The other week I made the mistake of not convening a committee before taking purchase of one of life’s great pleasures: whisky.
I am a great whisky devotee: my Deutsch friend and I used to exchange books on, ideas about and sniffs of the liquid gold, and we even made a pretense to running a whisky society once. Though Japan is a proud member of the whisky producing community of nations (imagine that biannual conference), it makes a binary distinction between very good and very bad. I stumbled upon the latter, and I stumbled after the latter too.
This stuff was ‘Kirin’, a reputable brand established by a Scottish dude who came to Japan in the 19th century. There’s a park named after him in Nagasaki. They do beer too. If you get decent Kirin beer, it’s decent but if, and the same is true of whisky, you get their weird imitation stuff you wake up in the morning with a stonking headache and extremities that look like a map of the Glasgow subway system, so prominent, gorged and boozefilled are your veins and so confused are you as to what the hell is going on. I braved it to class and then had to come home because I felt, looked and stank like death.
I drank more than half a bottle on the same night I bought it from a 7/11 in Yakuin. I shared some of it with the other chans and some of our Steaky Kankoku-jins (sexy Koreans, in other words). The lesson here is to mix and to share more.
When I say never ever again, THIS TIME I mean it: poisoning oneself is to be done recreationally and on slow burn, not like this!