Maker’s Mark review part 6

Drunk neat at room temperature or with ice: oh, no.

Maker's Mark Bourbon Whiskey smells amazing whether it's newly-poured into my favourite glass, or it's the remains evaporated overnight and sniffed during the tidy-up the following morning. (No, I've absolutely no idea why I did it the first time!)

But, after the initial welcome the taste becomes unpleasant to me. No Baz's seal of approval here I'm afraid.

There's a tad more to whiskey than a pleasant aroma, even my limited experience tells me that. The 2 preceding brands were pleasant, unchallenging. This, if it's an American favourite, seems analogous to the way I feel about Hershey's chocolate: it's to-me-unfathomably popular, explainable away by a blind obedience to the cult of historic nationhood, but there's no getting away from its' smelling, as it does, of sick.

Concluded early.

Privacy

Another sign personal responsibility is a thing of the past, this one related to the ubiquity of the mobile phone. It's an all-purpose privacy invader, child entertainer, burglar inviter, memory enhancer, space invader. In short, it's contributing to the decline of civilised society.

A post on my favourite medium-traffic low-visibility social network pnut.io reminded me of the number of times the mobile hasn't been my friend. The easiest way to do this is via the magic of a list.

A rant, actually.

  • Private meal, photos taken, in all likelihood shared on social media: (not mine this time) Why do they think it's ok to do this? A host and their home should be respected. In a bar it's almost ok. Why does no-one ask first anymore‽
  • The swimming baths changing room: man with phone blocking the aisle between the cubicles didn't take kindly to being asked to put it away, not even when the obvious sign he was stood next to was pointed out. No mobiles, no photography.
  • School sports days, Christmas plays: Advance notice of no photography, yet parents insisting it's their right to do so are sneaky about it.
  • The cinema: Yeah, looking at your full-brightness phone and taking selfies are simply antisocial; recording the movie would get you thrown out (though likely not prosecuted) if the grumpy old bastard behind is feeling vindictive.
  • Drivers: Is it too difficult to wait until you can find a safe place to stop before answering or making that call. It's been illegal to phone on the move for a while now, along with drinking anything, adjusting your stereo, and even picking your nose you dirty scrotum! Heck, being in the phone driving down the residential streets where you live and your children play is idiotic. Getting in your car after picking up your kids from school surely getting home safely is your highest priority. After driving at my wife and children.
  • Walking along the street, crossing the road: This should be obvious. Cars are hard, very hard indeed. Bouncing off mine might sting for a while, and though my elbow is less-likely to inflict permanent damage as I protect myself, my tongue is likely to be sharper than you realise.
  • It's lawful to take public photos of my daughters: I won't like it much, especially if it looks as-if you're doing it covertly. But I know it's your right to do so. Making you feel uncomfortable by staring at you until you leave is my right. One day I might even snap you.

Er…

I think it's time to have a go at composing part 6 of my Maker's Mark whiskey review series. (Surprisingly catharsis none while writing the preceding necessarily-incomplete diatribe.)

Maker’s Mark review part 5

Drunk again with 1-1/2 ice cubes with me at room temperature, this time after recently eating strawberries & shaken (not whipped) cream: oh no, that unpleasant taste remains.

Still smells amazing, rich, sherry, butterscotch, etc; this really does bear repeating.

I'd better conclude this at some point…

Maker’s Mark review part 4

Drunk again with a single ice cube with me at room temperature: oh no. There's a really unpleasant taste, unlike any of the preceding. Not sure what I'd eaten beforehand, but it's had quite the negative effect.

Smells more amazing than before, there is that.

To be continued…

Beauty And The Beast

My youngest daughter and I went to the movies again today, to watch Beauty and the Beast, a film my oldest had seen mid-week. In my own inimitable fashion I enjoyed the tale yet again, and ignored the chance that I'd be offended by the peripheral fuss surrounding the movie.

I wouldn't have been, by the way; it'd pass unnoticed were it not for the fact I was expecting something. What sad lives people must have, picking apart harmless entertainment and ignoring history.

Anyway, afterwards we walked across to McDonald's and bought 2 chicken nugget Happy Meals, which we ate in the car. Mine came with an orange-roofed Smurf house.

The movie and the meal gain Baz's seal of approval.

Maker’s Mark review part 3

I bowed to popular demand* and wrote what follows about the third Bourbon Whiskey I've ever tried. Well, the fourth bottle of the stuff. My first experience was 2 consecutive bottles of Buffalo Trace, then one of Wild Turkey 101 and, as the subject line indicates, I'm now trialling Maker's Mark.

Ahhh, what a day that was…

No, no! It takes over a week per bottle, honestly! Jeez!

First though, my earlier post:

"Drunk with a single ice cube with me at room temperature: oh.
Smells amazing.
To be continued…"

From the guy who recommended it, the comment that precipitated this, an unprecedented same-day update:

"Enough about the smell. Do you like the taste? That was my favourite favourite."

Well…

No. Not yet.

It's rather nice to start with but there's an aftertaste which comes on quickly that I'll admit I'm not liking. It spans my first neat test, and today's single ice cube (just-melted.) Buffalo Trace seems to have a cleaner finish; Wild Turkey 101, though a bit too strongly alcoholic at 50.5% for me, seems to lack this unpleasant fall-off too. All pull back my gums and attack my lips to a greater or lesser extent, which is rather nice, if I let them.

No, I haven't a bloody clue what I'm talking about, especially if I'm using anything like understandable terminology, but I know what I like. Bear in mind that I've been drinking Scotch whisky for over 20 years, off-and-on, culminating in the utterly awesome Laphroaig 15-year-old, a whisky now withdrawn from general sale and thus prohibitively expensive. Incidentally, the 10 year old is a good substitute but don't make the mistake I did of trying the 'Select', it's completely unrepresentative of the fine brand.

Ok, the hardest bit about this experience so far is not admitting that I'm not too keen on the whiskey someone I trust recommended, nor is it the effort in typing right now not long after reaching the bottom of the second glass. No, it's getting through the melted plastic covering the Maker's Mark bottle cap. The pull-tab is utterly unsuitable for its intended purpose, so much so that I almost had to get the Swiss Army Knife out! It looks nice but I get the impression it took quite some time to design it to make it look as though it's an organic continuation of a product of a bygone age. Heck, it might be but I'm not sufficiently invested in it to find out.

However…

To be continued…


*Yes, you.

Empty words

There'll be a better way of summing up what follows than the title I chose, but it'll do. I'm referring to the monologue Andrew Neil delivered a couple of nights ago, a bunch of words strung together to invoke national pride on our past, and which was subsequently described as, well, read the article here:

"'Churchillian!' Viewers hail Andrew Neil's INCREDIBLE monologue on Westminster attack". (from The Daily Express newspaper, 2017-03-24.)

Meaningless.

I happen to like Andrew Neil. His no-nonsense approach to interviewing sits well with me. His sarcasm, always it seems tinged with an impish glee upon finding a politician wanting, fits my needs far better than the always-annoyed Jeremy Paxman ever did, he doesn't needlessly interrupt his guests as they're answering his questions as does Andrew Marr. But his monologues irritate me. They always go on a bit too long, and always keep me from why I watch his late-night programme: to learn what's going on in the world of politics.

Before I continue, I haven't watched this edition of his show, I'm relying on the Daily Telegraph's editors to show me a full picture of what transpired on the night. Yeah…

The key phrases from Mr Neil are:

"Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? This is the country that stood up alone to the might of the Luftwaffe, air force of the greatest evil mankind has ever known. If you think we’re going to be cowed by some pathetic, Poundland terrorist in an estate car with a knife, then you’re as delusional as you are malevolent."

Fine words that would have made sense in an era vastly-different from the one in which we live, an era in which it was easy to spot the source of terror, the evil across a tiny stretch of water known as the English Channel.

Fine words which conveniently ignore the fact that this isn't the 1940's.

During those times, and in general terms only, the only loose parallel I can make is that of an entire nation aspiring to impose its ideologies upon the rest of the world. That as-opposed to taking over other nations by armed might and controlling them by repressive regimes; something the British would conveniently ignore. When their politics failed to spread much beyond the German border, war became inevitable, at which point other alliances were built, sides taken.

It was a war propelled by the industrial might of nations, their armed forces' skills honed by regional conflicts outside, initially at least, Germany's borders. It was a war of technological superiority, of a rapid development of new instruments of war applied effectively against adversaries who didn't expect another conflict, especially with the smug, humiliating victory of The War To End All Wars.

And then there's the media. During the Second World War the British were lucky to read or hear about major events within days, even if the British government deemed it acceptable that ordinary citizens knew what was going on. The newspapers were censored; the radio was mostly censored, save for the enemy's propaganda broadcasts; the newsreels shown in cinemas showed only British propaganda. No satellite-fed coverage, no 24 hour telly, no social media gossip-spreading, no instant messaging.

People all over the world listened to what Mr Churchill said, and believed it. They listened to what Mr Hitler said and believed it. There was nothing else.

'Intelligence' is a word often derided nowadays when a terror attack happens. The futility of the security services monitoring everything for that 'just in case' scenario was shown up nicely by the events of mid-last week; a man simply not monitored for links to terror plunges a nation into crisis.

But how was it during WWII? Well, the British successfully created fake airfields filled with fake aircraft, and the high-level (or fast low-level) reconnaissance flights provided compelling evidence that the enemy strategists were fooled. Fields of fake tanks and other fake armoured vehicles at other times had the same effect. Surveillance technology was simply ineffective against what might now be termed laughable subterfuge. Maps were often hopelessly out-of-date; even the things we take for granted now: accurate digital mapping, aerial and pseudo-3D street-level walkthroughs were the stuff of next-millennial science fiction.

Nowadays it's well established that the industrial might of a nation can be trivially assessed by picking up a phone and Googling for statistics. Seventy years ago it was guesswork, all of it. If the enemy had known how close Britain's Air Force was to running out of aeroplanes and the means of manufacturing more, this world may have been a vastly different place. Intelligence failed. Perhaps it'd be kinder to say the British resolve triumphed, because that's what we want to believe.

In short what we're facing now is utterly unlike anything we've experienced previously.

I say 'we' conveniently ignoring the millions in the Middle East who must deal with this kind of hell on a daily basis.

It's not the threat of a nation clad impeccably and riding iron steeds, no. It's the threat of the ordinary man or woman or child radicalised by the unending and implacable hatred of those who simply don't care about anyone but those with whom with imagined special relationships are key. It's the threat that each and every one of them needs only a knife and a car to commit unspeakable acts. It's the knowledge that anyone can kill or maim or destroy using the most basic of tools, the knowledge that just because someone looks different or doesn't look different they can achieve the same ends.

I intended to close with the sarcastic 'Aren't we lucky to live now?', intending to show that ignorance was indeed bliss 70 years ago. Not knowing how perpetually close to defeat Britain was helped morale immensely. Not knowing that the rationing of basic foodstuffs and household essentials would last far beyond the end of the war, it helped too.

I'll instead close with this blog post from 2016, 'Nice' which refers to my near-identical post from 2015. If I'd started blogging earlier there'd be others pointing out the folly of allowing ignorance to fester, of allowing jingoistic nationalism to grow unchallenged.


As is usual I've not proof-read this knee-jerk reaction.