What If BrewDog Never Brewed Beer?

Back in the early 2000s, in Ellon, Scotland, a small company called BrewDog did not start by brewing beer. In this version of events, they looked at the soft drinks aisle, saw the same tired names staring back at them, and decided that cola was the thing worth picking a fight with.

At the time, soft drinks were pretty much sewn up. You had the global giants like Pepsi, Coca-Cola, Britvic, and Vimto, the same safe flavours, the same big brands, and the same kind of packaging trying to appeal to everyone at once. In theory there was plenty of choice, but not much that felt genuinely different once you got past the aisle and actually opened the bottle.

There was a gap in the market. If you were too old to get excited by bright, sugary pop, but did not want a pint, a diet drink, or some worthy adult cordial in a tiny glass bottle, the options were not exactly thrilling. Soft drinks were everywhere, but very little of it felt like it had any real point of difference. All too safe. All too samey.

So BrewDog, in this alternate timeline, did what BrewDog would probably do. They ignored the rules of the category, swerved the polished middle ground, and came out with something a bit rougher around the edges.

BrewDog Cola came first. Not a cheerful, family-friendly cola trying to please every taste bud in the room, but a darker, sharper, less sweet take on the familiar formula we all know and love. It felt like a drink made for people who had grown out of soft drinks, but still wanted one now and then.

It did not stop there. Once the first bottle landed, the range started to grow in the way all challenger brands seem to when they realise they have found a nerve worth pressing. BrewDog Orange took aim at the fizzy orange crowd, but with more bite, and yes, it felt like an even bigger slap, and less of that syrupy sweetness that makes one glass feel like enough for the month.

Then came BrewDog Doctor, which wore its influence on its sleeve without being daft about it. It was spiced, perhaps a bit peppery, a little odd, and quite happy to be divisive. It was also one of those drinks that was genuinely difficult to describe properly.

BrewDog Very Berry followed, richer and deeper than the usual purple pop, and importantly not an anagram of "vomit", and BrewDog Tropical turned up with enough fruit character to make you think of the Caribbean, while reminding you that tropical does not have to mean sugar first and flavour second.

The point was never to make soft drinks for everyone. In fact, that would have ruined the whole thing. BrewDog only works as an idea if it feels like it belongs to people who are bored of being sold the same thing over and over again with a different colour label and a new TV advert. The mischievous owners of BrewDog had a vision. They wanted to stand out from the crowd and push the soft drink envelope. Not everyone got it.

The branding would have reflected that from day one. No cartoon fruit, no forced fun, no fake craft language trying too hard to sound premium. Just bold labels, strong type, a slightly gritty look, and enough confidence to let the name do the heavy lifting.

You can imagine the line sitting on the bottle too. Not pop. Not perfect. That is the kind of phrase that tells you exactly what sort of drink this is meant to be. It is not apologising for being a soft drink, and it is not dressing itself up as a health product either. It just knows what it is.

That is why the idea sticks. Even now, if you walk into a supermarket and look at the soft drinks aisle, there is more choice than there used to be, but most of it still feels strangely safe. More zero sugar, more flavour twists, more functional claims, but not much that feels genuinely rebellious or distinct.

Adult soft drinks, when they do appear, often go one of two ways. They either become stripped-back and slightly joyless, or they turn into something functional that promises focus, energy, hydration, or some other life upgrade. What you rarely get is a proper soft drink with attitude that is there to be enjoyed because it tastes interesting and has a bit of character.

That is where BrewDog would have made sense. Not as a health drink, not as a nostalgia play, and not as some gimmicky novelty. It would have worked as a proper challenger soft drinks brand for people who still like fizz, flavour, and a bit of theatre, but have no interest in drinks that feel like they were designed for a children’s party.

And if BrewDog really wanted to be BrewDog about it, they would not have stopped at a standard range. They would have gone way over the top with it, because that is half the fun of imagining this whole thing in the first place.

You can picture the first big stunt already. BrewDog Imperial Cola. Not stronger in the alcoholic sense, obviously, but stronger in flavour, darker in profile, loaded with plenty of kola nut character, and pitched as a cola for people who think ordinary cola is too timid. A limited run, naturally. Numbered bottles, loads of noise, and just enough scarcity to make people either desperate to try it or deeply annoyed by the whole thing.

That would be the genius of it. Treat cola the way craft beer brands treat special releases. Build anticipation, make a fuss, and create drinks that sound faintly ridiculous until you realise that people would absolutely buy them just to see what the fuss was about.

From there, the flavour spin-offs almost write themselves. BrewDog Cola: Mango Cut. BrewDog Cola: Peach Paradise. Maybe even something a bit darker and weirder for the people who like saying they only buy the difficult one. These would not be childish fruit versions. They would need to feel deliberate, slightly off-centre, and adult enough to justify existing.

Imagine the limited edition BrewDog US range, stuffed full of high-fructose corn syrup, the kind of drink where you can almost feel your heart quietly questioning your life choices with every sip.

There is also something quite funny about imagining BrewDog applying its old beer-launch energy to fizzy drinks. Limited batches. Loud claims. Packaging that takes itself just seriously enough. Headlines about the boldest cola they have ever made, followed by a backlash from people saying it has all gone too far. In other words, exactly the kind of response they would probably want.

And that is the real charm of the idea. It is absurd, but only just. The more you think about it, the more it feels like a category that was sitting there waiting for someone to have a proper go at it. Not a me-too cola. Not another worthy adult mixer. Something with a bit of swagger, a bit of flavour, and enough confidence to accept that not everybody is going to love it.

Of course, that is not what happened. BrewDog chose beer, and the rest is real history. But the soft drinks gap they might have filled in this alternate version of events still feels very real, which is probably why the idea of BrewDog and soft drinks lingers a bit longer than it should.

Because if a company from Ellon had decided, all those years ago, that the soft drinks aisle needed shaking up, you can imagine the result quite clearly. It would not have been neat. It would not have been safe. It would not have tried to please everybody.

It might still have been called BrewDog. And, if we are honest, a lot of people would have bought it. I would have.