When I told my mate Orville the beer tasted like pyrethrum, he stopped mid-sip and looked at me in the careful way people do when they’re deciding whether to ask a follow-up.
“How do you know what pyrethrum tastes like?” he said.
I said this was a misunderstanding of the senses. Smell, I explained, is taste’s next-door neighbour. They share a fence. Sometimes they borrow sugar from each other.
Orville nodded, the way a man does when he’s decided not to argue with a person who might have eaten fly spray.
I could see he still didn’t quite understand, so I pushed on.
“We all carry around a private library of smells we’ve never voluntarily ingested — petrol, creosote, fly spray — yet somehow feel qualified to review.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Do we? I’ve always thought beer just tasted like beer.”
It was at this point I regretted spotting the craft brewery during a road trip with Orville.
“Care to share a paddle?” I had said, skidding to a halt.
“You must be joking,” Orville said, glowing red, puffing out his chest and making a point of trying to look macho.
It was then I realised he thought paddles were an S&M thing.
“Sheesh. They only call them that because the wooden serving boards are usually shaped like paddles,” I said.
Orville breathed a sigh of relief. “Makes sense, I suppose. I’ve been up Shit Creek without beer lots of times.”
I shook my head slowly as we crossed the road.
“In the United States. they are often called ‘flights’,” I said, “but we don’t say that in Australia lest pilots think it’s a legitimate part of the flight check.”
We walked in.
Until I’d spotted the brewery, I hadn’t exchanged a word with my bald friend for an hour.
He’d insisted we stop earlier when he’e seen a sign advertising LIVE WORMS FOR SALE.
“What’d we need them for?” I protested. “We’re not going fishing.”
Too late. He was already getting out.
He returned 10 minutes later, red-faced and empty-handed.
“Well?” I said.
“Drive on. That bloke doesn’t deserve any business.”
“What did he say?”
“He was very pleasant until he asked how many worms I wanted. His face dropped when I said just one.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He really became worked up when I asked if I could have it battered.”
The thing that surprised me was that Orville was surprised by my pyrethrum joke. If there’s anyone who’s actually tasted fly spray, it’s Orville. He’d probably describe it as “a taste sensation.”
P.S.: We weren’t actually in a car. We were riding Orville’s new electric wheelchair. I didn’t want to mention that upfront in case double dinking is illegal — even with a disability sticker,
JOHN MARTIN 