The sagas

rewritten by drunk monks and overconfident raiders…

A bottle of Feckit Lager beer on a wooden table surrounded by lit candles. In the background, a group of people are sitting at a long table, smiling and raising bottles in a toast in a warm, dimly lit setting.

Saga of the Half-Empty Horn

Feckit Larger edition

Long ago, in a smoky tavern somewhere between Dublin and Valhalla, Bjorn the Mild once tried to pace himself.
It was a mistake.

He swore one horn of beer would “do the job.” But halfway down, he began to question everything:
Why stop now?
Would Odin have stopped?
Would his ex, Freya the Fearsome, have stopped before throwing his axe out the window?

Bjorn raised his half-empty horn, muttered the sacred words “Ah, feck it”, and drained the rest.

Moments later he was wrestling a goat for honour (the goat won), composing poetry to the barmaid, and inventing what historians later called “karaoke.”

So raise your own half-empty horn. You’re already halfway to glory.

Feck It Lager — The Saga Starts Here.

A brown glass beer bottle labeled 'Feckit IPA' placed on a wooden surface with a dark background that includes a torch and a wall decor with a large spoon.

Battle of the Burning Tongue

Feckit IPA edition

They said only a fool would drink the brew of fire.
So naturally, Ragnar the Idiot volunteered first.

It began as a friendly wager — who could handle the “Bitter Breath of Loki,” a new pale ale brewed by monks who hated everyone equally.
Ragnar took one gulp, turned the colour of an embarrassed lobster, and declared,
“Tis grand! Burns like me mother’s temper!”

By the third sip, he was seeing visions of dragons, proposing to a barrel, and challenging the sun to “come outside if you’re hard enough.”
He lost that fight too.

Legend says his tongue still tingles in Valhalla.
Ours does too, after a pint of Feck It IPA.

Feck It IPA — Raid Your Tastebuds.

A bottle of Feckit stout beer on a wooden table next to a lit candle, with a blurred background of people sitting at a table in a dimly lit room.

                Darkness at Dawn                

Feckit Stout edition

When the night refused to end, Torvald the Sleepless decided to help it along.
He poured himself a pint so black the candles gave up trying to shine through it.

“Breakfast,” he declared.
“Dinner,” said the bartender.
“Feck it,” said Torvald, and drank anyway.

By sunrise, he’d written poetry to the moon, confessed his sins to a chair, and started a cult dedicated to “the sacred nap.”
They met every morning. They never accomplished anything.

But they did have perfect attendance.

Feck It Stout — Brings Out the Darkness in You.