When I was thirteen, I watched Billy Moore’s now infamous “Queenslander” chant during the 1995 State of Origin series. I remember thinking to myself that it was really nice of the Maroons to select such a high-profile sufferer of Tourette syndrome.

There’s only one thing more Queensland than that fabled Origin moment... and that’s Bundaberg Rum. In fact, Bundy is even more Sunshine State than Wally Lewis sticking a bunch of bananas up Ian Healey’s bumhole while on a fishing trip to the Great Barrier Reef.

I first tasted the cane cutters cordial at my friend Danni’s house as a fourteen year old. Convinced I could impress her with my drinking skills, I consumed enough rum to sedate every miner in Far North Queensland. I’m pretty sure I failed, unless she’s impressed with guys who burn their jeans in a bonfire and vomit on their Pearl Jam t-shirt.

Since then, I’ve had a bipolar relationship with the overbearing polar bear. Many Queenslanders refer to Bundaberg Rum as mother’s milk, whereas I like to think it’s more of an abusive stepmother’s formula. I can’t recall the number of mornings after sinking a dozen Bundy and Coke cans, that I’ve woken up feeling like I've actually spent the night with Ted Bundy.

So, what is it about the sickly golden distillate that makes me return, time and time again?

Well, I simply believe that it’s a case of religious indoctrination. As a teenager, I was a pious acolyte of the Church of Bundaberg Rum. With a polar bear as my pastor, I spent my weekends being relentlessly molested by molasses. Today, as an alcoholic alter boy, I still read from the Bundy Bible.

Hallelujah!