You know that person that you would generally call a friend but on occasion wish you didn’t know?
The person you hide from now and then when they knock on your door, crouching behind the sofa in case they press their face up to the window just to be sure?
That’s how I feel about this.
There’s nothing wrong with Indian Pale per se.
In fact it’s quite pleasant.
But it soon gets boring and then outstays its welcome.
By halfway through I’ve gotten so used to the round toffee and hay bales, the resin and the wood pulp, I’ve begun yawning at the light citrus tang and the lip smacking finish that I almost can’t taste anymore.
But I know it’s still there and demanding attention.
This is not a bad beer by any means, it’s just uninspiring.
And, like the person you’re friends with just because you always have been, I’ll probably smile politely and invite Indian Pale round to my house again.
Though I can’t promise I won’t hide when he knocks.