Free beer, wine and spirits commercial scripts

Sun going down. Work boots off. And a cold Foghollow Hazy IPA with a little orange, a little pine, and nothing to do for the rest of the evening. Foghollow Brewing. Brewed for the good hour. Please enjoy responsibly.

Big game. Big crowd. Big finish. Kettleback Lager. Crisp, clean, ice-cold, and brewed to be shared with everybody in your row. Kettleback. Cold as the cheap seats. Please enjoy responsibly.

Twelve winters by the sea. Salt on the casks. Peat in the air. And no one in a hurry. Glen Ardcraig Single Malt. Take your time. We did. Please enjoy responsibly.

Long table. Late sun. Somebody's telling that story again. Pour the Rosa Lune: pale pink, dry, with wild strawberry and a little sea breeze. Rosa Lune. Stay till the stars. Please enjoy responsibly.

Hot day. Cold esky. Good mates. Nowhere to be. Cloudbank Hard Seltzer, in lime, passionfruit and pink grapefruit. Light, bubbly, and properly refreshing, straight from the can. Cloudbank. Clear skies ahead. Please enjoy responsibly.

Early start tomorrow? Still want a beer? Halftide Non-Alcoholic Lager. Full body, crisp hops, all the flavour you like. Just not the alcohol. Halftide. All of the beer. None of the morning after.

Four a.m. is when we start the mash. The whole brewhouse smells like warm bread. At Ironlamp Brewing, we still do it by hand: local barley, hops from two farms up the valley, and small batches we can taste every step of the way. Then we wait. Weeks, sometimes. Then we taste it. And if it's not right, we start again. Ironlamp Brewing. Small batches. Big patience. Please enjoy responsibly.

In a rickhouse outside Bardstown, a barrel sits in the dark. Summer pulls the bourbon deep into the charred oak. Winter squeezes it back out. Eleven times. What comes out is amber and honey, a little leather, a little smoke, and a finish that stays long after the glass is empty. Some things can't be hurried. Hollowbarrel Bourbon. Eleven years, well spent. Please enjoy responsibly.

Somewhere in the Cotswolds, there's a hedgerow that's been growing for three hundred years. We pick from it every June. Elderflower. Wild rose. Blackberry leaf. Then we distil it slowly, in copper, with juniper and a little lemon peel. That, and the gardener's secret. Serve it with tonic, lots of ice, and a sprig of mint. Hedgerow and Hart Gin. The garden, in a glass. Please enjoy responsibly.

There's a moment every September when you taste a grape off the vine and just know. At Cinder Ridge Vineyards, our vines grow in old volcanic soil, high on the slope, where the nights are cold and the days are long. It gives our Zinfandel its dark cherry, black pepper, and a little smoke. This morning, I tasted that grape. We'll pick tomorrow. Cinder Ridge Vineyards. Grown on fire. Please enjoy responsibly.

These vines, my grandfather planted in nineteen fifty-one. With his own hands, on this hill, in Tuscany. We still harvest by hand. We still age our Chianti in big old barrels, slowly, like he did. Cherry, violets, a little earth. When I pour a glass, I can still see him at the end of the table, telling everyone to eat more. Vallarosa Estate. Family, in every bottle. Please enjoy responsibly.

I love beer. The hops, the bitterness, the first sip on a hot afternoon. What I don't love is feeling foggy on Saturday morning when I've got a half-marathon, two kids, and a pancake order to fill. Clearday Non-Alcoholic IPA. Brewed like a real craft IPA, with citrus and pine and a proper bitter finish. Saturday morning, bright-eyed. Clearday. All the hops. None of the haze.

There's a pub at the end of our road with a fire, six stools, and a barman called Declan. When you order a Lough Tessan Stout, Declan pours it three-quarters. Then he waits. Nobody's in a hurry, least of all Declan. Then he tops it up, and there it is. Dark as the lough, a creamy head, and roasted, chocolatey, a little bitter. Lough Tessan Stout. Worth the wait. Please enjoy responsibly.

Every autumn, the old trees in our orchard drop their apples in the long grass. We call them windfalls. We pick up the best ones, press them on the farm, and let them ferment slowly in oak, the way my mother did. The wasps get the rest. Orchard Kettle Cider. Golden, dry and sparkling, with a proper tart bite. From our orchard, to your glass. Please enjoy responsibly.

In the highlands of Jalisco, where the soil is red, the agave takes its time. Seven years in the ground. Then it's harvested by hand, roasted slowly in stone ovens, and rested in American oak. The result is Piedra Alta Reposado. Soft vanilla. Cooked agave. A warm, peppery finish. Sip it neat. Share it slowly. Let the evening stretch out. Piedra Alta. From high ground. Please enjoy responsibly.

Concert on the lawn. Picnic by the river. Rooftop, sunset, too many snacks. Picnic Row Wines come in cans that chill fast and travel light: a crisp Sauvignon Blanc, a juicy red, and a dry rosé that's basically sunshine. No corkscrew. No glasses. No one stuck holding the bottle. Chill a few, pack the blanket, and go. Picnic Row. Good wine goes anywhere. Please recycle. Please enjoy responsibly.

It begins with winter wheat from the northern plains and water from a glacier spring. Frostvane Vodka is distilled five times, filtered through birch charcoal, and rested cold. The result is clean, silky and quietly smooth, with a hint of white pepper. No colour. No flavourings. Nothing to hide. Serve it ice-cold, in a chilled glass, with good company and a long conversation. Frostvane. Pure winter. Please enjoy responsibly.

Every summer cookout needs a few things. A grill that's too hot. A playlist that's too loud. And one guy who brought a potato salad nobody asked for. It also needs a cooler full of Porchswing Lager. Light, crisp, golden and easy, brewed the same way for eighty years. Pass one to the potato salad guy. He's trying. Porchswing Lager. Crack one open. Please enjoy responsibly.

On our island, the sun comes up slow, and the day follows. Nobody here is late. We're just not early. Coral Anchor Rum is aged five years in oak by the sea, where the warm salt air works on the barrels day and night. Golden. Smooth. Brown sugar, banana and a little toasted coconut. Pour it over ice. Add a squeeze of lime. Then slow down. Coral Anchor Rum. Take it easy. Please enjoy responsibly.

Sunday at Mum's. Roast lamb in the oven. Footy on the telly. Twelve people and one gravy boat. And on the table, a bottle of Wattlebrook Estate Shiraz from the Barossa. Big and generous, with blackberry, black pepper and a bit of dark chocolate. Mum says it's for the gravy. Half a glass goes in the gravy. Wattlebrook Estate. Pour one for the cook. Please enjoy responsibly.

My father worked at the Kilcurran distillery for forty-one years. He'd come home smelling of malt and wood smoke, and sit by the fire, and tell me about the stills. Big copper pots, he'd say, shining like the sun coming up. Kilcurran is triple distilled, the Irish way, and aged in old sherry and bourbon casks down by the river, where the damp air gets into the wood and the wood gets into the whiskey. Twelve years, at least. Some of it far longer. What comes out is soft and golden. Honey. Toasted almond. A bit of spice. And a long, warm finish, like the last of a good fire. The day I started at the distillery, he poured two glasses. Handed me one. Raised his own. He said nothing. He didn't need to. Kilcurran Irish Whiskey. Handed down. Please enjoy responsibly.

Past midnight, the city gets honest. The traffic thins. The piano player loosens his tie. Somebody in the corner laughs a little too loud. And behind the bar, a bottle of Blackcairn Rye catches the light. Rye doesn't apologise. It's spicy. It's bold. It's got something to say. We make ours with ninety-five percent rye grain, grown by one family farm in Tennessee, and age it in heavily charred new oak for at least six years. Pour it neat and you'll taste black pepper, dark caramel, a little dried cherry, and a warmth that settles in slow. Mix it into an old fashioned, and it holds its own. The piano player's on his last song now. The lights are low. Nobody's in a hurry to leave. One last song. Then home. Blackcairn Rye. Made for the late hours. Please enjoy responsibly.

I used to be terrified of sparkling wine. Not drinking it. Opening it. I once took out a lampshade at my sister's engagement party, and she still brings it up. And then there's the vocabulary. Brut. Extra dry, which is somehow less dry than brut. Something about 'autolytic notes'. I just nodded. Then a friend brought over a bottle of Bellecroix Sparkling. She showed me how to open it: hold the cork, twist the bottle, gentle sigh, no explosions. The lampshade community breathed a sigh of relief. And it was lovely. Fine, lively bubbles. Crisp green apple. A little toasted brioche. Dry, but not too dry. It doesn't need a big occasion. It's good with fried chicken. It's good on a Tuesday. It just tastes like a party. Bellecroix Sparkling. Pop something. Gently. Please enjoy responsibly.

They say the sea keeps its secrets. Well, not all of them. Back when the ships still ran on wind, a trader called Hester Marrow sailed from the islands with a hold full of rum and a sack of spices she'd won in a card game. A storm caught her off the Cornish coast. Three days of it. Waves like cathedrals. When she finally made harbour, the casks had rolled and knocked and soaked through with vanilla, clove and orange peel from that broken sack. She tasted it, laughed, and never sold plain rum again. Saltmarrow Spiced Rum still follows her recipe: Caribbean rum, aged in oak, then rested with real vanilla pods, cloves, orange and a pinch of sea salt. Sip it over ice. Or with ginger beer and a squeeze of lime. And if anyone asks you where it came from, tell them about the storm. Saltmarrow. A spirit with a story. Please enjoy responsibly.

In the hills of Oaxaca, there is a pit in the earth. It's lined with river stones and filled with oak wood, and when the fire burns down to embers, the maestro lays the agave hearts on top, covers them with earth, and walks away. Three days, they roast there. Slowly. In the dark. Then the agave is crushed by a stone wheel, turned by a horse named Lucero, fermented in open wooden vats, and distilled twice in small copper stills. Humo Lento means slow smoke. It's what you'll taste first. Then roasted pineapple, a little salt, a little earth, and something green, like the hills after rain. You can taste the fire. Sip it neat, from a small clay cup, with an orange slice on the side. Don't rush it. Nobody who made it did. Humo Lento Mezcal. Made by hand. Made to be savoured. Please enjoy responsibly.

This is for the early risers. For the ones who were pouring concrete before the sun came up. The nurses coming off a double. The farmers, the truckers, the teachers grading papers at the kitchen table. For the line cooks. The linemen. The folks who fix what everyone else breaks. For anyone who's ever worked all week, come home tired, and still found the energy to fire up the grill for the neighbours. This one's for you. Flatacre Lager has been brewed in the same town, by the same families, for eighty years. Golden, crisp, and honest. No gimmicks. No fancy talk. Just a good cold beer at the end of a hard day. So when the work is done, and the porch light's on, and the crickets are starting up... Crack one open. You earned it. Flatacre Lager. Brewed for the ones who build it. Please enjoy responsibly.

For years, my evenings started the same way. Kettle off. Coat off. Glass of something. Then last January, I decided to try a month without. Just to see. The hardest part wasn't the drink. It was the moment. The clink of ice. The little pause at the end of the day that says, right, that's work done. A friend gave me a bottle of Unwound. It's a non-alcoholic spirit, distilled with juniper, grapefruit peel, pink peppercorn and a warm hint of ginger. I poured it over ice, topped it with tonic, and added a slice of orange. It turns out the ritual was the point. Now I've got the clink, the pause and the flavour, and I wake up on Saturday feeling like a person. I don't call it giving something up. I call it Tuesday. Unwound. Non-alcoholic spirits for grown-up evenings. Open the bottle. Close the day.