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Billy Maverick Bourbon and Cola

Cost: $13 for 6 cans
Alcohol Volume: 7%
Pairing: Sushi rice thing that smelt bad on the bus
Verdict: ★ “I left Hamilton for a reason.”

It’s a Monday and I’ve just spilt a Billy Maverick Bourbon and Cola on my $10 Warehouse trackpants. Mitch is in Melbourne, I forgot about my journalistic responsibilities and now I’m here, having a moment of quiet introspection, Googling “rock bottom???” in an Incognito window. Why there was a can of Billy Maverick in the fridge is a question best left unanswered. But I do know that there was a sticky residue on the bottom, it took me an entire runthrough of The Pinkprint to drink it, and I did not enjoy myself.

Let’s start with some honesty: I already knew I don’t like Billy Mavs. I would say that nobody likes Billy Mavs, but the 2,208 Facebook likes garnered by the “Billy Maverick Appreciation Society” speaks for itself. That’s 2,208 people who think that watered-down molasses spiked with cough medicine is a good choice. Eager to get some perspective on the issue, I asked my only friend who liked the page about the appeal of Billy Mavs. His response of “they’re trash but they get the job done” teaches all of us an important lesson about utility maximisation and desperation. I’m not convinced I know what bourbon is supposed to taste like, my experience being limited to the canned varieties which were inexplicably popular during my girlhood in Hamilton. However, I’m confident Billy Mavericks are a poor imitation.

That Billy Maverick comes in a can is a point in their favour. More things should come in a can. As The Mill website handily points out, the elegant RTD is “for those wanting to spend less time pouring drinks and more time partying”. I’d be excited to meet someone for whom partying doesn’t involve desperately trying to find an excuse to pour another drink to escape inane conversation, but I take their point.

I finished the can wishing I’d opted to review the three-week-old open bottle of Scrumpy in my room instead. Billy Mavericks are pretty offensive for a number of reasons and don’t even come in the 9 per cent variety anymore, so what’s the bloody point? You can certainly do better than this and I might be able to do better than this one day. We’ll see.

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Ten things I wish my friends knew about being Māori

: 1). I wish my friends knew that when they ask me what “percentage” of Māori I am—half, quarter, or eighth—they make me feel like a human pie chart. I don’t know how people can ask this so nonchalantly, but they do. So I want to let you know: this is a very threatening