Ichiro's Malt Chichibu Port Pipe (54.5% abv)

Context: In terms of my "occasional reviews" posted to date, this whisky is slightly unusual. It's not a whisky that, as yet, has any special meaning for me, it doesn't have any deep felt associations, it's not yet connected to any special experiences, times, places, or people....so why the review? In a nutshell, I got very excited about it! There were a number of reasons for this. 

Firstly, it took me by surprise. I regularly trawl the whisky databases in a vain attempt to keep abreast of what's occurring in the whisky world. Sites such as whisky intelligence; whisky whisky whisky; whisky news; whisky pages and so on, as well as many of the great blogs out there, regularly receive my time and attention. My fascination (borderline obsession) with Japanese whisky ensures that the Nonjatta site takes a regular pounding and it was on a routine trawl of Nonjatta that I saw the Port Pipe.

Secondly, having tried and really enjoyed Chichibu the First, I was keen to see how the distillery was progressing. The distillery is located in the hills of Saitama Prefecture, began production of Ichiro's Malt whisky in 2008, and is owned by Ichiro Akuto.

Thirdly, it's pink! Well that's not strictly true, there's a lot of pink on the label and on the box. Nevertheless, it's an unusual colour and it certainly created an "I'm looking at something interesting" feeling.  It's pink! Or is it? The fickle nature of colour perception never ceases to amuse and intrigue me. I've offered an interesting example of a colour illusion at the end of the review, it's intriguing stuff!

Colour: If you've read my previous review you will recognise my position that colour is a somewhat transient concept. This colour of this dram is no exception (but it's pink!). In an attempt to nail the colour to the mast (and test the persisting perception of pink) I even bought a couple of bottles of cheap Rose from the local supermarket.

From the top row (left to right): Chichibu Port Pipe, New Zealand 2010 Marlborough Rose, Oxford Landing South Australia 2012 Rose, Chichibu Port Pipe.




Middle row: Left - Port Pipe; Right - Marlborough Rose




Bottom Row: Chichibu the First, Ichiro's Malt The Final vintage of Hanyu, Ichiro's Malt Cask Strength 23 years old, Chichibu Port Pipe

I realise that there are a many, many more shades of Rose. This was not an experiment, it was simply an observation...this whisky has a light amber/pinkish hue. 

Nose: A sweet, fruity aroma with hints of Turkish delight, Baklava, nuts, honey, and....Port (it's not a blind tasting and the word is firmly cemented into my short term memory). There's a youthful element here, a slightly acidic, vinous quality. Not unpleasant by any means.


Palate: There is a warmth and roundedness to this whisky that belies its youth. At a healthy 54.5% abv and at only 4 years old you might expect a degree of harshness...it simply doesn't materialise. The sweet, Port influence is evident from the outset but it doesn't dominate. There are hints of oak and rosehip.  


Finish: It has a medium length, "Rocket salad" spicy finish




My description might create the impression that this is an overpoweringly sweet whisky. This isn't the case. Yes, there is a sweetness but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. This is not a whisky that will blow everyone away....but I really rate it. For me, it's another bright star in the constellation of Japanese whiskies.

There are 4200 bottles available worldwide. If you get the opportunity to try it, don't hesitate.

Believe it or not!

In my student days I vividly remember the first time I encountered the Rubik's cube colour illusion. For me, it remains one of the most mind boggling and easily accessible examples of how the mind can play tricks on our perceptions of colour. The two images below are the ones I encountered all those years ago.

In the diagram on the left, the top middle and left front middle squares seem to be brown and yellow respectively. I could stare at this image for hours and still come to the same conclusion. I now know that my perception of the colours as being different is wrong! They are in fact, as the diagram on the right shows, the same colour. "Witchcraft" I hear you scream, "trick photography" you may murmur, "someone has slipped acid in my Earl Grey" you may sing loudly. There's no escaping it.....they are both brown.

For more information & a fun read, go to: http://phenomenalqualities.wordpress.com/phenomenal-pictures/

New element on the periodic table - Distillerine

When was the last time a new element was discovered? Once in a lifetime you might think....and you'd be right! Well let me tell you, it was Constipanium (1904) (...just after 7.00 o'clock). The Blue Plaque location marks the spot in the lavatories of the The Swollen Orchid pub in Nempnett Thrubwell, where the transsexual oboe player cum scientist, "Gorgeous B Me" first discovered that bad boy! But now (drum roll....), there's another nasal hair in the washback of life - Distillerine!

Origins of this discovery are somewhat vague -the bi-product of a smoked kipper incident, the "cured" effluvia extracted from the remains of heartbroken otters, and rumour has even mentioned the possibility of espionage. Indeed, the body of a recently sacked bi-sexual Greek whisky-ant, Diageones Lickalotopous, was linked to the robbery of some secret things from a big house. There you have it! 


When you realise the powers of distillerine you won't care where it came from. So, what can it do for you.

Distillerine: Applications?

One drop (administered sub-lingually): You will be able to distinguish between single malts and blends simply by looking at a photograph (inc black & white photos). Dosage effect - approximately 20 minutes.

Two drops (administered sub-lingually): You can nose whiskies through the bottle, identifying the region, without the inconvenience of having to open said bottle. You may also be able to sense the mood of the distiller at the time of bottling. Dosage effect - 45 minutes.

A dram of distillerine (administered orally): You can now identify the distillery, the date of distillation, the abv, and the name of the lazy bastard on the bottling line who just isn't pulling his/her weight! Dosage effect - 2 hours

A 20cl syringe (administered rectally): You are now entering distillerine heaven! You can now identify distillery, cask, age, abv, bottling date, bottler, a complete set of obscure tropical fruits to be used in tasting notes, 47 shades of straw, the name of the dray man's horse, the length of finish (down to 0.0023 of a second), the meaning of the word "gulfur" (something about the gap between being an expert and not being able to sit at the top table), and the glazed look in your friends eyes as you bang on yet again about the joys of whisky. Dosage effect - 6 hours and 17 minutes.

The evidence: In a blind tasting of 407 whiskies, after taking just a few drops of distillerine, Albert Donne, who lost his taste buds in a Wheel of Death incident at an old people's home in Chigwell, correctly identified all but one of the 407 drams". The incorrectly identified dram was later found to have been a sample from a rogue bottle taken from a fellow resident (it looked like a bourbon cask but had urinesque notes...shame). There you have it!

The news has already shaken and stirred the whisky community. World renowned "dram whisperer" Jim-Dom Murrow, speaking from his Spanish mountain home in deepest Alavadramma, said "the banjo is a beautiful instrument .... This could be the end of life as I know it..... The dark arts of the whisky wizards will be exposed? We must ban this immediately."

Distillerine - For even in a blind tasting, you shall see!

Karuizawa 1984 (64.5% abv) Cask 4021

Context: The bottle has been on my shelves for almost 6 months. It’s a dram that I've returned to on a number of occasions, each time like visiting an old friend who always has something new and interesting to say. In terms of the memory layers that are being folded into my experience of this whisky, it is already heavily laden with power and resonance. For me, it has associations with beauty, sorrow, tranquillity and turbulence, the reasons for which can be found in a forthcoming posting - "A tale of two whiskies Part 1 Karuizawa 1984 - The spirit and the silence". Pretentious bullshit you may be thinking (and you may be right although that is not my intention) – it is what it is. At the time of writing these notes I was sat alone, late evening, no noise but for the occasional soft hum of cars.

Colour: I often find it challenging describing the colour of whisky. After all, the colour will shift in different lights, it will mutate with a tilt of the head, evolve as the volume ebbs with each sip, in many ways it is as fluid as the fluid itself. Whilst meditating on this challenge I came across a beautiful image of Mokume-gane (a Japanese alloy - burl metal) which seems to capture all the colour permutations that I was noting – bronzes, golds, coppers....they were all there. 

Legs: Like teardrops clinging to the side of the glencairn, etching an arc into the glass, viscous, slow, and deliberate.

Nose: Really subtle combinations, a complexity that makes it difficult to tease the notes apart - but..... lots of fruit, tannins, zesty, soapy lemon, Christmas cake, pink marshmallow, sherry, leather & a hint of tobacco leaf.

Mouth: Powerful, 64.5% hit but very rich, very rich indeed! Invades the mouth, coating every surface. Warm sherried cherries, (almost Kirsch like), Black Forest. Wave upon wave of sweet heat and subtle spices. Chocolate and mint notes drift in and out

Finish: Long, warm, luscious

I always feel that one hint of a quality dram lies in its capacity to be enjoyed neat at high abv levels. Whilst this whisky opens up with the addition of a few drops of water, it can be savoured at full strength. 

This whisky has power and subtlety. It is both voluptuous and indulgent. A thing of beauty.           © Alcock (2013)

Bottled by The Number One Drinks Company

Was available @whiskyexchange - now sold out : (

Mokume-gane image courtesy of     http://shardsofthedarkage.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/mokume-gane.html

Musings on Twitterthreadery No 1 (....or how Twitter makes me titter)

Ah, the joy of Twitter! Still not a phrase that trips lightly off everyone’s tongue but in my case (with the very occasional exception), Twitter has been a revelation; the breadth of contact, the scope of exploration, associating with a group of like minded individuals with an enthusiasm not just to explore the fineries of the whisky experience, but simply to connect, to share, to enjoy each other’s company without any geographical shackles, has been a hugely positive experience. The primary driver for me to become involved was to connect with fellow whisky passionistas and to deepen my knowledge of all things whisky. This remains the primary driver but I have come to enjoy those moments where I move out of the whisky domain and into other arenas. Getting to know the people behind the whisky has been (and continues to be) extremely enjoyable.

For me, the interpersonal connection is one of the most seductive elements of the Twittersphere. It is no exaggeration to say that the experience has, in some small way, strengthened my belief in the essential goodness of humanity. Yes, there are exceptions, yes, there are some thoroughly reprehensible individuals in this world, yes, I may be labelled as somewhat naive, but it is what I believe and as such, for me, it is valid. When my mum died last year I posted a short statement saying that I was raising a glass to her memory. Within minutes there were a flurry of condolences and people raising their glasses to someone they had never known. “Any excuse for a drink” I hear you cry! But for me, at that moment, I was able to forget any cynicism......and it felt good.

I may muse on the philosophical elements of the Twitter experience later but for now I simply wish to revel in the sheer diversity and “surprise journeys” that I have taken during my time on this medium.

In terms of this exploration, I will use my tweet/tweet responses to illuminate the area being addressed. I don’t feel comfortable include other tweeters’ writings without their permission and, whilst I don’t feel that they would object, to seek their permission would take an inordinate amount of time. I will include a “list of protagonists and suffice it to say that those referred to in this piece fall into the category of “twitter friends”. The snapshots that I offer do not tell the full story of their valuable and continued contribution to the whisky fabric (* see footnote).

With regard to diversity where do I begin? Twitter has transported me into my childhood, into imagined futures, into alternatives presents, into cultures that I was ignorant of, into the homes of people from all 23 corners of the globe, into their eating habits, their pastimes, their jobs etc. It all sounds somewhat voyeuristic but that’s not the feeling that I take from it. These are shared connections, information offered freely, often stimulating, generally interesting, occasionally irritating, and frequently amusing. If you don’t like what someone posts, a flick of the thumb and you can skip on ahead (digital democracy if you will).

.....................................................................................................

Twitterthread no 1: “You can’t prosecute a whale for having a shit”

This particular thread began with an innocuous request for information, but ended up taking the protagonists on a journey through the surreal, the slightly vulgar, elements of International law, the fashion industry, illuminations from the natural world, and questions around the logistics of faecal collection. Jon Beach (@maltwhiskybar) initiated the thread. I was immediately hooked as, coincidentally, I’d seen the object in question on a nature programme only two days earlier.

The protagonists: @whiskyrepublic; @maltwhiskybar; @OliverKlimek; @wimvlonhuijsen; @galg; @Whiskylassie

The comments in parentheses were not included in the original thread but have been added as context for this post.

Question: @maltwhiskybar There's someone in our Coffee Shop with a lump of this. It's incredibly expensive. Anybody care to guess what it is? 

Answers:

triple folded omelette (good guess)

It's an animal by-product. (narrowing down the options)

It's not for eating!  (see previous comment)

Then it could be a geode  (...getting intellectual)

Methinks it comes from a whale...Ambergris perhaps  (ah...now let’s move on)

If it can be verified as ambergris it could be worth a fair amount of money! (capitalism...filthy lucre with a nod to the need for accuracy and fairness)

He's getting it checked this week. It stinks! Really stinks! (oh dear....a change of direction is on the way!)

Some discussion as to what “ambergris” actually is ensued. There was a little debate as to whether it was whale poo, snot, puke or sperm!

It can be puke or shit. Heavily sought after in the perfume industry. Needs to be chemically ratified.     (a combination of technical information using language from the gutter, connection to a global issue, and a need for scientific rigor)

     

omg!? It's whale vomit??? (the horror....the horror)

Stale whale shit is dabbed on ladies faces to enhance their attractiveness! (let’s get surreal....)

Better for your face than any cucumber mask! (the surreal and the real combining to strengthen the surreal imagery)

I can't afford ambergris, I use dried squirrel shit. (What!...where’s this come from? The thread is heading South!)

I'll stick with kopy luak (back to the intellectual with clear knowledge of the natural world.)

Is kopy luak Israeli for squirrel shit? (I’m not done with exploring my squirrel shit!)

hell no. It's the shit of those Sumatran cats coffee (sounds surreal but it’s not!)

By "Sumatran Cats" do you mean hip & trendy Sumatrans?  (There’s a punster at work here, probably in his/her early 50’s with fond memories of free love and the late 60’s early 70’s)

Selling it could be a problem. Isn't this stuff essentially outlawed?  (Back to serious, filthy lucre, and the law!)

Don't think so xxxxx. You can't prosecute a whale for having a shit!  (Hello surreal, goodbye serious!)

 It's a different story with Bears in the woods!  (Interesting addition! Are we entering the realms of the philosophical?)

You could make aftershave from stale bear shit - "Grizzly - pour homme"  (Apparently not!)

Trade is supposedly prohibited due to Washington Treaty. Whale hunt etc. (But I want this to become an exploration of global trade, capitalism, the necessity for regulation in a world gone mad!)

How big would a whale "pooper scooper" have to be?  (I WANT IT TO BE SURREAL!)

....................................................................................................................

The thread itself is very short when transcribed but you have to bear in mind that the “conversation” may span hours or even days, with time zones often playing a part in when people are able to contribute. As with many Twitter threads, the humour, in part, derives from the time lapses, and the point at which different protagonists pick up the thread. Sometimes it’s like the “Two Ronnies” Mastermind sketch where the contestant answers the question before last. (I'm also aware that some of you may have found this post to be completely devoid of humour, but hey ho, you can't please all the people.......)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvmRI6K8TS8 (watch and enjoy)

  I first came across the term “whisky fabric” in my twitteractions with  @Whiskylassie (Johanne McInnis), valued friend and one of the most passionate of the “twitterdrami”

Surreal Dram no 4

Whilst reaching for a glass of Brimstone in a baobab tree, 

Frank Sinatra’s twin, Shankar, stumbles into a bush and unnerves a chicken.

© Alcock (2013)

George T Stagg 2011 (71.3% abv)

Context: I think I’ve come a long way since I administered Jack Daniels No7 as alcoholic “face paint” in some sad adolescent mating ritual. There was a  time when having a shot of Jack was intended to assert my position in the male pack, daub me with sexual allure, imbue me with maverick charm, cowboyish ruggedness, and increase my all round shaggability. In my youth, I mistakenly perceived bourbon to be very..... “American”, mysterious, slightly dangerous and very, very attractive to any women that happened to be in the vicinity. Unfortunately, my sexy, maverick, rugged cowboy persona was always a small town boy aspiration, and one that I never achieved. These days I’m more likely to break into a chorus of “Bless your beautiful hide” when recalling the heady days of my life in the West (North West of England that is).  I’m now more “Fat Palance” than “Jack Palance”.

The short journey from malt to bourbon was just that – a necessary sojourn down an avenue that had to be explored as part of my “education”. It is part of the journey that I am learning to love. I've simply scratched the surface of what is a world of fine spirits - there's so much to look forward to. This particular bottle has added resonance in that it was a Christmas present from my eldest son. It isn't cheap (around £110) and I know that it meant a lot for him to buy it. It certainly meant (and still means) a lot to me. A symbol of a changing relationship between father and son, a different kind of bond.

 

Packaging: Nothing Freudian about this bottle! The Stagg horns (front of bottle), pose like bony fingers gripping the tall, slender vessel, thick-set base and thin guitar bottleneck top. This is a bottle that stands proud on the shelf, asserts itself – I’m Stagg, I’m bourbon, and I’m barrel proof (screw you!).
 

Colour: In a relatively full bottle there are reddish, ochre-bronze hues that lighten to rich, amber, beaten copper tones when in the glass.

 

Nose: This is one ballsy dram. Let’s get it straight from the start, this is full on. Oranges, tobacco, dried fruits, hints of mint and maple alongside sweet spices, cavort inside the glass.

 

Palate: There’s a feeling of controlled power in the mouth. This 71.3% abv bourbon releases a series of sub-concussive flavour blasts – leathery oak, floral notes, sweet mustiness, slight tannic astringency, and more fruit. Don’t be macho about this! Add a couple of drops of water to experience the full flavour palette – hints of sugary, woody smoke merge with the earlier flavours to create an altogether more gentle, perfumed experience.
 

Finish: Long, lingering.....an intense and deeply satisfying bourbon.

 

Extract from Chapter 6 *

The car headlights oozed out of the bitch black mountains and slid on to the stretched neck of road. Gunnarson’s finger twitched

“fuck.......fuck..., fuck.., fuck”

This was it, it was here and it was now. She eased her finger off the trigger and shifted position. It was a slight adjustment of shoulder, hip and knee but it was enough to send a paroxysm of pain down the whole of her left side. Her eyes rolled, vision fading in, out, and back in, her head pounding as if trapped under a sweltering, concussive forge. Two of her wounds had crusted over, the third opened slightly, weeping, percolating, dribbling into the dirt and sweat harboring under the shabby dress she had been inhabiting for the last three days.

“fuck....fuck”

The headlights disappeared as the car slid out of view, down a coulee that she knew to be just over two kilometres from where she waited. A brief contortion of thoughts, assembled over the last couple of years, created a moment of uncertainty. Was it to be tonight? Could this be the scenario she had anticipated for so long? Would it go as she had planned? Did she have the strength to enact the bloody tableau that had been two years, six months, and three days in the making?

The car had resurfaced and was now roughly a kilometre away, three or four minutes at most. Deep breaths, sucking at the air, drawing it in, dragging the car and its unholy, unsuspecting pilgrims ever closer.  Galvanise, get it together, deep breaths, stretch fingers, innervate, ever closer. Thirty seconds...another 200 metres...tighten grip, raise the gun, ease into shoulder........the car ground to a halt, the headlights cut out.... silence.

“fuck”

* Please note that whilst this is titled "Extract from..." there is no completed chapter, and there is no book (as yet)! Just a bit of fun inspired after drinking a few shots of George T Stagg : )

© Alcock (2013)

The Man with the Jack Daniels Tattoo

Location: Funchal, Madeira
Date: July 2011

It is fair to say that I am not a well travelled man. Leaving the house for the airport on the day of any of my few jaunts is usually the cue for the onset of homesickness. I may be exaggerating a little, but I rarely last more than three days away before I'm beginning to pine for home. Having said that, the first few days away are not without a modicum of excitement; I almost always set out as if I were in Bear Grylls boots and, within that small time frame, end up wanting to ease into Homer Simpsons slippers, doh.

The scene for this short tale was a sport psychology conference in Madeira, (July 2011).The conference was well organised, my room was spacious and the view from the room was stunning, with panoramic, uninterrupted views over the mighty Atlantic ocean. In fact, the location was, as they say, "boutique". The climate was warm and sunny. Walking around the sub-picturesque town of Funchal felt like taking a bath in “feel-good” heat whilst experiencing pockets of history dotted between the more commercial, “touristy” offerings – a genuinely pleasant environment.

Over the years I've come to realise that I have a work ethic that, whilst not always immediately apparent when on home soil, kicks into gear big time when I'm away. I find it quite hard to take any "down time" when I'm at conferences - I'm up in time for whatever, symposia, keynote speech, or presentation kicks off the day, and I'm there at the death when many others have eased away in time for early evening cocktails, a preparatory gym session for the evenings' activities, or a late afternoon dip in the everlasting pool. One of the consequences of inhabiting this professional persona is that I am usually knackered at the end of each day. Indeed, by the end of the third day I am usually approaching a level of exhaustion that I would normally associate with recovery from minor surgery. 

Late on the evening of the second day, after having had a passable meal with a fellow academic (a well known psychologist and accomplished jazz pianist) I was wending my way back to the hotel. The evening hadn't been without its surprises. These included an al fresco assault in front of the restaurant punters (with full attendance of armed police and the Madeiran equivalent of a "paddy wagon"), and a revelation from my colleague that he had volunteered himself (on piano) and me (on guitar), as "entertainment" at the closing ceremony - an on-stage performance in front of up to 400 academics from around the globe!

So it was with a mixture of bemusement, a frisson of excitement, some trepidation, and a by now familiar weariness, that I entered my hotel. The initial intention was to go straight up to my room and hit the proverbial sack. However, in order to get to my room I had to pass one of the Hotel bars....my resistance was low, I needed a little space to process what had occurred, just a small whisky.....well that was the intention.

The bar was almost empty and apart from the barman there were just two other people present (a couple in their late 40’s, early 50’s). Two things struck me about the bar. The first was how beautiful it seemed; the all glass facade opened out onto the full, panoramic spread of a silvered Atlantic. The moon was full and there was a slight breeze offering a faintly Taliskan respite in the balmy, late evening. If I remember rightly there was even a large yacht silhouetted on the horizon. The second thing that struck me was the music. My ears weren't assaulted by some poorly recorded, native, culturally appropriate folksy mish-mash (that even the locals wouldn't listen to). No, I was listening to Flunk's version of Blue Monday (a cover version that takes an exquisite original, removes the seductive, grimy, pulsating, hypnotic 80's veneer and replaces it with something altogether more ethereal, more seductive, more......appropriate to my status as "mysterious traveller") - the seeds of a few drams were being laid before my ears! 

In order to recreate the moment (as if!), go to the link below and  let the tune set the scene –an aural equivalent of a “scratch and sniff card” if you will)

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyjNCFje8bc

On approaching the bar for the first time my eyes weren't drawn to the various beers that might be on offer but were directed firmly at the whisky shelves. Well, not to the shelves themselves (I am as far removed from being seduced by a poncy shelf aesthetic as you can get), but to the contents of the shelves. This bar had potential. I could see approximately 28 whiskies (OK it wasn't an approximation; I am clinical when it comes to totting up the drammage). But more to the point, not only was there a reasonable selection, there were many that I had yet to sample - even better. 

So the scene was set. I won't bore you with the vaguely remembered minutiae of the conversation that ensued. The conversational process was similar to many such encounters; a few standard pleasantries, sussing out if we could communicate easily in terms of language, a verbal dance to discover whether there was any common ground that could be enjoyably explored, and so on. After ordering a whisky (Balvenie Founders Reserve) and a half a lager chaser (or palate cleanser as I like to call it), I made a comment about the good selection of whiskies on offer. As opening gambits go this is always a good starter. It's also a sort of "fork in the road" question. It indirectly taps into any levels of knowledge, passion, interest (or disinterest) that the barman might have. A lukewarm or vaguely dismissive response and the evening probably meanders down a more conventional route - let’s call it the "road to nowhere", an enthusiastic, animated response and the evening suddenly becomes replete with possibilities. As you might imagine, the barman in question responded enthusiastically, fired up the Chevy Maltmeister, and so began a long evening’s journey into morning........

.........A dull, concussive pounding inside what can only be called my dislocated head, and a forensic examination of wallet and pocket the following afternoon indicated 3 things. Firstly, I’d had a glass or two of whisky the night before, secondly, I had spent a hefty wodge of cash, and thirdly, it was apparent from the damp, tattered pieces of paper resurrected from said pockets, that I had tried to take note of the drams I was downing. Putting together a list of the whiskies that I remember having is therefore not easy but it's fair to say.......I’d had a few, some of which I bought, many of which were provided free and gratis as the barman was keen to share his favourites with a fellow enthusiast. 

The other thing to note is that, in the drinking of these drams, no whisky measures were used. The pouring of the whiskies was artful and free form, liberal and florid, full of flair, bonhomie, and topped with a Madeiran/Portuguese/English entente cordiale; in essence, each dram was at least a double! Add to that my "palate cleansers" and as I'm sure you can imagine, the evening was somewhat "lubricial".

The early drams were the easier to remember:  

Balvenie Founders Reserve (a lovely 10yo),

Mackmyra 1^st ed – great quality dram

James Martin 20yo – I hadn’t had this before, a really enjoyable dram.

Caol Ila 12 – “Islay have another if you don’t mind”

Johnnie Walker Green Label (one of my “go to” blends),

Johnnie Walker Blue label – I hadn’t tried this and if I remember rightly, it was offered gratis, as a demonstration of the elevated quality of the blue compared to the green. I do remember really enjoying it, but as for the comparison, my finely tuned critical abilities were becoming somewhat compromised and all I can remember is that they were different – one had a green label and one a blue one!

It starts getting tricky here and using the parchment (why was it damp?) doesn’t seem to be helping (Is there a distillery called “Glen Dervish”?). There was definitely a Glen something. Ah yes! 

Glenfiddich 18 – An “ever present” on my home shelves.

                             Yamazaki 12 – On my list this looks like “Yamarlarkey” but I’m pretty sure it was the Yammy 12.

The conversation is now almost a mystery to me. I can remember nothing other than at one point we talked about our families (I was probably drooling wistfully about how much I loved my wife and two boys), and that, towards the end of the session (we were now past evening and into morning), our conversation led to the revelation of the eponymous tattoo. That episode began with the barman asking me if I liked bourbon. An innocuous question in most circumstances but in the context of the night’s events, this was only going one way. “Mais Oui!” I responded with all the panache of an overweight, heavy headed drunk. From one of the mid shelves, a bottle of Jack Daniels Silver Select Single Barrel appeared, and a measure that doesn’t have a name in bartenderese due to its sheer size, was placed in front of me. Now don’t get me wrong, I do like bourbon and rye - I’m partial to George T Stagg, Rittenhouse, Four Roses, Knob Creek and many others. However, maybe I’d eaten a dodgy prawn earlier, but I was beginning to feel a little off colour. My faculties were all present but had playfully exchanged roles. My speech was fine but my feet were slurred, and my hands were focused but my eyes were trying to hold on to anything that wasn’t moving. The “mysterious traveller” was trying to maintain a modicum of stability on what was clearly an uneven deck.

Jack Daniels Silver Select - The “coup de glass”

The barman had begun to speak in a dialect with which I wasn't familiar. I could see his lips moving, I could clearly sense his excitement and passion, his love of bourbon, but the words were somewhat elusive. I reciprocated with large slugs of JD, involuntary nods, glazed smiles, and toothy eyes. I think this was interpreted as both interest and encouragement as, at the pivotal moment of the evening, he bent down, slowly rolled up his jeans leg (right side), to reveal a large tattoo, the words “Jack Daniels” etched lovingly onto his calf. At that moment, in that hotel bar, in that small foreign town, on that tiny island, set in that immense ocean, there was a sense of order in the world – A barman with one trouser leg rolled up, talking to a hapless yet happy drunken traveller trying hard to rewrite gravity?

As for the end of conference "concert", well, that's another story whisky!

 

(c) Alcock 2013