Are you ready to shlurple the purple? Wait, wait, come on now, don’t call the police! I’m not being uncouth, I’m merely repeating the long-time tagline attached to an utterly bonkers northern English fizzy drink named Vimto.
Crafted from grapes, raspberries and blackcurrants and mixed with a zesty blend of herbs and spices, Vimto tastes like heaven on earth, with a subtle hint of cough medicine drained through a fisherman‘s sock. The locals are obsessed with it, though, and are known to box the ears of anyone who disparages their favourite drink.
Created in Manchester in 1908 by a flamboyant chap named John Noel Nichols, Vimto was originally marketed as a health tonic. Sadly, the only noticeable health effects were a reduction in teeth and an increased risk of diabetes, so it was quickly repositioned as a soft drink. Bizarrely, it found widespread adoration in the Arab world as a staple drink of Ramadan. Apparently the locals refuse to Du-buy anything else!
The Vimto factory was relocated in 1910 and the grounds handed over to the University of Manchester, and it’s on this site you’ll find the venerated Monument to Vimto. Won’t someone think of the children? How are they supposed to concentrate on their tutorials when there’s a giant bottle of Vimto outside their classroom, just waiting to be worshipped?
Carved from oak by the incomparable Kerry Morrison, this masterpiece was installed in 1992. It’s just as bright and bubbly as a goblet of icy-cold Vimto, having been fully restored in 2011, and is complimented by cheeky representations of the fresh fruit used in Vimto’s production.
The monument’s whimsical nature, coupled with its unabashed enthusiasm for the source material, make it the ultimate destination when visiting England’s glamorous north. No wonder Mancunians are so full of Vimto and vigour!
The Fruitiest Big I Know
Whilst a cool glass of Vimto on a balmy Manchester afternoon is a truly holistic experience, a pilgrimage to the monument that bears its name proves to be anything but. When my Latin-American half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I arrived, with clear eyes and full hearts, we were outraged to discover that a gang of layabouts had taken up residence at the base of the statue.
With lips and teeth stained a sickening vermillion, the gypsies had obviously spent a decadent afternoon overindulging on bottles Vimto, which littered the surrounds. Anyone unfortunate enough to venture nearby faced the full extent of the thugs’ wrath, as they hurled insults and plastic flagons of Vimto with equal ferocity.
Personal safety, however, must come second to reporting on Big Things. Bigella and I did our best to ignore their catcalls as we posed for some surprisingly delightful happy snaps, focusing on the bottle’s intricately engraved details to take our attention away from the deranged lunatics. If you look closely, you can see the fear etched across our faces.
But then things got personal.
Seriously Mixed-Up Hobos
“Maybe yer lady friend would like to share a cup of Vimto with us?” one particularly unscrupulous reprobate heckled, moistening his sun-chapped lips with a lascivious tongue as he rattled a jug of the berry-flavoured treat. I noted, with a touch of horror, that he was consuming the concentrated variation – and he didn’t seem to have added much water. “Plenty to go around. We’ve got all the flavours.”
“Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant?” I asked, my interest piqued.
“Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant,” the lecherous hobo responded with a monstrous smirk. “Ice cold, just the way she likes it.”
The vagrant took a liberal swig of the ruby-red nectar, allowing a hedonistic portion to dribble down his unshaven chin. His mates, eyeballs spinning in their skulls from their sugar highs, raised plastic cups full of Vimto to us. I was hypnotised by the drink’s effervescent beauty as it sparkled in the dying light. So sweet, so refreshing, so economically-priced.
“Bigella,” I bellowed, a thin veneer of bravado masking my inner turmoil. “Run for it. I’ll stay here to hold back these troublemakers!”
“But Bigs,” my sister squawked, sweat pouring from her brow, “I can’t leave! You’re too pretty – these pervertidos will eat you alive!”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I yawped, pushing Bigella into the streets of Manchester. “Now run away and never look back!”
As the first, succulent drops of Vimto cascaded out of the homeless chap’s flask and poured, luxuriously, down my gaping maw, I realised that I’d plummeted to a new low in my life.
But what can I say? I’m just a guy who likes to shlurple the purple!
