Corona is popular. No understatement, Corona is like herpes, because every third person in the room has it, and it’s usually a fuckboi. Like a dude passed out on the couch and a girl crying on the verandha, Corona is the permanent staple of every flat party. They’re nice to drink, but they’re a summer beer. Given that winter has come early to our little slice of paradise here on the Antarctic Riviera, it might be time to put the Coronas away. Winter is the time for hot soup, crying, and cheap whisky beneath wool blankets.
The biggest issue with Corona is that it tastes best with a wedge of lemon. What a complete fuck around. It’s not an Ikea desk, I shouldn’t have to assemble by beer befroe I can drink it.
But if you choose to forgo the lemon, you’re in for a shit time if you like beer, because you won’t be able to taste any. Corona is a slightly stained vat of water with some alcohol subtly squeezed in.
Corona does one thing well, and that’s branding. Its whole deal is making you forget about the shithole situation you’re in and pretend you’re up a mountain or on a beach. And at the end of the day, isn’t that why we drink in first place? Being constantly conscious of your surroundings and your actions fucking sucks. Any minutes or hours I spend functioning without my brain recording it is a sweet respite from the horrible reality of my own life.
The foreign words painted on the bottle make it seem fancy. I have been informed that the slogan translates to mean ‘The Most Fine Beer’. Which is accurate. It’s fine. It’s got no real personality or flavour, but it’s always consistently produced, refreshing, and crisp. It’s fine.
Taste Rating: 7/10
Froth Level: Getting fucking skewered in the eye by a bottle cap that went flying across the room (Why do they pop so fucking aggresively?)
Tasting notes: Not a whole lot. Hints of white privilege and gentrification. Aftertones of being blonde and travelling the world on Daddy’s credit card.
Pairs well with: Drug money, surf wax, a sense of entitlement.