Except.

I dunno. I’m pretty tempted to remain off the drink. I feel much better for the lack of it, and I’ve really rather enjoyed the fact that getting up before 8am on a Saturday and Sunday is now something that just happens naturally. I get some time to get stuff done before the rest of the world is really moving yet. Honestly, the first two weeks off the drink were very strange, and not entirely without difficulty. I mean, not in an oh-god-I’m-an-alky way or anything, just that because I am a gregarious sort of chap whose meeting place of choice is the pub, I had accidentally fallen into the habit of drinking five or six nights out of seven. Not vast amounts, you understand – just two or three pints. But those pints add up, and I honestly hadn’t realised how habitual they’d been, and how much they were slowing me down until I completely cut them out. But after I’d got past those first couple of weeks, I seem to have broken the habit, and sitting in the pub with a lime and soda no longer feels that odd. And I’m taking more exercise, and finding it more effective, than I was. I’ve just got more energy to burn.

On the other hand, I have parties and holidays and other fun things coming up. And frankly, the sort of person who is the always sober one at parties is someone I have always regarded with a little suspicion. I know that “I choose not to get drunk” does not equate to “I disapprove of drunkenness”, but still: if everyone else is having a drink or three, relaxing and letting their hair down, as it is very definitely psychologically useful to do from time to time, if everyone else buying into the social contract that says “this space is an area where it is OK to do something slightly daft/say something slightly stupid because we’re all drunk”, then it is only natural to feel the person who rejects that group decision is someone who is standing in judgement. I do not wish to be that guy. Also, being the sober one at parties is often boring.

“But why not just be sensible about your drinking, Al?” I hear you ask.

Well, that’s more or less the plan. I’m only going to be allowed to drink twice a week at the very most from now on, and with any luck rather, less than I had been consuming. I’m do not intend to switch from two or three pints five nights a week to fifteen pints one night a week, because I am not a moron. But even having allowed myself that, I think I may attempt not to drink at all a bit more often, so that it’s unusual to see me drinking when down the pub, rather than the reverse.

As for single, well, that’s not exactly something I have such singular personal control over, since it is my experience that relationships are most rewarding when there are two willing participants involved. And since I don’t think I know anyone who is all three of interesting, interested and single (hell, being me, and requiring to be hit about the head before I notice these things, I don’t think I know anyone who is more than one out of three), this looks unlikely to change, but as I was saying the other month, I value my free time on my own, so this really doesn’t trouble me terribly much. I just thought it was worth marking off the finish of the year, just as a personal “goal complete” checkbox.

So there we are. This was your dose of completely self-absorbed narcissism for the day. Next goal, to be attempted after my holiday: cut out caffeine for a while.

On a less me-me-me note: I note that the universe is being rather less nice to a number of my friends than they so clearly deserve. This is obviously shoddy behaviour on the part of the universe. I’m thinking of you, and as ever, if there’s anything I can do, you know where I am.

In his book Eat Britain, Andrew makes the suggestion that whisky seems like a drink that it requires time and effort to understand. I don’t think this is exactly true, but I can understand why it seems that way. Luckily for you, I’m here to simplify it all for you all, so that you too can get into whisky, and bore the arse off your mates pontificating about the latest “malt” you’ve discovered. I took a quick trip to my local supermarket, and noted down all the single malt whiskies that they had on sale, and I’m going to tell you a bit about them in general terms, so that you can either decide which one(s) sound like they might be your sort of thing, or at the very least, you can bluff it when you’re trying to impress someone down the pub. For the sake of honesty: there are a couple here I’ve never actually tried, and few that it’s been a long time single I had any. I have referred to the 5th edition of the late Michael Jackson’s superb Malt Whisky Companion to supplement my memory in places. (Yes, I know I said it wasn’t that hard. It isn’t. I’m your actual obsessive, OK? No-one’s saying you have to be like me.)

All of these cost between 20 and 30 quid in my local supermarket – they may not be the cheapest thing on the shelf, but I promise you, even the worst of them is miles ahead of that 12 quid bottle of Bells sitting next them.

So, as you may or may not know, whisky production is divided into regions, much like wine. And like wine, you can generalise a bit about each region – of course, there are always exceptions within each and every region, but the generalities remain true, so I’ll tackle them by region.

Speyside
I’m going to start here, because there are more distilleries in this region than any other – there might even me more here than all the other regions put together. This is probably the closest region in general taste to what most people think of as whisky – if I had to pick one regional characteristic, I’d go for a sherry taste – some of them would be dry sherries, some (most) erring more toward the sweet, but a lot of the whiskies here have a fairly heavy touch of sherry about them. (Whisky, is, of course, traditionally made in sherry barrels, so it’s not a surprise to find that taste there, but it’s in the Speyside area that the characteristic is most generally noticeable.)

Glenfiddich 12 (year old – single malt whisky is generally refered to by it’s age, which is how long the whisky has spent in barrels, maturing).
I suppose I’d better get this one out of the way first. This is cooking whisky, at least as far as I’m concerned. There’s really nothing that interesting about it. There’s a sort of general sweetness about it, you might get a hint of pear drops, or acetone on the the first sniff, and the taste is sherry, with maybe a little bit of smoke somewhere in the back. It’s inoffensive, and unremarkable, and you can get in most pubs exactly because it’s inoffensive and unremarkable. I’ll drink it if I really can’t get anything else, or the beer is off.
If you like this, try: Despite the fact that their 12 year old is really very boring, some of their other varieties are superb. I would unhesitatingly recommend both both their 15 and 21 year old varieties, especially as the 15 still comes in at around the 30 quid mark. The 21 is pricier, but is a serious contender for being one of the best whiskies in the world.

The Macallan 10
Here’s one I’ve never had. I actually quite like another 10 year old they do, the Macallan 10 (Fine Oak), but this isn’t that. Jackson describes this it as sweetish, without bit too sweet, well rounded sherry without too much richness, and a hint of smoke.
If you like this, try: The Macallan 10 (Fine Oak). A couple of quid more expensive, it’s essentially the same sort of thing, just a bit sweeter and richer, with a little more, you guessed it, oak.

The Balvenie Doublewood 12
This is matured in 2 kinds of barrel – first barrels that have been used for bourbon, and then those that have been used for sherry. It’s a very easy drink – lots of sherry, some orange flavours, and a little spice.
If you like this, try: Glenrothes. Glenrothes don’t put the ages on their bottles, preferring instead to label the year the whisky was laid down, so you’ve got some general idea, but they’re open about the fact that they’re not trying to make the same thing every year. Still, they’re generally pretty (even extremely) sweet for a whisky. I’m a big fan. In fact, I’m off to get some now.

Dalwhinnie 15
My personal favourite of this bunch. There’s still sherry in here, but it’s tempered by a rather nicely floral nose, with hints of honey in the drink, and a bit more peat than other Speysides which give it a peppery sort of finish. Really very nice indeed.
If you like this, try: Oban 14. A little less sweet, a little more peppery – a bit more of peat and the smell of the sea about it.

Highland
These are often quite like Speysides, if perhaps a less sweet, a bit drier on the palette.

Glenmorangie 10
Despite that fact this it’s an absolutely classic whisky, one of the really big names in the industry, I just don’t get on with Glenmorangies’ whiskies – I’ve never had one that I could get excited about. I can’t tell you why, which makes me think the failing is in me, not their product. Jackson calls this spicy, flowery and sweet, with a creamy, almost buttery finish. Sounds quite nice.
If you like this, try: No idea. Try an older Glenmorangie.

Old Pultney 12
Dry on the nose, with a grassy, peaty edge. It’s quite a light whisky, with a nutty sweetness, and a finish that is oily, and strangely salty.
If you like this, try: Another one I’m not sure about – it’s a distinctive enough distillery that you’re probably best sticking to just getting an older version of the same. I’m tempted to suggest a Talisker, but you’ll see why I’ve got reservations about it in a moment.

Islands
This does not include Islay, which is a region to itself, for reasons I’ll get to in a bit, but does include all the other scottish Islands. This region is perhaps understandably very hard to generalise about, but I’ll say this much: they’re all pretty good, often for wildly different reasons. There’s often a certain sea-air type saltiness about them, combined with whatever else they’ve got going on,

Jura 10
Jura put out a strong contender for my favourite whisky I’ve ever had. This isn’t it, because the my favourite was a limited edition bottling, now sadly sold out, but still, it’s a damn good drink, and one that has been getting more popular (and therefore easier to buy) in recent years, which pleases me immensely. This is sweet, well rounded stuff, with a nice dry edge in the finish.
If you like this, try: This one’s probably no help, but Jura’s special 1984 edition is the one I particularly like. If you happen to see a bottle of it anywhere, grab it, because you won’t get another chance. It’s utterly beautiful stuff.

Talisker 10
Talisker’s a favourite of mine. Huge, smoky, peaty, a lovely sea air tang to it. There’s more sweetness and sherry in it than Islay malts (more about them in a minute) but there’s still a big, peppery, slightly medicinal taste.
If you like this, try: I’ve had a Scapa that reminded me of a lighter, slightly more mellow Talisker, and if you like the peaty, medicinal taste, then a Lagavulin might bit a good bet – the 16 year old is pretty damn tasty. If you like something a bit less medicinal, you perhaps go for a Highland Park.

Islay
Islay whiskies are often so different from well, most of the others that they might almost be a different drink. The common taste here is generally described as medicinal – there’s a phenol component to the flavour, that you might associate with iodine, or dental mouthwash.

Ardbeg 10
I don’t really know this one at all. Jackson says it starts out sweet, then turns mean, finishing with a healthy does of iodine.
If you like this, try: You could try some older Ardbegs Their 25 year-old “Lord of the Isles” is generally considered the best of the type, which picks up some fruity sweetness to balance the medicinal tastes.

Laphroig 10
And if you like the medicinal taste in the Ardbeg and the Talisker, then this is the sine qua non of iodine. Often described as being like sucking a wet rope, or like licking wet tarmac, this is a real love it or hate it drink. I didn’t used to like this much, and it’s still not in my top malts, but I’ve learned to appreciate it, and those that love tend to really, really love it.
If you like this, try: Laphroig’s as medicinal as they come. Try the 15 year old version, which has a little bit more sweetness to round it out, without dropping any of that huge nautical-rope edgy. Lagavulin’s the only other distillery to come close to Laphroig’s massive medicinal flavour, so again, their 16 might be a good bet. The other option is actually a blend, made by an artisanal blender called Compass Box, called The Peat Monster, which is superb.

Irish
Of course, Scotland isn’t the only place that makes whisky. Well, to be strict about it, Ireland makes whiskey. The Irish version of the drink is actually made slightly differently to most Scottish malts – in Scotland the spirit is generally distilled twice, and in Ireland, it’s distilled three times. Irish malts tend to be a little bit smoother, as a result, which some people find more appealing.

Bushmills 10
There’s a creamy, slightly oily, vanilla feel to this one, cut with fruity citrus notes that are one of the hallmarks of the Bushmills distillery. Bushmills was the first whisky I really got into, and I have some very fond (and sometimes very hazy) memories of this stuff.
If you like this, try: The 16 year old version is a superb drink – sweet and well rounded. You might also look south to Jamesons, who do a very nice 12 year old single malt that a cut above the version you find on optic in many pubs.

“I like the little things. The way a glass feels in your hand, a good glass – thick, with a heavy base. I love the sound an ice cube makes when you drop it from just the right height. Too high, and it will chip when you drop it. Chip the ice and it will melt too fast in the Scotch…” – Leo McGarry, The West Wing, “Bartlet For America”

This is by way of being a preface to a few other essays that I intend to write, in response to several people’s requests about whisky. If I’m going to spend time talking about whisky, I should probably set out my own stall first, as it were. And yeah, I should imagine a few of my friends are looking at that talk of ice in whisky with some horror. I’ll come back to that later.

Whisky ticks a number of boxes for me. Firstly, and most importantly, I love the taste. I love big flavours – red wines, onions, garlic, dark chocolate, butter, cream, coffee, red meat, cigars. (Yes, I am going to die of heart failure. I have made my peace with this.) Whisky, even a comparatively light, floral variety (and they do exist) is a big, big, flavour.

Secondly, there’s probably very little point in pretending it doesn’t also tick my “geek” box. Specialist knowledge? A certain amount of collector mentality? Sign me up!

And lastly, it’s an intoxicant. Let’s be honest here: I like to get drunk on occasion (for occasion read: “at any reasonable excuse, like, say, weekends”). So do any number of people. I especially like to do this in good company. Whisky is practically self-selecting for similar people.

Like McGarry, above, there is a ritual element to it that appeals to me. I like to have the right glass, somthing that varies with my mood – sometimes it’s a good cut glass tumbler, sometimes, like tonight, it’s a proper nosing glass – the common thread, as Leo says, is a good heavy base, a bit of reassuring weight in the hand. I like the pop as the cork leave the bottle, the gentle sloshing sound of the pour, holding the drink to the light to admire the colour, that first sniff of the marvellous smell, and then that first magic sip, rolling the liquid around my mouth…

Which brings me back to taste. And, while I’m here, smell. Let us, for the sake of an example, talk about what I am drinking right now, which is the last of my bottle of Compass Box’s superb blend Spice Tree.

Held up to the light, it’s quick a clear yellow-amber colour, and on first sniff, there’s a sweetness to it, a light sweetness, more like a honey than say, toffee. Going back again there’s strong element of spice to the sweetness, festive spices like clove and cinnamon. Sipping it, and rolling it around the mouth, it’s rich and sweet, with hints of fruit to start with, and it finishes long, and very dry, almost to the point of being astringent. There’s no way you could drink this and not notice that you were drinking something of character. You might not like it, and that’d be fine, because then I could have yours, but there’s no way you could fail to notice the shift in mouthfeel, and the changing range of tastes that come together like liquid magic.

I could write that amount about any of the whiskies in my collection. (By the standards of some people I know, I don’t keep a huge collection – after finishing this Spice Tree, I only have five different bottles on the go at the moment.) And were I to do so, you’d be able to understand the differences between them. Even just in text form, there’d be no mistaking one for another. Now part of that’s the specialist knowledge I was talking about earlier, but part of it just is the sheer variety that’s available. I love the fact that there’s such a range, that every new whisky I try will be different from the others.

My friend Andrew, in his very fine book, Eat Britain, makes the point about whisky that it feels like an elite club, that it requires special training to understand and appreciate. I don’t think it does, but I can understand why it feels that way. I’ve met a few people who get terribly snobby about “wasting good whisky on people who won’t appreciate it”. The technical term for these people is “arseholes”. On a similar subject, I said I’d come back to McGarry’s remark about ice. Firstly, it should be borne in mind that McGarry was talking about Johnnie Walker, a whisky that is more popular in America than anywhere else, a drink that is made with the American palette in mind. And one of the things that’s expected is that it will be drunk over ice, because that’s the normal way to drink whisky in the States. So it’s quite likely that the ice will suit the drink. And secondly: the only correct way to drink whisky is the way that tastes best to you. If you prefer it with ice, have it with ice. If you actually prefer the taste of your 70 year old single malt with coke in it, and have found that a scotch and coke made with a cheap blend just isn’t as good as one with something criminally expensive in it, well, fine by me. As long as you feel you’re getting your money’s worth out of what you’re drinking. Anyone who claims anything else is just wrong.

I don’t feel that I’ve had special training, and I don’t think does take any training beyond maybe sampling a few different whiskies, just to find out what you like. A basic understanding of the differences takes less time than you’d think – in any reasonably well stocked pub, I could sit you down with four or five whiskies, and take you on a quick tour of malts that, even if you’d never tasted a whisky before in your life, would all taste distinct and different. They’d unquestionably have something in common – that huge, rich, explosive taste, but I promise you, you’d be able to tell the difference. And you could probably find a preference, and a place to start exploring for yourself from. That’s what I did, after all. You don’t need to try everything to find something you like, and there’s no shame in finding something you like and sticking with it. Whisky may seem elitist, but actually, it’s open to anyone who is willing to buy a bottle or two, and share it with friends. If you’re enjoying what you’re drinking, it can’t possibly be a waste.

And it really is such an enjoyable drink.