When you awake in a graveyard 50 miles from home with a tramp pissing on your face, you know you're going to be hung over. And that's where Relentless*, the magical energy drink of delight, comes in. Oh, I've tried them all down the years. The shiny ones, the sparkly ones, the fruit-based ones, the turbocharged nonsense. But I can say this: when you absolutely, positively have to drink some caffeine-filled shit with a slight fruit flavour to convince yourself that it's actually doing some real good other than just filling you full of chemicals, and you want that drink to last more than a couple of gulps, then you're going to need this little baby in the fridge.
Go for the green tropical fruit nonsense. It's got the same enormous NuMetal-style can but has a slightly more palatable passionfruit edge to take the bitterness away - those of you old enough to remember the excitement in the school playground when Quattro first came out will know what I'm on about. Imagine Quattro, but Quattro that will make you run around like a Duracell bunny for about the next 35 hours, or at the very least not collapse in the foetal position in a dark and dusty corner, muttering "Wuurgh, I shouldn't have necked those last 15 Bailey's and Taboos".
Then there's the can. Yes, the gothic script is reminiscent of the kind of Germanic lager that probably got you into this mess in the first place. At first glance, it looks like you're downing even more beer, which wouldn't be tremendously wise - speaking as someone who once had a warm can of Colt 45 for breakfast, and nearly didn't recover from the experience, I can tell you that the hair of the dog isn't always a spectacular success. But it has that chunky big-can feeling of beer. Yes, you feel like you're running with the big dogs now, downing plenty of energy nonsense to go into your body and do battle with the beery bastards who have taken up residence therein.
* This post in no way represents a commercial endorsement. Not that any cunt would buy a fruit-based energy drink on the say-so of some bloke off the internet. All I'm saying is, it's New Year's Eve. You're going to be fucked tomorrow morning. You'll need one of these fuckers in the fridge tomorrow, and no mistake. You'll thank me come 10.15am tomorrow when your mouth feels like a tampon and your brain is telling you that a man is bashing a tin tray repeatedly against your face.