Scrumpy

When I was younger and stupider, I went on holiday to the wilds of the Welsh border in Gloucestershire. After settling into the digs I was invited to a local pub for the evening, and as there was sweet FA else to do in the locale, I said yes.
Now where I was staying was one of those villages where everybody has known each other since birth, and a stranger in the area is cause for gossip*. The pub was a new building and reminded me of certain council estate drinking pools round here, and as we walked in I felt 30 pairs of eyes settle on me as the bar went silent.
We got to the bar and scanned the drinks selection. My friends ordered some beers while I contemplated cider and when the barman asked me what I wanted, I asked if there was anything other then the 'fizzy pop brand' on the pump.
He replied that there was indeed another one going, but that it was kept out the back in a special barrel, to which I said 'Scrumpy?', and indeed it was.
Now for those of you that don't know what Scrumpy is, it is a sort of cider, which for American readers does not mean apple juice, but an alcoholic drink made from fermented apples. It is generally stronger than beer and comes in a wide variety, one of which is Scrumpy. There are myths** about the beverage such as a rat being added to give it extra 'kick' and spillage from glasses taking the varnish off the bar, but that didn't deter me and I ordered a pint.
The barman's face remained impassive, but over in the dark corners of the room I heard bets being placed on how long it would take me to fall over after drinking the stuff.
My friends and I decided to have a game of darts as there was sod all else to do, and as we supped our drinks I threw the arrows perfectly to their targets, with no hint of a drunken wobble whatsoever.
First pints doned, we ordered the same again, and over in the dark corners I heard muttering as money changed hands and further bets were placed.
We then had a bash at the pool table, and again, I potted balls with no sign of glazed expression or scrumpy poisoning.
Then it was time for round three, and still I felt absolutely fine, and we carried on quaffing and playing pool until it was time for everybody to go home.
By now I was getting some admiring looks from those who had probably betted I could drink more than two pints and not pass out, and I was beginning to wonder why on earth there was so much fuss made about drinking something which has the nick-name 'Silly Soup'.
We bade our farewells and other than feeling a tad giggly I was fine.

Until I got outside and the fresh, night air hit me like having my brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick***
Apparently, I did a 360 degree wobble before falling flat on my face on a patch of grass.
The only thing I recall about the journey back to digs was being profusely sick in a hedge, and I can tell you all that one good thing about scrumpy is that it tastes the same going down as it does coming back up again.
So the moral of this tale is if offered scrumpy, don't go near fresh air until you've sobered up again.

*And possibly human sacrifice/new breeding blood.
**At least I hope they're myths.
***Thank you, Douglas Adams.