Several weeks ago, faced with driving five hours to Cornwall, I decided to drink a can of Prime. It was clear from the start that this was a mistake. Everything about the product annoyed me: the gaudy tin, the moronic typography, the dumb name. The drink itself was a horrid, acrid nothing. It gave me instant indigestion, partly from the rank taste but mostly from the self-loathing I felt at having paid good money for something so awful.
My teenage daughter, to whom I started complaining, scoffed. “You’re an idiot,” she said. “What are you doing? You’re 42.” And she was right. I’m not against stimulating beverages per se. Give me a £5 Americano and a bottle of Barolo and I’m yours. But, clearly, I’m not a Prime drinker. “This stuff just… isn’t for you,” my daughter concluded. Then she jammed in her AirPods to tune out my whining.
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