dark once before, under strict supervision, in a well-lit urban area and with a third hand hovering readily over the handbreak. But that was before last night, the epic night where I met my inner boy racer. Previous driving lessons with Keith saw me crawling car parks in first gear or housing estates in second and disconcerting odours of burning clutch; this one however unleashed me to the open back roads of the countryside where speeding away to my reckless heart's content I was spurred to go faster and faster, because, did you know, sometimes it can actually be more dangerous to be going too slowly than too quickly?
After a pit-stop for ice cream cones in a petrol station where we bought too many old school penny sweets like refreshers, black jacks, macaroon bars, love hearts, and mint crisps, we approached village X. I swung a sharp right down an even more back back road and after a while we got out for a walk around which was probably made a lot more terrifying than it actually was due to the fact that we had spent pretty much the whole journey thusfar talking about zombies and the end of the world. Well we discovered a huge old castle, got duly spooked out by a horse who followed us in a field, climbed a bridge over a waterfall, ran down laneways throwing stones, played hide and seek and jump out and scream, explored the ruins of a house, pretended to be zombies, went to a pub for pints that cost two fifty each and drove home via a McDonalds drive thru.
So for it's cheapness, it's superior deliciousness, and it's associated good times, Beamish is better. (And it doesn't need amazing Christmas ads to convince us so)