The Steel Magnetism of Recherché Whisky


Here’s the story of drinking, Grandma, and Bon Jovi.

What the dealio, I humbly wondered in a self-effacing diatribe of rococo goodness, festooned in a pervicacious resistance unlike any garrulous dalliance I’ve ever encountered. Of course, all this is a chimerical loquacious compendium, causing little more than a risible inducing delirium of gay merriment. I mean, I may have fallen from my bed, but what if I had risen to the sky? As I lay or stuck there, the delirium of one thousand whiskies danced on the fevered edges of my brain. Do we ever fall or do we jump? Because, the action of myself falling, on the other side of the world, the antipode, is a jump. So was I jumping or was I falling? Is there such a thing as gravity or are we all just floating aimlessly until the balloon bursts into a trillion rainbow fractals of pure frowzy sapiosexual tarantism? I think the main, ultimate point, readers, is that one really should not give me a bucket of whisky, because it turns me into an ineluctable liar. It’s actually several buckets. And, also, turns me into quite the wordy. Don’t worry. It’ll wear off in a mo. Boobs. There. Back to normal. Now, where did I leave that bucket of booze?

You see, they always say grandma knows best, but grandma must have been a raging drunk for that statement to hold any water. Like a bucket. Where is that bucket? You see, I haven’t been well this week, and that’s a shame, because I like being well. But the thing is, doctors are stupid. Bed rest my bottom. I think that’s missing a comma, because otherwise, it sounds like a terribly misplaced euphemism. I mean, it’s up to you, if you want to misplace my bum, it’s your prerogative. I can’t blame you, it’s delightful. What were we talking about? Ah, yes. I remember. So there I was. I’d just beaten the gypsy at the game of cards we were playing, giving me the time travelling sceptre. And when I met Ghandi, he said to me, right, “Alan, you’ve got to lay off the whisky, it’s making you go crazy granola, man.” And you know what, readers, I think he had a point. That Ghandi, eh? Top bloke.

Doctors only tell us to take bed rest because they don’t actually know what they’re doing. There is no cure. Migraine? No probs. Lie down in a darkened room and get some sleep. Oh, gee, thanks. And the thing is, we believe them. We are that gullible. “Oh doctor, I have terrible tennis elbow.” “Well, quite frankly my dear, I think you should wear these sunglasses for a week and you’ll be fine.” Where does it end, eh? “Doctor, I seem to have trapped my finger in the door and it’s all bruised – suggestions?” “Ah, easy, I prescribe a daily dose of intercourse with myself.” How do we know we’re not being duped? The best thing for a cold is to get outside and breathe in the fresh air. Staying is bed means you’ll have it for twice as long, and that’s now been proven. So why listen to them? Cough, sir? Antibiotics. Nah. Grandma knows best. Where’s the booze?

Now, studies do suggest that taking booze whilst ill is a bad idea. Admittedly, readers, if I were you, I’d stop reading studies done by Alcoholics Anonymous. I have an awful cough, readers, and believe me, this whisky is working a treat. I never got the chance to meet my grandma, so I don’t know if she was hammered most of the time, but she knew what she was talking about. Hot whisky and lemonade coming right up. But gradually, we’ve been running out of lemonade so at this point, it’s just hot whisky. At 65% volume. Which is 5% less than the amount of alcohol in petrol. You could probably run a car off my farts…

I may sound like I’ve lost the plot. I don’t drink unless I’m ill and then it’s booze ahoy. It’s really annoying, readers. I’m supposed to be going away next week, this week, whenever, and the entire family has the lurgy. Dad has his annual summer cold, my brother is coughing badly, as am I, and mother has a Portuguese bug that’s playing havoc with her organs and is terribly sick. Bloody Portuguese. Don’t go to Portugal. I’m not a tourist information centre, I’m an honesty centre. Don’t go to Portugal. Your gallbladder won’t thank you for it as it starts to melt shouting, “Oh, what a world!” He, he, he.

I’m sure I’ll be all hunky-dory super smashing great fine and dandy darling tickety-boo by the time I’m back from London. If I make it, and damn it, I have a meeting with a gorilla I’m determined to keep. As a responsible adult, cough, I’d like to take this opportunity to educate the young that may be reading. Alcohol is very bad and you should always seek medical help if you’re not well. If you’re a recovering alcoholic. Otherwise, screw the doctors and get some strong whisky. I’m a terrible role model, aren’t I? You know what, that scarecrow in your back garden will probably do a better job. Heck, your socks will probably do a better job…

Here’s the thing, readers. Antibiotics won’t work with my body because my body is a tad crap. I can’t take them. And I can’t go outside for the fresh air option because it’s summer and been over 18 degrees all week, which is bloody hot considering the hottest it’s got so far this year is the dizzying heights of seven degrees. And I have hayfever. It sort of runs in the family. I say ‘sort of’. Dad has winter hayfever. Nope, me neither. And the thing about whisky isn’t that it works, even though it tastes like sweaty marathon foot, it’s that it makes you feel good. Would you rather be laid up in bed or naked singing Bon Jovi at the top of your voice doing your best ‘dad at a wedding in the 1970s’ dance? See? Method in madness. Not that I ever did that. Ahem…

You see, I’m Italian. We enjoy life. Yes, some say it’s because God made us all incredibly good looking, well endowed and great in bed, but none of that stuff matters. Because life is to be enjoyed. When everything goes to shit, you stand up and shout, “BRING IT ALL ON, WORLD! I AM INDEFEATABLE!” Is it ‘indefeatable’? Undefeatable? Inde – oh, who cares. I might feel like a sick puppy who has just ran head first into a solid brick wall, but I don’t care. That’s life. Up and down. Like an Italian at Christmas.

You know, I never say it, but I bloody love you, readers. And I sincerely apologise for the crapness of this post, it’s just I’m not well, and I’ve had several pints of car powering whisky this week and I really don’t know where I am at this precise moment. And you know what, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What a selcouth froudroyant illecebrous end, indeed…

British politician, Sir Winston Spencer-Churchill (1874-1965), once said: “I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.”

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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