Slàinte, sonas agus beartas

Oscar Wilde said of the United States and the United Kingdom that they had everything in common except language. He was right of course. In their land of excess, Americans have paradoxically opted for minimalism in language. They have dropped more letters than a disgruntled south Auckland postie on P. And rearranged more letters than a Mt Eden prostitute on a good night. Color=colour, flavor=flavour, meter=metre, etc. Which is why I find it surprising, musing on this over the Christmas break, that in one area dear to me Americans have elected to add a letter, the letter E to whisky. They spell it whiskey, which is the way the Irish spell it and that in itself may be an explanation, given the Irish influence in early America. There are almost as many American whiskies as there are Scotch whiskies (in the plural both countries employ the E) and the distinctions are many. In the interests of robust research I have sampled—and will continue to sample—as many as I can. Scotch is the form and firm favourite for me though. Helensville is the site of the only successful Scotch invasion since Braveheart and will, hopefully, last a lot longer. There is little more enjoyable to me than the big blustery, take-no-prisoner single-malts from Islay (pronounced Eye-Lah) and the favour of friends. With that in mind and glass in hand I raised a few drams to you this happy Hogmanay. Allow me to do so again with a Scottish greeting I like, plus, appropriately, a translation for all my Fryday friends: May the best ye hae ivver seen be the warst ye'll ivver see. May the moose ne'er lea' yer girnal wi a tear-drap in its ee. May ye aye keep hail an hertie till ye'r auld eneuch tae dee. May ye aye juist be sae happie as A wuss ye aye tae be. The above, in translation, reads: May the best you have ever seen be the worst you will ever see. May the mouse never leave your grain store with a tear drop in its eye. May you always stay hale and hearty until you are old enough to die. May you still be as happy as I always wish you to be. Slàinte, sonas agus beartas (Health, wealth and happiness) Fyday.

A Taste of Perfection

I remember a very funny Hancock’s Half Hour (is there any other kind?) called The Bedsitter in which Tony picks up Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities. Tony reads the first line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”, and then sets the book aside, explaining, “If he (Dickens) can’t make up his mind then he (Hancock) can’t be bothered.” In this episode and in many others Tony Hancock, in his shows and in life, was on a constant quest to improve himself. In many of the classic episodes of his radio and television shows he did reach perfection but the quest continued and eventually killed him. Most of us see and accept perfection as an unattainable goal. Nevertheless a few still try to achieve it and that trial can consume them. You probably know some. I do. My own quest for perfection is a little more pragmatic but just as pricey: Lagavulin. The 16-year-old Lagavulin is the single most beautiful single malt scotch in the world. RKN, who I think now reads this column will dispute that but he is in the wrong. Lagavulin is what I call a layered scotch—it has layers of sensation that repeatedly bid entrance long after you have consumed and swallowed your first dram. It is this repetition, akin to “Bishop” Tamaki’s requests for money, that makes Lagavuhlin the gang-bang of all scotches. However, it exacts a pretty exacting set of criteria; it should only be drunk late at night while one is alone and musing, it should be drunk from a proper scotch glass and with (at most) a dash of water, and ideally should be followed by sex. And with regard to the last, I should stress that it is only the Lagavulin that should be sampled alone, not the sex. Do all of that and you will have a taste of perfection. I get through a fair few bottles of it myself, and you can read into that what you will. Cheers!

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