Whisky Online Blog

So, Valentine’s Day. The annual Hallmark-sponsored schmaltz festival. I’ve never had much time for Valentine’s Day, many people bemoan the memories it conjures up of school days and the associated adolescent angst. Sitting in corners watching the same people getting the same cheap chocolates and awful cards, year after year. Some people on the other hand adhere to it with a sweaty romantic fervor. I find myself fitting into neither camp. If you have a friend/partner/lover, then it seems that each and every day is as appropriate as the last for extolling their virtues and bestowing upon them your love and affection. Romance by its nature should be an endless and spontaneous pursuit. National ‘be romantic’ day, which is what Valentine’s Day feels like if you allow yourself to be consumed by the sea of corporate hijackery, seems more than a little oxymoronic. Likewise, I have no resentment of those who flaunt their entanglements so brazenly for one day of the year. The streets of Glasgow were last night well-decked in couples, hand-in-hand, dolled-up to the nines, arguing and bickering as only people in committed relationships know how. I felt no bitterness or resentment, no jealousy. If I am going to feel miserable at lacking love or a partner in my life, then that, like its antithesis, is something I can entertain and indulge each and every day of the year. Self-pity, morose  and middle-distance gazing introspection are national British past times, something that should not, like love, be relegated to a single card-saturated day of the year. For me, Valentine’s Day is more of a fleeting inconvenience, something that brings unwarranted expectations, unwelcome awkwardness and a smorgasbord of corporate clap-trap. The shops of our High Streets bulging at the gills with yet more fetid shiny drudgery, like bloated dying fish entangled in plastic on a cold beach. Valentine’s Day is like a volcano, annually letting off steam in the form of pointless and commendably shallow trinkets. Nothing says “I love You” like a helium-filled, heart-shaped balloon, an item whose unique romantic potential is unleashed when you puncture it and dance around the park singing your lover’s name having recently inhaled the contents. In short, I don’t particularly like Valentine’s Day, it just exists and I grudgingly tolerate it.

Prepare the sick bucket!

It did make me think however about what people drink on their Valentines date. Or more to the point, what do we drink in general when in a romantic situation? One thing can be certain, it’s not whisky. At least not historically, I’m sure there are trends being bucked these days by those with a taste for something smoky or strong. There’s no doubt whisky is a romantic drink but it will never topple the dominance of something like champagne. People in love seem to want to drink fizzy things, especially when they’re out and about, going for dinner and making a big deal out of each other. If they’re flirting maybe they lean more towards cocktails, or if they’re being quiet about it and are serious about what they eat or drink they’ll probably have a decent bottle of wine, red being the obvious preference of the romantic gastronomist. When you consider these trends for a moment it highlights quite succinctly the deeply solitary nature of whisky as a drink. Sure we share it as friends, in fact the only times I really drink whisky are in very specific social situations with particular friends, the ones who are comfortable with a similar level of geekery about the drink as I am. But it is not the same as the urge that compels us to order champagne on a date. The urge for whisky is often born of darker hours and moments. It is a soothing and deeply contemplative drink, one to nullify the senses, to mull over, to brood with alone while allowing it to allay the storms of a hurried and worried mind. Whisky has a power almost no other drink can match in these instances. Brandy comes close but it is too elegant, it lacks sinew and bite, just as Rum is too playful in character and Tequila too brutish. Whisky strikes a potent and seductive pose between raw power and an intellectual ferment of flavour and distractive depth. We drink with friends but Whisky’s most glorious hours have probably been at the helm of lone drinkers as they sail though wild oceans of mental turmoil.

Burns was a man consumed by romanticism, to the extent that he sought nourishment in whisky in the darker and lighter hours of his life.

Fitting then that the reality of Valentines Day in the majority of other countries is as a celebration of friendship. A festive idea that I can get on board with, something to encompass more that two people, something that does deserve to be hit home once a year. An excuse to purposefully gather many people who are dear to each other and let them remind one another why they matter. It seems a shame that whisky has not been seen as more of a drink for lovers, that there cannot be classical romance over a dram or two. Of course there can be, the scents and aromatic qualities of great whiskies are often seductive in nature. Perhaps it is simply the age old fact that whisky is still largely misunderstood by the majority of the world’s drinking population. It will always be a drink that lends itself to the fusing of friendships and minds, a sociable spirit of great magnitude. Though I suspect its deepest , most honest power will always remain in moments of quiet solitude. That is not too say the realm of the alcoholic by any means, simply that it is a spirit who’s depth demands concentration and inner flights of thought, it is a drink that nourishes in a way that few others can ever hope to. Where a mouthful of good whisky sinks into your soul like a boulder, others so often skim the surface like fleeting pebbles.

Lets finish up with a tasting. A Coleburn methinks, for no other reason than I’m in the mood for something a bit different…

Coleburn 1971-1999. 28yo. Douglas Laing OMC. 198 Bottles. 50%. 70cl.

Colour: Dull gold

Nose: Beautiful, a stunning and nervous bubble of wax, minerals, honey, garden fruits and ground white pepper. Classically old highland in style, the kind of aroma that can only be found in these old style distillates that have a healthy amount of age in refill wood behind them. Further notes of pollen, wild flowers, an extractive saltiness, linseed oil, wet rags, more flinty mineral qualities and white stone fruit aspects. Very reminiscent of Clynelish, or possibly Banff, from the same era. If only there were more Coleburns around to see how consistent this character was. It goes on with putty, boiled cereals, pencil shavings and little touches of wood smoke. Resinous, complex and pretty spectacular in all.

Palate: Hmmm, that’s a shame, the palate is immediately quite over-extracted, lots of notes of black tea, mushrooms, cardboard and earth. Hits of wax, mould and olive oil as well. Very big notes of tea here, milky tea and soft spices with some quite aggressive tannins in there as well. Not particularly enjoyable it’s sad to say. Butter, rotten orange peel, muesli, sultanas, sour dough, marmite and wood. It’s very bitter and quite astringent really, I think a dodgy cask has been at play here or something.

Finish: Long but still very extractive., cardboardy, teaish and bitter.

Comments: What a shame. The nose was enthralling and beautiful, it’s so bizarre how utterly different the palate was. Everything about the nose said this was going to be 92/93 points material but the palate really dragged it down. It’s a great shame because I have a big soft spot for Coleburn, I have tried several others that are pretty fantastic, if there was an award for greatest indifference felt towards a closed distillery then that would surely go to Coleburn.

Score: 75/100 (but the nose is 92 easily)

Big thanks to Tobias & Dennis for this dram.

Last wednesday was Burns night and I didn’t post anything which was immediately a source of annoyance to me, in fact I haven’t posted anything for about ten days now so this only magnifies my frustration. The demands of having a real job finally seem to be hitting home. Anyway, the arrival at my desk of an old miniature of 12yo Lagavulin from the 1980s seems to have breezed the dust of off these pages and re-booted my whisky mojo. There is no evidence that Robert Burns had a particular fondness for Islay/peated whisky over the others. Although he did die at the age of 37, partly from terminal romanticism and melancholy, but also because he was a colossal piss head so I suspect he didn’t mind which distillery it came from (so long as it wasn’t Ferintosh). So this seems a fitting dram to belatedly celebrate his birthday, lets crack on…

Lagavulin 12yo OB. White Horse Distillers. 1980s rotation. 43%. 5cl. 

Colour: Rosewood (surprisingly dark)

Nose: Wow! Unmistakably Lagavulin, an old style one with plenty sherry. It has something of these old 12yo white label editions from the 1970s but it is also very much like the current 16yo except punchier, earthier, rootier and more coastal. There is also something a bit ‘old Ardbeggy’ about it in the sheer tarry, oily density of the phenols. Big sizzling peat, loads of oils, medicine, seaweed, frying bacon, crashing coastal notes, seashore, lemongrass, coal dust and fresh oysters. This is quite different the even bigger than the other full size bottle versions that I’ve tried in the past. Quite spectacular really. Goes on with lots of mints and dark chocoalte (Bendick’s bittermints), wiht peat syrup, more tar and just an endless plethora of coastal, medicinal, farmyard and industrial qualities. Pretty stunning.

Palate: Is this really 43%? A large slab of peat upon delivery, fat, oily, juicy and drying. Kippers, smoked mussels, brine, seawater, creosote, some flickers of dark and dried fruits from the sherry but it’s mostly bags of coastal and medical qualities that dominate up front. TCP, mouthwash, germoline, a mouthful of dried seaweed then salt and vinegar crisps. Balsamic vinegar now with spearmint, more of these super fat phenols, oils, peated honey (?) and coarse black pepper. Wonderful.

Finish: Longer than Burn’s letter to Dr John Moore.

Comments: I’ve been fortunate enough to try quite a few old Lagavulins in recent months and what strikes me is the seemingly never-ending consistency of brilliance between them all. There are patters of personality and quirks of character that you can trace from the 1950s right though to the 1990s so it seems, especially when sherry is involved. This one was spectacular as excepted but the sherry and peat combination was a great deal more intense than expected. I think there was almost certainly some caramel in there but it wasn’t to a point of detriment if you ask me. I think Burns would have approved.

Score: 93/100

I wouldn’t do a post like this without a bit of music. When it comes to Burns I’ll not waste my breath by laying out what marked him as a genius when his words are still echoing though our psyche centuries after he committed them to paper. I think it would be better to just shut up and listen. It is hard to choose a particular poem or song over the others, so many of them already seem like perfect and ancient lynchpins of modern songwriting that to have a favourite would be to miss the point a little. However, there is one that springs to mind in these heady Scottish days when we are ruminating on nationalism, independence and the ramifications of severing our ties to the rest of the UK. Much poetry and polemic is spun about it in both directions by our ceaseless politicians but perhaps Burn’s 1791 slice of national navel gazing that is A Parcel O’ Rogues, with its sadly angry bitterness over Scottish greed and waning of willpower, says as much today as it did then.

Emperor Cameron indicates the width of his DVD collection.

You can’t help but be impressed by David Cameron; not only does he believe wholeheartedly that he has the right to govern the people of Britain despite only having a mandate from a nano-minority of inbred millionaires who were fortunate enough to be born into a frothing cauldron of sheer luck, he also seems to think that if he doesn’t tell the British film industry how to do things properly then it will simply vanish down the plughole of unproductive left-wing pseudo-art…….. How enterprising of him, how noble and fiendishly clever. Where would we be without David Cameron? It’s a wonder he finds time to watch all the small, independent British films that are made every year. To keep abreast of modern cinematic trends and offer expert insight based on his inspirational levels of industry and textual analysis despite the amount of shite he has to eat and regurgitate on a daily basis is truly admirable. How did he ever find time to see all these films during those years spent arse-licking and principle-shredding his way to the top of the British political manure pile?Wasn’t he too busy pouring scorn on the unemployed for their deliberate and cold-hearted sponging from the state rather than having the good decency to simply inherit money from deceased relatives? Then there’s the pandering to Middle England, making sure at all costs that they never hear anything other than exactly what they expect to. Not to mention the constant and draining process of personally providing regular and clinically thorough sexual gratification to each of his Eurosceptic, Backbench crustaceans in the form of rubbing them all over with cognac soaked copies of the Daily Mail while cooing Laissez-Faire philosophical tidbits in their ear until they eventually stiffen, quiver imperceptibly, collapse in a heap of pipe tobacco and spit-whittled pork scratchings then agree to stop voting against him for the next few days.

Some of David's modern, backbench 'yoofs', keeping it real with the masses. Note the trendy double IPad front right. These 'bitches' were all recently satisfied by David's 'skillful handiwork'.

Given all that, it really surprises me that he’s seen such noteworthy films as This Is England, Fish Tank, Red Road, London To Brighton, Neds, The Guard, Tyrannosaur, Kill List, Shame, Ironclad, Morven Callar, Moon… the list goes on. I mean, how can he not have seen all these films? Who would be crazy enough to wade into a debate they are ill-prepared for, ill-informed about and not welcome in? It’s crazy, you’d think he had something against smalltime British cinema, but surely not? Alas, David Cameron is a traditionalist at heart and a connoisseur of the free market economy. His hatred of art for art’s sake, the BBC and publicly funded stuff like independent British films and the NHS are hardwired into his DNA, just like his distaste of paupers and his joy in exploring other boys bodies in a totally cool way in the dorms after matron has put the lights out. Just ask his fag George Osbourne.

David's Pet Chancellor, George. Together putting the 'N' in Tory Cuts since 2010.

The reality of the British film industry is that it is a complex beast; for every King’s Speech or Slumdog Millionaire that makes a ton of cash, there are several low-key efforts that may not break entirely even at the box office but are no less flush with artistic merit or value. There is also a fair amount of shit, inevitable and acceptable, some might argue necessary, because the process of risk-taking that is film-making invariably yields the occasional jobbie sandwich. To have a film industry at all we need variety, there are countless small budget, often obscure, British films that have enriched the fabric of cinema, popular culture and individual lives in ways we cannot possibly comprehend. To take Cameron’s advice and turn it into a fetid, Hollywoodesque blockbuster excreter would destroy the very nature of something we should rightly all be proud of in this country. That variety, experimentation, fearlessness and breadth of expression is what gives us an Industry. It is the difference between an industry and a factory which is what David Cameron would rather we had; a vacuous, soul devoid machine to crank out capital, one where these annoying, left-wing film makers have no place and no voice. The real root of his comments is one of pure political doctrine, the same one that lies at the heart of the never-ending Tory quest to dismantle the BBC and privatise the NHS because these institutions are largely left-wing, socialist leaning entities. Not always, there are obviously exceptions, David Cameron clearly loves Top Gear, he even cameoed in hilarious fashion in this year’s Christmas special, appearing as comfortable and natural on pre-recorded screen as a bin liner full of shredded chip board. There are also cinematic exceptions, Cameron pointedly singled out the King’s Speech, a character study of other rich people largely devoid of any political overtones, something I suspect he quite appreciated. Although it’s a shame that he has championed it so much, as it leads me to dislike a perfectly good film just because I feel slightly dirty at the thought of agreeing with David Cameron about anything.

The excellent King's Speech. A film David Cameron found to be thoroughly jolly and is currently rooting for Michael Bay to direct the sequel.

It’s as if he were to suddenly get involved in the Scotch Whisky industry. Oozing in like a seething albino slug, decanting his fetid self into the room and informing all the distilleries they need to be making more sweet, bourbon enhanced, populist malts. As if there isn’t already enough of that going on. Every industry needs quirk and variety if it is to be loved and hold true value. I think Cameron sees everything against some sort of politico-economic barometer that determines it’s usefulness in getting him and his fop-haired, bum chums re-elected. It seems he’s surprised why so many of the smaller films made in Britain might be infused with a left-wing sentiment, but perhaps his lack of comprehension is the most telling thing. Great art comes more often from left-leaning origins than right-leaning ones, not always but most of the time. There must be a reason for this, I’d call it a capacity for empathy and a genuine desire for communication and understanding. He’d call it bleeding heart liberalism and promptly have us all privatised. And then shot. Leave the film industry alone David, I don’t go on telly and tell you how to be an undeserving, spiteful, overly monied android do I?

A soulless, empty, lab grown, non-human, computerised synthetic. And the lovable Data from Star Trek.

After all that ranting I felt like a dram and what’s more it’s high time I dragged this post kicking and screaming back to the safer realms of whisky bloggery. At least then I can rant about something more fluently than I can politics. A simple tasting to wind down today’s furious diatribe should be just the ticket.

Aultmore 1983-1997 OB. Flora & Fauna Cask Strength. 58.8%. 70cl.

This one comes courtesy of Tobias and Dennis, thanks guys. Part of the excellent and now highly sought after Flora & Fauna Cask Strength series.

Colour: Pale Gold.

Nose: Quite sharp and peppery at first with a fairly keen edge to the alcohol. However there are also some beautifully vivid mineral notes along with petrol, white flowers, wet grains and toasted cereals. Some restrained notes of wax, stone fruits, green apples, porridge, grass and camphor. Very nice so far, lets try with water… it softens out quite beautifully, all on lemon oil, vanilla balm, hints of orange liqueur, sunflower oil, butter and brioche.

Palate: Hot hot hot! Very prickly and green with notes of varnish, lemon oil, salt, buttered toast and pear flesh. Quite intense at full strength, definitely needs water. With water has notes of milk bottle sweeties, baked apples, cinnamon, rice pudding and custard. Quite a creamy and spicy confection. Lots of aromatic toasted spice notes, more drying cereal qualities, nutmeg, vanilla pods, grass, pine sap and cornflour. Quite a nice balance between older style dryness and a more modern, up front sweetness.

Finish: Longish with violets, honey, touches of tar, hay, coal, juniper and more mixed spices.

Comments: At times very potent and quite difficult and at others quite lush, juicy and aromatic, a bit of a good bag all in all and never boring. Excellent Aultmore.

Score: 85/100