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About Tauranga

Oi, you donkey! Prostitute, yeah, that’s my bloody cat! Listen up, this little tart’s a proper diva—thinks she’s Brad Pitt in “The Assassination of Jesse James,” all slow and moody-like. “I’m gonna sit here, lick my arse, and stare at you like I’m plottin’ your doom!” she says with them eyes—fuckin’ hell, it’s creepy! Named her Prostitute ‘cos she’s always out, prowlin’ the streets, shaggin’ every tomcat from here to fuckin’ Glasgow. Vets like me see it—cats like her, they’re the real outlaws, mate.

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Brewed with an abundance of oats and fermented with our expressive house ale yeast, it's dry hopped, per usual, with bright and pungent Motueka and Nelson.

But then, I see this guy trying to sell some weird-looking fruit. I’m like, “What even is that?” He’s all hyped up, saying it’s a superfood. I’m skeptical, but I buy one. It’s gross. Like, who eats this stuff? I’m regretting my life choices, but hey, at least I can say I tried it, right?

Tiny home business ordered to cease activity on Motueka site