I've always loved goon. I truly believe that with the right box poured in the right way, life can be better. Mild acquaintances can become brothers, catch-ups can become orgies, and simple clothes lines can whirl you into states of irresponsible joy. To open a box of goon is to open a night. It's your keys to the city. It's a way to make the music play louder, and mostly play that one song by Third Eye Blind.

But, of course, some people don't appreciate goon. Just like some people don't appreciate how "Semi-Charmed Life" was the song of a generation. These are the people who strut around at parties wearing boat shoes, saying things like, "Is that cooking wine?" Which is an annoying question, because we all know what they're really saying. What they're really saying is: "Goon isn't cool."

And they're right, but that's the whole point. In 2017, when the whole universe is so hung up on natural orange wines and west coast IPAs—that honestly just taste like they've put a tree through a juicer—it feels to me like goon is the working man's last drink. It's the only drink with a sense of humour. Goon doesn't give a shit if you're into turmeric lattes. Goon doesn't give a shit if you're well read. The only thing goon cares about is whether you party.

So, clearly, I love goon, and somehow I managed to convince work to send me on a sort of pilgrimage to Australia's home of goon. To learn some things, and to say thanks.