Whisky

Whisky drunk isn’t like any other kind of drunk. Beer gets you bloated and cider makes you stupid. Wine gets you warmly sozzled, while gin and sake get you stoned. Port or brandy can round off a drowsy drinking meal, but whisky gives its very own confidence to your every move. You swagger and strut. Cowboy and outlaw films must have been written by whisky drinkers. It clears your mind and your palate. Things become clearer and more simple. Time slows. People start to shine and glow. The whisky gently peels the stale taste buds from your tongue and scorches the thickening lining from inside your lips and cheeks. The muscles recall their youthful vigour as you fill another glass. There’s nothing you can’t do as you swill it around the increasingly sensitive parts of your mouth. But after several large glasses, a significant proportion of a bottle, you get the powerful urge for something else; usually some bread - some water; then comes a decreasing tolerance of almost anything that registers in the rapidly growing oblivion. But, as the gulps grow, almost nothing registers and even lifting an arm is a struggle. Water. Sleep. Sleep… … … Sleep. I get wonderfully deep sleep after a few whiskies. Dreams barely register. It is rare for anything to impinge on that kind of total slumber. And I always awake ridiculously early the next morning, full of an abnormal energy and vigorous happiness; I always have done, so much so that in my younger days, if I ever needed to get up especially early for an important appointment, I always made a point of sinking at least half a bottle of good single malt the previous night. What a constitution to be blessed with.