A new favourite?

No: nothing to do with the marvellous Alison Krauss song (wrong spelling, for a start). Rocky Schenck's video is none too dusty either. If that isn't "art", what is it? So we'll take that pretext for a moment of wallowing:



Of brands and blends

Malcolm's mother went for the straight Glenmorangie. Malcolm sighs, wishing that, two decades on, they could broach a bottle together.

There's the most northern mainland distillery, and very pleasant too. The "sixteen men" and their successors do a magnificent job. All donations gratefully accepted.

Malcolm's old Dad was a bit more basic. Quantity more than quality, perhaps. Standing the round at the bar or birthdays came a bit more economical. He went for Stewart's Cream of the Barley (which seems, of late, to be marketed a wee bit more upmarket). Again, not something which a decent mortal should miss.

As for our aul' fella himself, the Boyo Malcolm, he takes his delights where he can find them.

His marital involvements with things Ulster mean he has a taste for the true, the blissful Hippocrene from Bushmills. He reckons that, far better than air-freshener, one opens a bottle of Green Bush, allows the aroma to waft through the house, gently lowering the level of contents, watching the rugby, and keeping out of the way of the wee wifie preparing dinner in the kitchen.

Callers with intent

Now, there is one small beneficial spin-off from siring a spawn of daughters. Sooner or later the odd young man comes visiting.

In Malcolm's case, one of the passing callers had a dubious continental practice which involved passing repeatedly through airports. At that stage in the developing relationship, said young man felt the need to keep the aul' fella sweet. The consequence of that was a succession of desirable single malts, bought at duty-frees across the northern hemisphere. All gone, all lost and gone ... except ...

The glory hole

There, at the very darkest corner of the cupboard under the stairs, past the dubious port bought for a long-gone Christmas pudding, beyond that curious plastic bottle of ouzo (Memo: must unload that to a party sometime) where the various bottled bitters have sidled, was a cylinder. Not empty. Within was a full ... a full ... bottle of McClennan's Highland malt.

And it is heavenly. Sphere: Related Content