The Goon Show

Goon is good. Goon is bad.

Goon giveth and goon taketh away.

Basically, because everything is so freaking expensive in Australia, the only option for povvy backpackers is so to drink boxed wine, a snip at 10 dollars for 4 litres of pungent Fruity Lexia.

The first few sips are like evil in liquid form. But after the first pint, it slips down with ease. Maybe even a cheeky dash of lemo to take the edge off and make a fancy goon spritzer.

All going well.

Except after the fourth or fifth pint, you enter a goon black hole. You remember nothing. You are guilty of nothing. You can end up on the steps of your hostel crying your eyes out about Pat Butcher's death.

I had nights which made me piss myself laughing, playing ring of fire and inevitably falling asleep on the beach. Other nights just pissing myself. My last stand with the goon was followed by my inevitable trip to the optician to have my glasses fixed.

Goon plays with your emotions. It makes you lose expensive hoodies, the comfiest flip flops you've ever owned, and your dignity. AND it has fish and dairy derivatives. There are no words.

Goon. Think a less classy version of George Best's colostomy bag.