This is probably not a wise course of action, long-term, as I've noticed that, as with heroin, the more you drink it, the greater a resistance you build up and before you know it, you're the sort of person who thinks nothing of drinking pints of 9.5% scrumpy, have no teeth and find yourself saying 'Arrrrrr' to mean 'Yes'.
No. Best to knock it 'pon the head. Shame, as I've become rather fond of it.
Everyone loves it out here in the sticks. There seems to be a cider festival every weekend.
How good were our Irish, bat-catching friends, btw? Every time I watch it I find something new to laugh at. Today it's the fact that 'Derry' is wearing football shorts and knee-length socks.
I have never had much truck with cider, even as a teenager when it was the done thing I was not a fan.
I recall buying litres of the stuff from a farmer at my formative Glastonbury Festival, 1989. That did not end well.
These days when the occasion arises, perhaps a nice summer barbecue, I may partake of 4-6 cans of Bulmers but never otherwise.
* Actually I have been known to snaffle Mrs SW's bottle of Stella cidre when the well is dry, 2am on a sunday morning thing.
You'll like this, sw. These are your people.
http://mashable.com/2017/09/05/bat-i.../#oFENH82xkOqK