Single Malt

I own three good bottles of whisky (not whiskey – which is Irish as everyone knows). I don’t drink them. Any more.

It’s not my fault though. No no, it’s the fault of one man. Keith Davidson. He is evil (actually he’s a pretty top bloke who I’ve not seen or spoken to in several years, Keith if you come across this, drop me a line – I miss those Friday Funnies!).

My first real job was at a company called Crossaig (sadly no longer). Based in Helensburgh it was a small company, and I worked in a team of 10 or so. It was our habit, on a Friday afternoon, to go to a nearby pub for lunch. Occasionally, depending on the time of year or workload, we’d send someone back up to the office to turn off the PCs and we’d stay there all afternoon.

Sometimes we’d end up staying in the pub all night. Sometimes we’d end up drinking tequila shots at the bar.
Sometimes some of us should have gone back to Dumbarton as they had agreed to go out with their S.O.
Sometimes when one of those people phones his S.O., and particularly when he’s had a lot to drink, he gets all brave and bolshy and they end up having a teeny weeny argument discussion on the phone, ending with both parties instructing each other to fuck right off as to where they should go.

Anyway. We stayed in the bar all afternoon and night, and we ended up back at Mr.Davidson’s flat. His lovely wife Penny made us toast (that much I DO remember), and with Keith being a bit of a whisky buff, we started sampling his favourites. Several of them. For hours. Ohh and then there was the paint stripper. Well, when I say paint stripper I really mean some dodgy bottle of barely distilled alcohol smuggled across several borders and illegal in most refined countries.

I can still remember waking up in.. no.. hang on.. it’ll come to me… Ian.. Ian… ohh crap, what was his second name? Anyway, I ended up crashing at Ian MacMillan’s parents house and I can still remember, and I swear this is the only time this has ever happened to me, I can still remember waking up and not knowing where I was. Very disconcerting.

I lay there, in a strange bed, in a strange room and tried to recall the previous night. I could remember tequila, toast, whisky… whisky.. I can still taste whisky.. I got up, got dressed and bumped into Ian on the landing. That helped me remember where I was, and I mumbled some thanks and stumbled down the stairs and out the front door. I needed some breakfast so headed for the corner shop. One bacon roll and a can of Irn-Bru later I was .. hang on.. they taste of whisky!! Ick.

I tried everything. Scampi Fries, 4 Extra Strong Mints, Fishermen’s Friends, anything with a strong flavour. No good, everything tasted of stale whisky. It was awful. The train ride home was a constant battle not to throw up and I still had to confront my S.O. having not told her I was staying out.

And THAT, ladies and gentlepeeps, is why I don’t drink whisky. I hadn’t told her I was staying out. I was a dead man.

Written By

Long time blogger, Father of Jack, geek of many things, random photographer and writer of nonsense.

Doing my best to find a balance.

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