Special dispatch
The British pub is the last honest parliament. These are the beers the regulars would brew — if the regulars were allowed anywhere near the taps.
It's warm, bitter, wildly overpriced, and after six years the bloke who ordered it still insists the terrible taste is someone else's fault.
It's 90% foam, tastes vaguely of bankruptcy, and when the glass arrives half-empty, he insists millions of illegal bubbles stole the rest.
He took one sip, called it 'the voice of forgotten America,' then looked at Trump to check whether he was allowed to swallow.
She ordered a round for the working class, sold the pub to her mates, closed the brewery, sacked the barman, then blamed the miners for everyone being thirsty.
He tried brewing a traditional British ale but fell asleep halfway through. By the time he woke up, the brewery had closed, the workers were redundant, and he'd somehow made £3 million quid.
It invaded the next glass, annexed the beer mat, and anyone who gave it one star mysteriously vanished from the beer garden.
An ale so good, even Nigel Farage stopped blaming foreigners and blamed himself for not ordering two.