FROM THE SUBLIMINAL TO THE RIDICULOUS

Last night I found myself collapsed on the sofa post-class with a glass of Burgundy Wood Finish Glenmorangie with ice in my hand, from which I periodically sipped.

This may not be considered strange, except that:

1. Some of my most embarrassing faux pas / wretched attempts to entice the ladies / chilling near-death experiences have involved the copious abuse of this distilled venom, leading to a repeated vow never to indulge in its intoxicating effects again for as long as I'm buying;
2. The last time I drank whisky was when I was inexplicably trying to impress a student of mine while posing as a scotch connoisseur, and ended up having to take the next day off work with a fever. I had decided to talk him through a tasting of the sublime single malt Cardhu, whose distillery I visited with a rather bemused Show whilst on honeymoon in Scotland (I'd had to find a subtle manner in which to stop my shaking without her becoming suspicious). My subsequent incapacitation speaks for itself;
3. Given points (1) and (2) above, I regard whisky drinking as an unpleasant experience to be struggled through, rather than a luxurious pleasure that conjures romantic images of peat bogs, damp Scottish landscapes and Gentlemens' Clubs where all one can hear is the rustle of the Daily Telegraph over the ticking of a grandfather clock.

When pouring the volatile liquid into the glass, I noticed the cardboard cylinder speaks of the whisky being Handcrafted by the Sixteen Men of Tain. Who are they? I wondered idly. Do they have plump, rosy-cheeked wives waiting for them after they've finished a hard day's handcrafting? Are they all members of the same rugby team, with the smallest one a mascot, or summat? Have they all been working there all their lives? What's their story? I wondered absently.

Only then did it dawn on me. I'd spent the afternoon transcribing several videos about a certain brand of whisky, mainly some slaphead droning on about how brilliant he was at marketing it. A piece of it suddenly sprang into my mind, causing a cold shiver to run the length of my hunched spine: "Brands must have a soul, myth, a legend. They must be made with passion, hand-crafted, be able to tell a story."

Another haunting passage reads "this luxuriously rich, creamy and honied scotch is now available to be celebrated by the more indulgent connoisseur. The champagne of scotch whisky."

I have always prided myself on my independence of thought and action, but in fact I have just found another way in which I am wrong.

I'm sure Show has already added it to the ever-growing list.