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:
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.
This may not be considered strange, except that:- 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;
- 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;
- 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.
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.
Comments
The sixteen men of Tain are all that was left of the Lamed vav-niks, the Kabbalistic 36 righteous men of each generation, after a visit to the Laphroaig distillery. We should be grateful that many made it out, I suppose.
Malt whisky is a delight, only spoilt by being regurgitated suddenly and unexpectedly, or blown out through the nose during a laughing fit. Both seem to burn more than on the way down, and leave lasting trauma, in my experience.
Thanks for the update on the Sixteen Men of Tain. I'd wondered if they were the remnants of the Lamed vav-nik tragedy, but wasn't sure enough of my facts to mention them.
I don't know much about whiskey, just know not to keep it in the house when I'm living alone in some third world country.
Last year I was exited to have a buddy come to Shanghai - he turned up with a bottle of Chivas Regal, but then took off to Beijing by train the same day.
Depressed, as I'd been so looking forward to having a mate stay, I drank half the bottle and went out and picked up an ugly Fillapina. The next day she woke me up and asked for money. I then had to go to work sweating whiskey and shame.
Asia and whiskey - a bad combo. I don't think I've touched the stuff in a year.
The same friend just the other night asked me if I still had the bottle! One of those people who has a huge collection of liquor they never drink. Wish I was more like that.
Firstly, may I say what a pleasure it is to have a lady commenting in the graveyard, and not before time.
Forgive me my peevishness, it stems from more than a decade trying to teach difficult foreigners our splendid tongue, ranging from the profoundly uninterested to the desperately keen and frustrated, both of whom tend to focus their disappointment on their hapless mentor.
Your defence of a Briton's right to bear liquor proves that you are more of a woman than I am, and that is almost definitely a good thing. I admit that I share your distrust of the teetotal, except the Dalai Lama, who pulls it off very well, in my humble opinion.
My comments were a personal reflection on mine own inability to handle the intoxicated effects of whisky, and should not be construed as an attack on the very British right to get bladdered as and when appropriate.
I remain, Madam, etc, etc.