Drakelow Tapas Assault

Drakelow Tapas Assault

A tantalisingly delicious weekend was had and I, Jamie McLoliver, will bring you the gastonomical lowdown. Those with a curious palette can expect the unexpected at Drakelow. The brochure reads as follows:

Nestled between the winding rivers of the Costa Del Stourbridge and the Birmingham Mountains, Drakelow is the show-piece estate of Clear paint.

This stately homestead dates back to 8BC although grape growing only started there in 1921 after Lord Mosley threw a Nazi themed sex party there. Three generations later, the paintball family have armfuls of awards for every vintage paintball. It was the west Midlands best performing paint-ball at the South England Young Wives Show 2009, with nine Champion balls and 19 Gold medals. And Jess Ennis' love balls. Shortly afterwards the 2009 Drakelow 'grape' beat 200 wines to win the 'Best White Blend' Trophy. It's an uplifting blend of mostly grassy fresh Colombard with a dash of lemony Sauvignon. Zesty fresh and appetising, this wine is best served chilled solo, as a party wine, or with avocado and prawn salad or grilled chicken.

With this knowledge in tow, I made my way to the caverns.

Due to power generators constant 130dB drone, a kind of deafened sensory deprivation enhanced the feeling of nausea. I allowed the rustic smells of generator diesel and flash-bang cordite to tease and excite my nose. My first meal was a deliciously prepared burger. This meat feast contained an exciting and challenging texture, resembling an exotic leather that had been set adrift in deep space. It seemed to have been old well before our world was young, and it provided a rich bouquet of tramps piss and exotic minerals. As I masticated, I could feel a dark evil whispering to me: Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.

Later on in the day, I delved deeper into the tunnels and was shot point-blank in the face, full-auto. My mouth filled with an remarkable waxy jus. The flakes of paintball case contrasted with the sharp taste of my own blood and the mouthing feeling of cut lip. An iron, musky aroma filled my palette reminding me of being abducted by the IRA in 1983.

The day was competently topped off by a delicious flash-bang stun I received while inside an otherwise deserted toilet cubicle. The acrid smell of explosives mixed and the untouched rotten plaster from the 60's merged seamlessly with blindness inducing disorientation to provide a beautifully rounded end to a wonderful day.

I'd recommend this as a wonderful night out, even if the wine list was a lacking a bit of depth.