Chouffe makes you fax

Chouffe is the name of a rather gorgeous beer brewed in the Belgian Ardennes, and the local bar now serves it on tap. What a delightful convenience.

Deliriously delicious it is, too. Although it is incredibly powerful. It has all the magic effect of causing dramatic change to my perception of the world, myself, and indeed the barstool I was sitting on.


Chouffe altered my reality. Nothing was what it seemed and everything was what it was not. In my Chouffe’d state, I speedily forgot what I did for a living. And become Comedian. Therapist. Philosopher. French. And oh dear. Dancer. With an alarming sense of rhythm considering no music was playing.

I enjoyed my time with Chouffe, but it was only fleeting, as I spectacularly ejected most of what I had consumed shortly after consuming it. Vomit is such an ugly word. I prefer “fax”.

The feeling to fax caught me by surprise. For the fax made known it’s intentions whilst I was walking home. Looking for a corner, but finding none, I believed that the best place to fax was on my doorstep. Which I only got half right. A doorstep it was. But mine it was not.

And my predicament was only just beginning. As my fax began transmission, I realised that the recipient was not the intended doorstep, but my own shoes. Have you ever tried to fax, bent over, and move your feet out of the way at the same time? It’s incredibly difficult. Running on the spot. Hammer time.

In my faxing kerfuffle, I lost balance and fell head forward on the door. KNOCK!

It had the sobering effect of, well, knocking your head bloody hard on a door. A door that now looked remarkably unfamiliar.

I began to realise where I had faxed. My neighbour, but three doors down from me. I suspect that he would not be happy to have received my fax. But, would he know that I was the sender? I mean, most faxes look the same, right?

Conscience and paranoia got the better of me. Running, soggy shoed, to the correct door this time, I stumbled into my kitchen, filled a bucked with water, grabbed a cloth and shuddered back to the doorstep. In less than a jiffy, the fax was erased from memory.

Or so I thought.

This morning, I met my neighbour on his knees. Cleaning his doorstep.

Oh dear. It turns out that I deleted the wrong fax. From an unknown sender. On a different doorstep. My original fax remained.

As I walked past, putting on my best innocent face, we both looked at each other in mutual disgust at the inconsiderate faxer.

Chouffe made me fax. But so bad was my altered state that I didn’t even recognise my own fax.

You’d think that I’d have learnt my lesson. But this weekend is Beer Passion Weekend in Antwerp. I am excited. To see those two words together: beer and passion. At last, somebody understands me.

I’ll certainly be trying not to fax on anyone’s doorstep, let alone mine. But I think things will really be out of hand if I begin to email.