Drinking for Scotland

Slainte mhath, legal liquid drug dealers of Scotland!

2010-11-10T09:50:00.000-08:00

I gave up drinking for 31 days, once. Made a radio programme out of it. And then I went back to my Friday night red wine, my couple of whiskies a week, my beer and skittles. Without the skittles..

The occasional binge, too, in the sense of combining beer, wine and whisky in doses calculated to leave me slumped in an armchair, dribbling and snoring while Jools Holland once again elbows his mediocre piano into some hapless, desperate performer's arrangement. Later. And later, and later, and later...

But in Caledonian terms, my binges do disservice to the word. I am, to put it mildly, a lightweight these days when it comes to booze. I hate, always hated being drunk, and now, when I find myself in social gatherings where alcohol is being taken, I usually safeguard my exit route before even beginning to imbibe. I ensure there's a way home, or out, and when the boredom begins to seep through, when dehydration starts to sandpaper the thrapple, I make my excuses and leave. Or switch to Ribena.

I hang out with connoisseurs, sometimes. People who drink professionally, or who, to be more precise, describe whiskies for a living. Indeed, I have done this myself, though I always have to fight back the giggles, as there's something essentially ridiculous about the striving to differentiate single malts, one from Glen t'other. Yes, they are different, but in the way grades of heroin and cocaine are different. The taste is not the point of whisky. It's meant to do a job on you, enliven, inebriate, dull, destroy. Like Keith Richards' obsessive hailing of Merck pharmaceutical 'fluffy' cocaine in his recent autobiography. Push comes to sniff, dirty lumps of Bolivian or Columbian crack or factory-made Swiss snow are drugs that deliver the same message to heart, brain and body. Whisky is a delivery vehicle for alcohol.

They are, for the most part, lovely folk, the dope dealers of the whisky trade. They are more than respectable, occasionally hilarious, often charming. It's an area of Scottish life absolutely awash with money, and the marketing of uisge beatha has always been cutting edge, from the days of Tommy Dewar onwards. Doubtless he would have been happy to be called a brand ambassador. Maybe not an evangelist.

Whisky is now so suffused with lore, mythology tall tales, anal-retentive male compulsions and downright bullshit that you'd think it was some kind of art. It's not. It's a drug, disguised for its many niche and mass markets in the form of a social badge, a collector's trophy, a mind-blowing display of wealth (silver, gold, platinum and diamonds encrusting a bottle? You got it) a signifier of coolness, of belonging.

Expertise has become the latest marketing tool. Whisky clubs and societies have sprung up worldwide, whisky festivals (I admit it. I participate. I talk phenols and oakiness, caramel and esters, washbacks and mash tuns. I judge whisky competitions, for goodness' sake) see wise heads, young and old, slurping and nodding over rarities in hotel function suites. Notes are taken, words are slurred, stairs fallen down. A great deal of fun is had. Money changes hands. Lots and lots of money. Mantras? Excess is good. Greed is good. throw the cork away. Moderation is for sissies.

Elsewhere, the same companies slosh alcopops and factory-made sweet spirits into underage bellies. industrial scale drinking is encouraged at the annual alcofest-with-music that is Pee in the Dark, or T in the Park. Scotland goes out on a Friday and gets rat-arsed, crashes cars, kills pedestrians, freezes to death in a park. Slashes, burns, abuses, fights, smashes, damages. Does the same again on Saturday. Maybe a a few Smirnoff Ices on a Sunday to ease the way back into work on a Monday. Or just miss Monday out, why not? Internationally, countries in Africa, Asia and the Americas are targeted. Drink this, it'll make you...richer, more attractive, it'll make you belong. One glass makes you bigger, one glass make you small...

Hey, let's not forget the weans. Foetal alcohol syndrome, anyone? Och, how can you have sex anyway if you aren't pished? Brain damage. Shrinkage. Fits. The meaningless rubbish that's sold only to mess you up, like Carlsberg Special, originally brewed specifically for Winston Churchill's visit to Denmark after the war, now the tipple of choice for oblivion merchants everywhere.

Tomorrow, the Scottish Parliament will vote on party political lines and eradicate the proposed bill that would set a minimum price for alcohol in Scotland. Spurious arguments will be advanced that raising the price of a unit of rotgut cider will cause terrible damage to the economy, and won't stop folk boozing unwisely anyway. Education is all. have a wee dram. Smell the history, the geography, the culture.

I don't believe that for a moment. I am afraid that the drug dealers have once again flexed their considerable muscle and quashed the first serious attempt to tackle the shame that is Scotland's relationship with alcohol. Gutless, ignorant, hidebound politicians have cowered before them.

So. That's that, then. Might as well go out and get pished, eh? Just remember this salient fact: Two single malts: that's enough to destroy your ability to appreciate their quality. After that, you might as well switch to Old Gumripper or Glen Haemorrhage. Slainte!

The Malt and Barley Revue - excerpts now online

2010-03-25T16:14:00.001-07:00

The Malt and Barley Revue is an hour-long combination of whisky tasting, music, poetry, comedy and plain old chat about Scotland, alcohol and the results of that potent cocktail. It's both a great night out, a chance to taste wonderful examples of Scotland's national drink, and a thought-provoking meditation on the good and bad aspects of consuming said liquid...

A couple of chunks - Iron Brew In The Soul and Whisky Roses - have been added to The Malt and Barley Revue Myspace site, for your interest, delectation and delight.

If you want to cut and paste the address, it's

http://www.myspace.com/thomasmaccalmanmorton

Radio Scotland Under the Influence season begins...

2009-10-01T07:39:00.000-07:00

....Sunday 4th October. I'm on MacAulay and Co on Monday 5th to talk about it all, and my own two series When The Pubs Went Dry and Drinking for Scotland - the latter features some excerpts from this very blog!

http://bbc.co.uk/radioscotland

All future posts at The Beatcroft

2009-07-31T03:10:00.001-07:00

The Beatcroft
http://beatcroft.blogspot.com

40 whiskies in a row: The good, the bad and the horrible

2009-07-21T04:53:00.001-07:00

Now THAT was a truly bizarre, and enlightening experience.

I'd been asked ages ago to be one of the judges for the Independent Bottlers' Challenge, a competition in which the top indie bottlers of malt whisky submit their goods to be rated, blind, by a team of entirely sober people. No need for faffing about with colourful descriptions, just simple points out of ten, down to 0.1 and up to 9.9.

But I wasn't really expecting the box of 40 (yes, forty)single malt whiskies that arrived in the post at the weekend. Thirty, no less, Islay malts, the rest 'Island (non-Islay)' Miniatures, I hasten to add. But still.

How to go about it? Tempting as it was to be sociable and invite others to participate, I decided this would be a mistake. I had to go it alone and take it seriously. But how to set baseline parameters? What IS a 'ten' in whisky terms?

First of all, I decided to model my approach on that of John Ramsay, recently retired master blender for the Edrington Group. That meant no swallowing, a reduction with water (though John likes to go for 20 per cent alcohol, I prefer it marginally stronger), sniffing both without and with H2O, a spitoon, a teaspoon, tasting glass and a careful regard for colour. I also decided to tackle all 40 in one day, as I didn't trust my tastebuds to remain constant in their perceptiveness. This was all about comparisons, after all.

The bottles had numbers, not names, though alcoholic strength and age was indicated. To begin with, I went through the sniffing/tasting/sitting ritual with a bottling I have of Bruichladdich Infinity, which I both like and have suspicions of in equal measure. I made that a five, and got stuck in.

I don't want in any way to affect the outcome of the competition if other judges are reading this, so I'll restrict myself to generalities. First, considering there were 30 Islay malts, the variation, even in style, was astonishing. There were drams so heavily sherried their trademark peat was all but masked. There were mild, creamy, American-oak lightweights. There were horrible aberrations tasting of diesel or reeking of ( and I never thought I would actually say this,as I thought this was joke taste)burning tyres. The thought that somebody liked them enough to bottle them was awe-inspiring.

But there were some gems. Unexpected ones too, given the indicated ages. The truth about whisky that dare not speak its name is this: some casks are crap. Always were, always will be. Every year, aged, bad whisky that can't salvaged by decanting and ageing in different wood is recycled into the wash for re-distilling.

The question I'm asking is this: are my faculties completely awry, or are some independent bottlings so bad they ought never to have left the distillery?

And the observation I'm making is, that if I'd swallowed (even the two-teaspoon measure I was using) the alcohol would have unbalanced my opinion after maybe four whiskies, increasing affection and robbing me of objectivity. As it was, when finished, despite the inevitable absorption through the mouth, I felt as if I'd consumed maybe a pint of shandy.

End of an epic motorcycle/whisky trip around Scotland...

2009-06-12T04:26:00.000-07:00

...and much more here. There will be magazine articles, a TV series on Single Malt TV, the release of the Journey's Blend whisky, an auction and a book. I have to say that I'm about to begin a month of sobriety as part of an impending radio series with the same name as this blog. Details to follow.

I'm in the Mcdonalds at Kirriemuir, heading north on the A90 to get the boat home tonight. And it's done! The Journey's Blend blend is complete, expertly put together by Edrington's head of all things blendiferous, John Ramsay, at the Glenturret distillery just outside Crieff. Also the site of the Famous Grouse Experience, hence the giant...bird thing.

It was absolutely brilliant watching John at work - using five whiskies collected on the trip - Highland Park, Kilchoman, Glengarioch, Bladnoch (most northerly, westerly, easterly and southerly, respectively) plus Glenturret itself, which is almost at the dead centre of Scotland. The exact proportions must remain a secret, but John, using his decades of experience, came up with a formula based on an exacting tasting of each whisky. I'll describe the process in more detail later. suffice to say that we did three variant blends, but the first was best. Brilliant, in fact.

Afterwards we repaired to the absolutely superb Barley Bree in Muthill for dinner - best of the trip, and one of the best I've ever had in Scotland). This morning, Rob Draper from Singlemalt TV carried out his final interviews (look out for two programmes on the trip soon) and we parted, Rob and his son Paul so impressed with the Barley Bree they're staying on, Ken and Rob Allanson heading for Cambridgeshire. Next year, America. Apparently.

A trip and a wee hauf...

2009-04-17T05:12:00.001-07:00

It's all Rob Allanson's fault. He's the editor of Whisky Magazine, rides a motorbike and...well, I'll let him tell the tale.

"In June myself and BBC Scotland presenter, whisky writer and
motorbike nut Tom Morton (let's not forget he travelled to every
distillery in Scotland using an ancient sidecar outfit) are heading
out on a bit of a epic long distance whisky trip entitled Journey¹s
Blend. To help out and document the trip a photographer and mechanic will complete the two wheeled entourage.
The idea will be to travel the compass points visiting the more
extreme distilleries and selecting whisky that will be shipped to the
hub of the circle to create a blended malt.

So starting at Highland Park, we head to Kilchoman, then Bladnoch and
Glen Garioch before finishing at Glenturret taking about five days to do it.
At Glenturret, Edrington's master blender and whisky creator supreme
John Ramsay has agreed to pull the blend together. The result, just 50
bottles in all, which will be presented in a bespoke engraved
Glencairn Crystal bottle, will be unveiled at Whisky Live Glasgow, and
some of the proceeds will go to the Parkinson¹s Disease Society in honour of Michael Jackson."

(Tom points out, helpfully, to non-whisky connoisseurs, that this Michael Jackson is NOT the allegedly-still-living-singer, but the late and legendary whisky and beer writer.)

"Also to lend the project an air of sophistication, British bike
manufacturer Triumph has agreed to lend a couple of modern classics. I
have to say I cannot wait to ride a Bonneville. It¹s a bike I have
always wanted to ride, the essence of British motorbiking and
engineering. With its wonderful burbling exhaust note, I know it will
be hard to part with it after so many miles. Mind you the trip is also
a dream come true. It's all about the bikes and whisky, both taken very responsibly, obviously."

Co-op Fairtrade Carmenere and back on the Pravastatin

2009-04-13T23:22:00.000-07:00

...discovered, I insist, long before Victoria Moore lauded it in The Guardian. Best £4.99 buy in Brae, that's for sure.

Doesn't mix with Simvastatin, though. That's a nasty little way of lowering cholestorol! But it's ultra cheap, so expect your GP to at least get you to try it...

Crosses the blood-brain barrier, though, so it can unleash all kinds of side effects. Notably, in my case, with even a glass of wine, raging dizziness and pains in the legs.

Pravastatin, which I've been on for years, seems to be OK.

Oh, and did I mention that the 30-day teetotalism went well? Aff it for the week, again - stuff to do.

Day 31: they think it's all over...and it sort of is.

2009-04-07T02:21:00.000-07:00

So, 30 days and 30 nights...I look slightly thinner ( a few pounds, nothing serious) slightly less puffy around the eyes. I've eaten more, drunk more tea (though less coffee) fitted an exhaust system to the Suzuki, done a little more walking and no running to speak of, written several songs, bought two guitars, sold one, bought a canoe, written several poems and knocked together the live show called 'Tom Morton's Drinking for Scotland', which has been booked for the Co-op Verb Garden at the Belladrum Festival. Oh, and set up a company to do specialised PR, designed business cards and flyers, had them printed and built a basic website. Plus a radio show, of course.

Would most of that would have happened had I been drinking? Not in 30 days...

Thing is, I'm going to have to do this again later in the year for real...sorry, for radio...och, anyway. I'll have a wee glass of wine tonight (Chilean Merlot) and see how I feel.

Meanwhile, here's a poem from Drinking for Scotland:Live -

The Nominated Driver

(A shorter version was written for Shetland Library's 'Bards in the Bogs' scheme, but the site specific nature of the poem probably told against it: it can only be displayed at the Voe toilets, an important, nay crucial staging post on the long road, the A970, between Lerwick and the North Mainland, especially if drink has been taken on board in Coalfishreek).

THE NOMINATED DRIVER

The nominated driver sits
And most deliberately shits

It's three AM, midsummer, Voe
He didn't really need to go

And this is most unsalubrious
The graffitti extremely dubious

The chauffeur needed to take a break
Though agreeing to drive was no mistake

He's never really liked the drink
With it, he finds, he just can't think

Straight, crooked, birly - any way
So sober, now, he likes to stay

And sometimes, he'll take his friends to town
And watch them pour the draught beer down

Their conversation, brilliant or slight
To him all just the purest shite

He sips his iced Coke, a dash of bitters
A cocktail found in literature

In Raymond Chandler's Marlowe thrillers
Drunk by the hero, not the killers

And not by Chandler, to tell the truth
Who died a hopeless, gibbering drouth

(A different Chandler from the one in Friends
Though they may come to similar ends)

Anyway, tonight, they went
to Posers, until the cash was spent

And now they're heading home, to Brae
Next week, though, he'll make them pay

For valeting his car, the bonnet
Even now is smeared with vomit.

And the back seat is soaked in piss
They aimed for a cider can and missed

So. In the crapper at Upper Voe
It's nearly time for him to go

They're singing Hank Williams and Steve Earle
Dreaming of missed chances with girls

They'll remember nothing of this night
The falling down, being sick, the fights

But the nominated driver will
In the toilet he's writing still

In his notebook, with great care
All sorts of things are detailed there

For staying sober there are compensations
He retains a wealth of information

All documented, filed and stored
Ready to settle any score

So never underestimate
Sobriety's capacity to hate

Always suspect that teetotal bloke
If he puts bitters in his Coke.

Teetotal day 28, verging on 29: the cost of alcohol.

2009-04-04T16:49:00.000-07:00

Strong tea. Mug after mug today (Scottish Blend), consumed with great lip-smacking, soul-quenching relish.

Extraordinary piece in The Guardian by Chris Paling, a diary of his 30-odd days in a hospital ward specialising in alcohol-related stomach and liver complaints. Disturbing, especially as I've been daydreaming about a moderate return to imbibing come day 31, which is Tuesday.

Hmmm...perhaps not. Even with a large chunk of the family in Pisa, quaffing Frascati...

I do think the proposed 50p per unit minimum price for alcohol is absolutely justified. The argument that it somehow discriminates against 'sensible' drinkers is complete tosh. A 50 per unit bottle of wine is less than £6. It's only once wine gets above a fiver a bottle that you start paying a reasonable amount for the actual wine, as opposed to tax. Fifty pence a unit discriminates against insensible drinkers. Or to be exact, folk who use alcohol as a convenient anaesthetic/social lubricant, and don't really care about the taste.

Discrimination is the key. We should all be connoisseurs!

Day 27. An urgent need for a fried breakfast...

2009-04-03T02:59:00.000-07:00

...to deal with the shock of having witnessed Lulu the St Bernard summarily dispatching one of the hens. Susan won't be pleased. Especially is it was one of the two chickens I couldn't persuade into the safety of the newly-built fowl stockade.

Anyway. I've done the out-with-pals-at-the-pub thing, now I have a weekend on my own just to wrap up this 30-day stint of teetotalism. Lots to do, including fitting the new exhaust for the Suzuki and writing the sequel to Serpentine. Must get on!

Day 24: not even thinking about it anymore

2009-03-31T03:54:00.000-07:00

My first job in TV was to present a documentary about alcohol. Part of that involved attending the dissection of an alcoholic's brain, and interviewing the pathologist during and after the operation.

The alcoholic concerned was, you will be happy to know, well and truly dead, and had been for quite some time.

We watched (and filmed. On PROPER film too, none of this video rubbish)as the skull was sawn open and the brain sliced. The single most memorable fact for me was the shrinkage of the brain, a shrivelling.

Over the past 23 days, I've visualised my own sober cerebellum expanding to fill the yawning spaces inside my skull, all the time awaiting great new insights, creativity and feats of memory.

So...

Day 22: Diet coke, coffee, Shloer (grape) and honey chilli chicken chow mein...

2009-03-29T12:34:00.000-07:00

To my favourite Chinese takeaway, just down from the awfulness that is my regular hotel in the Granite City. Secure parking and within BBC budget, though. It's either that or the Salvation Army.
In Aberdeen, still not tempted by red wine or whisky. Much.

I was amazed the old Suzuki GS1000G (American model, shaft drive, 80s muscle bike) started almost immediately after five months untouched in Stewart's garage. Not only, that, it needed nothing doing before blasting off towards Aberdeen today, fortunately in dry, if very windy weather. And that bulletproof Japanese parallel four never gave a hint of trouble. Much nicer to ride than my last bike, the much more modern BMW R1100R.

The John Gillan gig went well, I think, slightly low on numbers maybe, but a good 100 or so folk. All kudos to Funk Connection (11 of them) for donating their fee to Roxburghe House, the hospice in which John spent his last days.

It was a hard slog for me, playing across an empty dancefloor through loud foldback, plus a Phenergan and NorthLink hangover, to an invisible and largely inaudible audience. The songs are all about the lyrics, really...some nice comments afterwards, though, and it was all in a good cause.

Ridiculous £40 single for the train to Glasgow yesterday, but great to see Magnus. Out to Clydebank to get the bike, and then dinner with Mag and old pals Stewart, Maggie and Gill. F

Day 19. Goin' South.

2009-03-26T06:09:00.000-07:00

I'm getting lazy - this is basically the same as today's Beatcroft post. All I can say is that I STILL haven't had anything to drink, though I did sniff some Macleod's single malt last night. The aroma thereof, not the liquid itself. Just to see if it appealed. It didn#t it smelt of plastic and nail varnish remover.

Catching the boat tonight to Aberdeen.

Originally, I was transporting James to the National Youth Orchestra rehearsal weekend, which has been cancelled. On the back of that, I organised the collection on Sunday of my Suzuki GS1000 from Stewart's garage in Clydebank, and, when I was asked to m/c and play at the John Gillan Memorial Concert in Aberdeen, I was happy to agree.

Deal was I'd then stay in Glasgow with James and Magnus until Susan brought Martha down to the mainland for her orchestra rehearsals. Alas, we've not found anyone to look after the dogs, so I'm now hastening back across the Great Sea of Separation so Susan and the boys can go gallivanting in (wait for this!) Pisa. The one in Italy.

I get to babysit Lulu.

Oh well. I'm looking forward to the gig tomorrow night, actually, with Funk Connection and Wray Gunn and the Rockets. First live outing for the battered old Fender Malibu I bought recently on eBay.

The gig will celebrate the life of John Gillan, a well-known figure on the north-east music scene, a former Lemon Tree DJ who also worked at Bruce Miller's. All proceeds go to the hospice Roxburghe House.

See you there!

Day 17 - tested by Muscadet

2009-03-24T17:18:00.000-07:00

...but not that hard. I had probiotic drinking yoghurt instead. Better with chilli.

Coffee consumption going down,I think - one bad latte, one very good double espresso.

Day 14: why have my breadmaking skills deserted me?

2009-03-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

Truly felt like a beer or three, not during the Calcutta Cup (fell asleep) but the unnervingly tense, classically brutal and joyously old skool Wales-Ireland match. Really, it was crying out for Guinness. Or preferably Murphy's. Or it was crying out for me.

Still, I can sit and remember my first encounter with Murphy's Stout, back in 1978, in Cork. I had checked into one of those classic commercial hotels, I think called the Railway Inn, during a journalistic assignment to check out the imminent Irish oil boom (ah, the Porcupine Trough, out there in the Atlantic). I remember going down to the bar, where that precursor to Father Ted, the sitcom Oh! Father! was on the telly. I ordered Guinness, but of course they only had Murphy's on draught.

I have mever tasted a pint like that one. Creamy, sweeter than the Dublin stout, delicate and somehow, spiritually enlivening. At that time, Murphy's was unavailable in the rest of the UK. I bought several bottles to take back with me - weirdly shaped things, like milk bottles - but of course it tasted thin and dull back in Glasgow.

Now, I think I'll have a cup of tea, while waiting for my disastrous bread to bake. I don;t know what's going on, but for the last fortnight, my normally dependable breadmaking skills seem to have deserted me. After more than three months now of having no shop-bought bread in the house...

It's the revenge of the yeast!

Day 12. Ho hum...

2009-03-19T16:28:00.000-07:00

I'm finding that I get a lot more done.

Must be all that coffee. I've also discovered an abiding passion for cake.

Teetotal Ten

2009-03-17T14:32:00.000-07:00

Susan was right. Drink or the lack thereof stops being an issue. So much. Lovely day, as well, which cheers everyone and everything well and truly up

And what's more, I successfully made it through today without consuming any chocolate. Well, apart from the chips (the tiny, tiny chips) in the biscuits I ate during the programme. A bad idea. Biscuits always make me choke.

Onwards and upwards. I made some melon, raspberry and carrot smoothies earlier, but no-one will drink them but me.

Day eight, Sunday. Exercise and sausages.

2009-03-15T05:01:00.000-07:00

Third fierce coffee of the day. Dave Hammond and his German TV producer colleague arrived aboard the Charles Lidbury, the Severn-class Aith Lifeboat. I was out for a wee walk-cum-jog along the Ness of Hillswick when I heard its motors, and then she (why is it 'she' if the name is Charles?) came powering down Ura Firth with a bone in her teeth. Thrilling sight. The RNLI is my default charity. Let's face it, as Mr Hammond says, if you live on an island and mess about in boats, it's not giving to charity, it's insurance.

By the way, it's quite a calm day, misty and warm for winter. That picture's courtesy of the RNLI.

Meanwhile, Susan, used to long stretches of teetotalism due to being on call, assures me that after a fortnight you just stop thinking about alcohol. I suppose it's a sign of its importance in my life that, while I have no real compulsion to have a drink, it's on my mind a lot. But, hey. It's 30 days. And there's always caffeine.

Just started John Bingham's book No Need for Speed: A Beginner's guide to the Joy of Running. The fates seem to be ganging up on me, dangling trainers and trackie bottoms. At the moment, I feel vaguely sick after jogging 100 yards. Mr Bingham's 'walking and jogging' regime seems sort of civilised. We shall see. Bicycles seem more fun.

Seven days: No non-alcoholic beer in Lerwick!

2009-03-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

Coke Zero (2)
Britvic J2O (1)
Coffee (Equal Exchange fair trade dark roast beans)(4)
Nambarrie tea (2)
Two-finger Kit-Kats (2)
Mini Mars Bar (1)

Cheese...now there's an idea.

Searched for non-alcoholic beer (both Furstenberg and Becks do good ones) but nothing in Lerwick. Good grief, that J2O stuff is horrible. Slimy fruit juice. Apparently you can get it in alcopop form.

That's twice I've walked out of the Co-op and once from Tesco in the last four weeks, unable to thole waiting at checkouts. This time, trying to buy a Guardian at Tesco ( I know, I know) a huge queue developed behind a man to whom BOTH staff devoted what seemed like hours. A man who was trying to claim money from last week's lottery ticket. Except it wasn't last week's at all, it was tonight's...

Day six: it's Friday; have a cup of tea

2009-03-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

How does alcohol function in someone's life? Well, if life is a video, alcohol is:

(1) The fast forward button, zipping you through the boring bits. Unfortunately, it leaves you bedraggled and unable to cope quite as well with the interesting stuff as you otherwise might have. Not to mention fatter and more out of breath.

(2) The on-off switch. Turning off so that, when you switch back on again, everything seems clearer and more comprehensible. Or, on the other hand, not.

(3) The eject control. Alcohol, as anyone who's tried to write something will know, can, in suitable quantities, allow your mind to flip right over into another story, another way of looking at things. Swop Mamma Mia for Citizen Kane. Or vice versa.

(4) Focus. It can make the movie look sharper, clearer, better. Or fuzzier.

"Between briliance and oblivion/that's the condition that I'm living in."

Or, on the other hand, there's tea. Anyway, that's day six, which has included my first unhungover morning flight back to Shetland in recent history. Less scary. Fewer palpitations. Gone are the British Airways Budgie days when they would serve brandy with your morning coffee...

Note to self: do not substitute buying guitars on eBay for alcohol...

Teetotal day four: the woman who poured my Amrut whisky down the toilet

2009-03-11T16:07:00.000-07:00

I have never been searched more thoroughly. Well, my hand luggage, anyway. Sumburgh security is legendary for its detailed rummaging through bags, and I thought I'd removed everything confiscatable. But I'd missed the pewter whisky flask (50th birthday present from old pal Stewart)full of Amrut Indian single malt (unfiltered and world-class, really).

"You can only carry this on board if it's empty," said the woman in charge. I looked at her. She looked at me. I thought, 'this is only day four, and if I don't drink this...'

"Would you mind," I said, "getting rid of it for me?" She took the flask into the toilet and returned it, empty. I feel confident she didn't drink it.

Glumly, I drank mineral water on the flight, which was bumpy as hell. But I had sour cream pretzels.

Day three: Dreams of Guinness and dust

2009-03-10T05:58:00.000-07:00

No, really. Proper, hallucinogenic dreams last night involving a bar where the gantry was all clear, empty glasses and bottles, and Guinness, extra cold, on draught. I could taste it.

That and a road coated in white, choking dust.

Not that I'm a great fan of Guinness. I did have a transcendent experience in Cork in 1978, where I first tasted Murphy's Stout. Much nicer.

Thing is, I woke up without any desire for an alcoholic drink. I've only ever been tempted in that direction on two, mega-hungover occasions, one involving a funeral. No, what I wanted was tea and some of my fresh-baked bread. Which, I must admit, did taste a bit yeasty...

Anyway, I've decided that for the next 27 days I will not stint on grub, eating what I like, without guilt. So today at 11.45 am I was in the Skipidock scoffing macaroni cheese and chips with real enjoyment. Yum.

Moderation Management and the First 30...day two

2009-03-09T11:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a thing: Moderation Management is an organisation set up to help folk who want to cut down (but not necessarily give up) on their drinking of alcohol. It's the un-Alcoholics Anonymous. Have a read at their estimable website for more.

MM have one rule: you can't drink moderately, they say, unless you can do a straight 30 days without touching a drop. I've done this once previously - annotated in the late lamented 'Soda Water and Lime' blog - and, in the run-up to the radio series I'll be doing soon about alcohol and its attendant health and social issues (working title: How Not to Drink)I'm having a go at it again.

So far, this is day two. Day one doesn't really count, as, after a splendid night out at friends, I was in a Martin-Amis-after-Interviewing-Antony-Burgess state of hungoverness yesterday.

So far, so easy. I know it won't begin to bite until Friday, that-end-of-the-week-reward moment. The remnants of a toxic headache remain to taunt me with the words: gin, red, white, Balvenie, Grouse. Enough, already.

I'll be using this blog as diary and reminder to keep on the straight and narrow, with some asides into hopefully interesting drink-related territory. If I become a sobriety bore, do tell.

(One of) the other Tom Morton(s) breaks cover

2009-02-23T03:36:00.000-08:00

I've been aware for some time of the existence of several other Tom Mortons working in what might generalise as 'the media.' This one broke cover the other night in Channel Four News. He appears to be some kind of advertising guru.

There's another TM in Australia, a broadcaster and writer, oddly enough, and I once appeared at book reading in a school to find a display of one of his books artfully arranged behind me. There's a dead Tom Morton, acclaimed painter; and there's Tom Morton the curator of the Cubitt Gallery in London, also a writer.

It may have been one of these TMs or a different one entirely who wrote an article recently for MicroMart about gaming, thus occasioning my father to get in touch, anxiously wondering how I'd acquired all this abstruse knowledge about Grand Theft Auto and the like.

It wisnae me.

Thing is, though, should I change my name to avoid confusion? Is it up to me?
Who am I, anyway? Thomas MacCalman Morton is my full name. How about T MacCalman Morton, a soubriquet I have used on occasion when wishing to appear pretentious. Or Tom MacCalman Morton. Or, to return to the name I was universally known by until university, Tommy Morton?

Up helly Aa and the process of recovery

2009-02-22T14:12:00.000-08:00

I presume that vikings didn't drink whisky, or indeed claret. Or, for that matter, Coca Cola and Tennents Lager (from separate tins; mixing the two is not advised).

My alcohol consumption on the night of the Northmavine fire festival involved wine with dinner, more wine at the Hilswick Hall (one of those tiny aeroplane bottles), a tin of lager and a tin of coke. I always like to mix my drinks on such occasions. But it was the two whiskies that both lifted things towards the end of the night (a wee livener, as they say) and left me in a state of post-festivity fuzziness next day.

I have no idea what the whisky was. It was probably Bells. Certainly, my head was ringing like one yesterday. The red wine was...red. Sort of winey.

In other words, a good time was had. You'll forgive me if my powers of description and analysis seem to have taken as much of a battering as my liver. I don't think vikings were very big on nosing their drinks. It was probably a side effect of all that fly agaric.

Anyway, what I should really have had was dark rum, as in Watson's Trawler, Navy rum or Stewart's. Dark rum is a traditional favourite in Shetland, probably due to the islands' maritime heritage. In fact, Stewart's is now wholly Shetland owned, after it was discovered that 90 per cent of sales were in the islands. I do draw the line at Morgan's Spiced. For some reason, that drink is always associated, in my experience with extremely bad, if entertaining, behaviour. I blame the turmeric. Or maybe the cinnamon.

St Augustine says...

2009-02-08T11:28:00.000-08:00

Complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation.

But then, nobody's perfect.

Rumours of mothballed distilleries, and is that all political hacks drink these days?

2009-02-02T01:19:00.000-08:00

I hear strong rumours that, due to the recession, Diageo may be about to mothball its much-vaunted £100m distillery development at Roseisle on Sepyside...watch this (and other) spaces...

*** *** ***

Ah, that abstemious Scottish Government...and its journalistic gallery...

Don't try this at home...

2009-01-26T14:23:00.000-08:00

Whisky is NOT good for quenching the thirst. Though enough of it may make you forget you actually HAD a thirst in the first place.

http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/article.html?Whisky_respite_for_man_trapped_under_sofa&in_article_id=503131&in_page_id=2

New edition of Unfiltered, the Scotch Malt Whisky Society's magazine...

2009-01-15T04:50:00.001-08:00

...and the front page story is about my trip to Lewis to investigate the world's most remote whisky distillery...Check it out here.

Drambuie - still horrendous

2009-01-14T05:04:00.000-08:00

Drambuie - the name comes from an dram buidheach,the drink that satisfies - is a whisky liqueur, the recipe for which allegedly has its source in the addled mind of Prince Charles Edward Stuart.

I've never liked it. Too cloyingly sweet (honey and, ahem, 'herbs' allegedly provide the flavour). Indeed, I dislike sweet liqueurs generally. And cocktails. Unless, of course one is watching The Big Lebowski and consuming numerous White Russians (milk, vodka, ice, Kahlua. Alcoholic iced hot chocolate). Anyway I obtained some supposedly 'old-style' Drambuie miniatures and last night, I opened one.

Some 14 hours later, my mouth still feels like it's been coated with alcoholic treacle. Absolutely awful. Who drinks this stuff? No wonder Prince Charlie lost the '45 if he was quaffing this stuff. Dude.

End of the festivities

2009-01-04T13:34:00.000-08:00

Susan bought me a bottle of Jamieson's (standard, no-age blend...the booze not the birthday) for my birthday and that very sweet dram has been hallmarking my last couple of days celebrating the new year. Very nice, but best neat. Adding water renders it immediately edgy.

A break now, I think, from booze. In the next month or two I'm going to be tackling a major radio series about drink and its various perils, and that will involve a sustained, public period of teetotalism. Better get in practice!

2009, and where did that 18-year-old Jura go?

2009-01-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

Woke up this morning thinking, well, that's it: a teetotal 2009...

Changed my mind, though. As it is, having carted out the empties from last night (dear God, how is that number of empty bottles even possible?) I'm wondering how all that 18-year-old Jura vanished? Wisnae me! I had a thimbleful at the bells and it was rather nice.

Now, I managed to get through Hogmanay without unsealing my precious hand-filled 25-year-old Pulteney. Will it last another year, though? We shall see.

Meanwhile, Slainte/Skol!

Oh, for goodness' sake...it's time to stop, Caroline!

2008-12-24T02:37:00.000-08:00

Grateful to the Shetland News for this story.
If there's to be a Shetland distillery, let someone else do it. It's feasible, as the Lewis endeavours of Marco Tayburn show. But please stop this, Caroline. It's just embarrassing. Also, I'm hoping that bottles were NOT secreted about the islands for 'maturation', as whisky, of course, never matures in the bottle, only in the cask. But you should know that...

'World's peatiest"/most phenolic whisky....but move fast and you can get Aberlour 10 for £14.99 at the Co-op!

2008-12-17T01:32:00.000-08:00

Below is the press release from Bruichladdich, announcing the release of the 63.5 per cent alcohol Octomore (five years old, £79 a bottle).

I have (what remains of) a bottle of Bruichladdich"s 3D3 Norrie Campbell Tribute bottling, which is nice enough but peculiar. It's as if the phenols have been layered, like oil, on top of a thin base. The cask-strength Octomore may well be better. I have some of the Infinity and it's very good.

If, however, you're one of the folk who actually managed to get hold of a bottle, don't knock it back all at once. As if you would! Apart from the alcohol, high phenols usually mean bad hangovers. Phenol (the stuff that makes a whisky 'peaty') is a poison, and in sufficient quantities, according to the US Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry can be very nasty indeed. The organisation says that effects (not from whisky,which in truth only contains tiny amounts) but from, I assume, ingesting fairly large, pure concentrations) can include:

Health Effects

* Exposure to phenol by any route can produce systemic poisoning. Phenol is corrosive and causes chemical burns at the contact site.
* Symptoms of systemic poisoning often involve an initial, transient CNS stimulation, followed rapidly by CNS depression. Coma and seizures can occur within minutes or may be delayed up to 18 hours after exposure.
* Other symptoms include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, methemoglobinemia, hemolytic anemia, profuse sweating, hypotension, arrhythmia, pulmonary edema, and tachycardia.

Acute Exposure

As a corrosive substance, phenol denatures proteins and generally acts as a protoplasmic poison. Phenol may also cause peripheral nerve damage (i.e., demyelination of axons). Systemic poisoning can occur after inhalation, skin contact, eye contact, or ingestion. Typically, transient CNS excitation occurs, then profound CNS depression ensues rapidly. Damage to the nervous system is the primary cause of death from phenol poisoning. However, damage to other organ systems (e.g., acid-base imbalance and acute kidney failure) may complicate the condition. Symptoms may be delayed for up to 18 hours after exposure.

Hey, now that's what I call a hangover! Pass the Lagavulin/Laphroaig/Ardbeg/Caol Ila...

Actually, I've just come across some even more interesting stuff about phenol, from the Absolute Astronomy website. To say that the substance has a bad history is putting it mildly...it's quite putting me off my Islay malts. Must see if I can get some of that £14.99, not-very-peaty Aberlour...

"Bruichladdich distillery announce the release today of the world’s the most heavily peated whisky ever.

The inaugural bottling of Octomore, a single malt whisky distilled at Bruichladdich from barley peated to 131 ppm, three times more peaty than any other whisky ever produced.

Demand from 'peat-freaks' has exceeded the 6000 bottle supply. The stocks were sold out before the whisky left the distillery.

6000 bottles Bruichladdich Octomore were bottled @ 63.5% ABV, at 5 years old, RSP £79."

Talisker at the Co-op, Glenfarclas 105, Aberlour a'Bunadh and As We Get It

2008-12-15T09:22:00.000-08:00

I've cracked open the Aberlour and the a'Bunadh in recent, festive days, and found them extremely...complementary, not to say similar. Big, sweet, sherry-sticky malts, hugely satisfying on a cold winter's night next to the Rayburn. Water on the side or a touch in the glass to bring the cask-strength dpwn to decent levels, but to be honest, both are drinkable as they come fae the neck.

I have a selection of cask-strength bottlings from the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, some more satisfying than others...I think the full-on, old-fashioned Speyside Oloroso style suits that strength...even at a fairly young age. I've tasted three-year old Glenfarclas straight from the cask which was astonishingly mature.

Which reminded me of my first cask-strength experience, blind (sober) in the old St Duthac Hotel, Tain. The 'old' As We Get It, when they were allowed to put 'Macallan' on the label. More recently it's been Aberlour, but now Ian Macleod (Glengoyne proprietors) are doing AWGI Highland 8-year-old, which presumably takes it out of the Speyside appellation...Balblair? Dalmore? Dunno, haven't tried it.Difficult to find, too. The Islay AWGI is available for £33.99, unknown distillery.

Meanwhile, Talisker 10 is at the local Co-op for £29. No, I know what it's like. Very nice, but fierce. I'll stick with the sticky stuff for Christmas.

To the Rodel Hotel...a strange tale of Royal Household

2008-12-11T14:28:00.000-08:00

I tried to get to the Rodel Hotel last month when I was in the Western Isles. Alas, it was shut. this piece was written 18 months ago for the American magazine Scottish Life.

"The Rodel Hotel" wrote the poet Louis Macneice, who stayed there in 1938, "is at the end of everything."

Doubtless he was sipping a glass of Royal Household whisky as he wrote. After all, it was the only place you could get that particular dram at the time, unless you were a member of the British Royal Family. Nowadays, if you fancy a wee taste of that particular cratur? Och well, thereby hangs a tale or two.
Transport links to the Hebrides are better than ever, but the southern tip of Harris still offers a sense of tranquil remoteness. The hotel, completely refurbished in 2001, is now a comfortable, characterful and very welcoming place of escape. And yet Rodel is at the crossroads of Hebridean history, a place resonating with warfare, paganism, tragedy, religious and social upheaval; and the strange tale of a whisky brand called Royal Household.
But there's more to Rodel than a hotel and its whisky. St Clement's Church is the finest Medieval building in the Western Isles, famed not only for its Christian carvings but also for the pagan ones which are referred to rather archly by one guidebook as 'not to be viewed too closely by those of a sensitive disposition'. You can visit the 16th century tomb of Alexander 'Crotach' (Humpback) Macleod, disfigured in a battle with the Macdonalds on Skye, and in the stony silence, maybe catch the distant echo of claymores clashing.
At the nearby hotel, you will receive a warm welcome from the owners Donnie 'Rodel' MacDonald and his wife Dena. And there you can hear tales of this lovely house, built in 1751 by Captain Alexander MacLeod of Berneray as his personal mansion, after his purchase of the entire Harris estate for £15,000.
It has had its ups and downs, this imposing building by the pier. Lairds, from Macleod to Leverhulme, have come and gone, their plans to regenerate the island and turn it into a money-making proposition dashed against the hard Harris rock. The last great hope for industrial regeneration in Harris was a superquarry at nearby Lingerabay, which would, in many eyes, have scarred the ancient landscape irrevocably. A lengthy government inquiry stopped the development in its tracks.
You can smell the tang of whisky in many of these stories, from the anointing of the cornerstone back in 1751 as the building work commenced, to the clinking of glasses in the legendary Rodel Hotel bar as debates raged about the pros and cons of quarrying away a large lump of Harris. For 15 years, until 2001 when the refurbishment work was completed, only the bar remained open, with many a tale told even now of the characters to be found drinking there. Including the gentleman who would happily remove his glass eye and pop it into his whisky. If he liked the look of you.
But the comfort of whisky was never needed so much as in the 19th century when this part of Harris was ruthlessly cleared of crofters for the sake of intensive sheep grazing. Cottages were destroyed and many of their inhabitants forced to emigrate.
Among the landowners and their managers, though, trouble brewed. And in one legendary case, sex was at the root of it.
It was all to do with the lovely Jessie of Balranald, daughter of the North Uist factor, who had attempted to elope with her beloved Skyeman Donald MacDonald. Her father had been determined to marry her off to his new assistant factor, Patrick Cooper. Her uncle John was
factor of Harris, living in what is now the Rodel Hotel. There Jessie was kept under lock, key and the watchful eyes of her fearsome aunt. Until one night in 1890, when Donald, doubtless fuelled by some uisge beatha , arrived to remove her, by force if necessary.
There was, to use a Scots word, a stooshie. Donald ransacked the house until he found Jessie, but her Uncle John locked the pair in. Outside, would-be suitor Patrick Cooper had arrived, and was threatening to shoot all and sundry. In the end, Donald and Jessie broke out through a window and made their escape. Donald was later acquitted of burglary and kidnap in a famous court case, and the happy couple emigrated to Australia. You can see a pictorial version of their story today in a stained glass window at what is now the hotel.
And if you're very lucky, you will also see a bottle of the legendary Royal Household whisky. You will not be allowed to taste it, though.

I first heard about Royal Household from a doctor friend who practised in Harris 30 years ago.
"It is the best whisky I ever tasted" he told me. "It had a great deal more malt in it than any other blend, and it was quite extraordinarily smooth. I only got a taste because my daughter had just been born. The bottle was kept in the gantry with the label hidden, and it was only served to a select few."
My curiosity well and truly piqued, I decided to pursue Royal Household. Jim Murray's 2007 'Whisky Bible' reviews it very favourably ("a wonderfully sophisticated blend"), but gives no indication of availability. Extensive searching through whisky catalogues revealed that it is sold only in Japan, and this was confirmed by Michael Alexander at multinational drinks company Diageo, who own the rights to the name.

"As far as I know, it's a straightforward blend, sold only in Japan,'"said Michael. "it's not supplied to the Royal Family." The magic of the tale was fading. I spoke to friends in Haris, who seemed curiously reluctant to tell me what they knew. "I have heard" said one, cautiously, "various stories. You had better speak to Donnie himself."
And so I found myself listening to the lilting tones of Donnie Rodel, as he described the joy of the hotel's revitalisation and its success since reopening fully in 2001. So, what about Royal Household, Donnie? What is the truth? Was a passing Royal princess rescued from the foaming deep by one of your ancestors? Perhaps Edward and Mrs Simpson stored a secret cache of spirits at Rodel for some of their early assignations? Alas not.
Said Donnie: "My grandfather, Jock MacCallum, owned the Neptune or Club Bar as it was known in Stornoway, and in the 1930s he bought the Rodel Hotel. He made some arrangement with what was then James Buchanan Ltd, who made Royal Household, for the Royal Family at the time, and somehow he became the only retail stockist, first in Stornoway, then at Rodel." The dram's status, however, was assured when the the last order arrived, some time in the 1950s.
"It became impossible to get any more. Since then, we've guarded what we have carefully, and now there are only a few bottles from the 1950s left." Could I have a dram, then, were I passing? "No. I would open a bottle for a member of the Royal Family, though. Princess Anne was in Rodel a few years ago, on a yacht, and if she'd come into the hotel, I'd definitely have opened a bottle."
But what made Royal Household so special? Was it the finest whisky ever to grace the Rodel Hotel's gantry? Donnie is not so sure.
"My mother absolutely hated it. She would drink any whisky other than Royal Household. it had a much greater proportion of malt than other whiskies, mainly from the Glentauchers distillery in Speyside, and some liked it. But some did not."
Now at the Rodel Hotel public bar local folk drink "Russian whisky", mostly "Vodka, I mean." And Donnie shakes his head. "For the connoisseurs, it would be Black Bottle and Famous Grouse."
So until any wandering member of the Windsor Clan asks for a wee nip of the whisky that once graced the shelves at Buckingham Palace, the last few bottles of Royal Household remain firmly corked Let me recommend, however, a glass of Black Bottle or indeed Grouse, should you ever find yourself in Rodel. You can the assembled ghosts of Jessie of Balranald, the furious Patrick Cooper, still drowning his sorrows in ther corner, Louis Macneice, and even 'Crotach' Macleod, limping in from yet another battle. But you're just imagining Edward and Mrs Simpson chatting conspiratorially in a corner. That's just a story...

Whisky Galore and...quite a lot of Drambuie

2008-12-04T02:58:00.000-08:00

Interesting to see that a bottle of whisky, uncontaminated and unopened, from the SS Politician (original for the SS Cabinet Minister in the book and movie Whisky Galore) fetched only £2200 at auction. Can't help but agree with Tam, the student (STUDENT!) who bought it: grossly undervalued and a great investment

Meanwhile, I'm VERY impressed with the service provided by The Whisky Exchange - two days after ordering, my Stockholm gin, four miniatures of old recipe Drambuie, three bottles of Lochranza Founder's Reserve, and a bottle each of Aberlour a'Bunadh and Glenfarclas 105, all arrived safely and beautifully packed. By post, which for service to Shetland, beats any courier.

Powers Gold Label

2008-12-01T05:45:00.000-08:00

This used to be my favourite blended whisky, and certainly my favourite from Ireland. For some reason, having decided to consume a wee dram of Gold Label this weekend, I found it completely unpalatable. Sweet, thin and cloying. Weird.

Anyway. That's the bottle finished! There wasn't much left, it should be said.

I was at Bushmills in Northern Ireland last month, which is a really pleasant visitor experience, though half the distillery was closed to guests and it is a fairly large scale industrial plant, behind the lovely frontage. Great restaurant (all home made food) and bar, though. I really enjoyed the various Bushmills on offer, particularly the two malts I tasted - the 10-year-old and the 16. Maybe that put me off Powers. Or it may have been the single-cask Scotch Malt Whisky Society Longmorn I had just beforehand. which was a bit like peach schnapps, only more pungently paraffinish.

I remember having a Powers in the Temple Bar, Dublin, accompanied by an aged poet bellowing rhymes in my ear...but this talk of Irish whisky reminds me of The Great Jimmy McNulty from the Wire:

Gimme a Jameson's on the rocks. Bartender: Bushmill's alright? McNulty: Bushmills? That's Protestant whisky!...

For all remote drinkers in search of Aberlour a'Bunadh...

2008-11-27T13:26:00.000-08:00

...I've just ordered some (best bargain in malt whisky, IMHO) - and some Glenfarclas 105 - from the excellent Whisky Exchange site. Special recession offers, too. If you dig deep they have some really amazing things, such as Lochranza Founders' Reserve blend for £10.99. While stocks last.

Mind you, there's always the Co-op...

Grrrrrouse!

2008-11-26T13:57:00.000-08:00

So, Scotland's favourite whisky. I have a bottle, a present from Aunt Lily. Normally, I avoid blends, but tonight, having partaken of some Railroad Red South African plonk, six quid from the Ollaberry Shop (not bad, actually...imagine the smell of Glasgow's underground system laced with Ribena) I felt the need to...progress. And so here we are.

And immediately I'm back at my first journalistic job, in 1978, working for Project Scotland, a construction industry weekly. Fitzroy Place, Glasgow, just along Sauchiehall Street from what is now Mother India. Harry. Harry was office manager, running, on behalf of Irish firm Morton Publications (no relation), not just Project Scotland but Offshore Oil Weekly. I ended up working for both.

Anyway, Harry had this theory. Famous Grouse (his favourite whisky, always available in the bottom drawer of his desk) was the most popular whisky in Scotland because of its name. 'Grrrrouse', he would say. 'People like saying it. GrRRRouse.'

The roughness of that glottal 'rrrrr' is in the whisky, actually, with the presence of Islay malts. Not so you'd notice by sniffing. What you always smell with whisky, first off, is the warehouse. The oak. The ash and the evaporation. But dig deep, swill it around your labial fricatives, and there they are, those peaty spirits. But not overhwhelmingly so. It's full of cheap grain spirit, like all blends. But it's carefully and well made, so it doesn't rip your consonants and vowels to pieces. Not at first.

This is basic whisky. Relatively smooth, but essentially thin with the rattling burr of Islay some way distant. But it's palatable, and good with a pint (or half) of heavy. I'm talking about the everyday Grrrouse, by the way, not the Swedish-market Black Grouse or the other poshed-up variants. Fakery, though I'm keen to try the Black stuff, all peated up. Why not?

But if we're talking basic blends - and you can get a lot cheaper - there are better, maltier, more complex drams: Black Bottle and Baillie Nicol Jarvie spring to mind.

But hey, it's no' bad. Cheers, Harry!

Why I'm back writing about the hard stuff...and forty-year-old Glenfarclas 105...hefty!

2008-11-25T11:11:00.000-08:00

The demise of the Nippy Sweeties blog, along with two whisky columns I was writing (for the US publication Scottish Life and The Scots Magazine) was provoked by several things: exhaustion, unhealthiness, the need to complete a novel and a complete absence of anything worth saying.

Now, with the book finished (Serpentine: due for publication next June by Mainstream) and some rest and recuperation, I'm back thinking (and writing) about drinking. In print, too, as a contributor and regular columnist for Unfiltered, the superb new magazine of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society

All this and The Malt and Barley Revue - the hour-long musical show I've put together about whisky, Scotland and inebriation - has been a quiet success this past summer. My book Spirit of Adventure, republished, is selling well in the runup to Christmas, and is available here.

So I'm back in the whisky blogosphere. I'll be publishing some of the print-only articles from the past couple of years, and, from first principles, some tasting notes.

And news as it comes in. Robert Ransom from Glenfarclas sent me the following, and as the 105 10-year-old is one of my all-time favourites, I'm happy to say...Slainte!

Speyside, November 2008; J. & G. Grant are pleased to announce the release of Glenfarclas 105 Cask Strength Aged 40 Years, to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the first bottling of Glenfarclas 105 Cask Strength Single Highland Malt Scotch Whisky.

The first commercially available cask strength whisky of the modern age was born in 1968 when George S. Grant, the fourth generation of the Grant family to own and manage Glenfarclas, bottled a single cask straight from the warehouse, and sent the bottles to family and friends as Christmas gifts. By chance the strength of the cask George S. Grant selected was 105 British Proof, and along with the name of the distillery, this was all the information he detailed on the hand written label. By the end of January the recipients of the gifts requested further bottles, George S. Grant obliged, and Glenfarclas 105 has become a much enjoyed expression of Glenfarclas.

To celebrate the 40th anniversary of the first bottling of Glenfarclas 105; J. & G. Grant have created this special limited edition bottling of Glenfarclas 105 at 40 Years Old, and at 60% Vol.. With only a couple of casks of the right style, age, and strength available, the Glenfarclas 105 Aged 40 Years truly is a limited edition. There are only 893 bottles available.

George S. Grant’s grandson, also George S. Grant, the company’s Brand Ambassador,

commented, ‘Dark and mysterious in colour, with hints of toffee and sherry, a sip reveals a powerful, yet smooth and elegant whisky. It has taken three generations of my family to create this extraordinary dram.’

Glenfarclas 105 Aged 40 Years has been well received, scoring 96 out of 100 in Jim Murray’s 2009 Whisky Bible. This limited edition is available from specialist whisky retailers in the UK, Europe and Asia, and retails for £550.00 at the Glenfarclas Distillery Visitor centre.