The Tale of Gin and Tonic

Let it never be said that I don’t drink, for I do. As a true Scot I like to take a drink and I’ll happily have one with my meal, with friends, or sitting on my own watching Gossip Girl in my pants. My favourite colour of wine is White, much to my father’s dismay, my favourite beer is tied at either Tiger or Peroni, but I will accept any others, and my favourite spirit at the moment in Gin.

Yes, gin, the London Dry variety. I started drinking it thanks to an ill advised night at Stuarts where we “made” cocktails. After drinking basically a complete pitcher of Sex on the Beach (without any sex) and having to go out and buy more peach schnapps, I ended up drinking Gin, straight. That was a silly idea and probably contributed to my only known moment of blacking out. I suppose if there were anymore I wouldn’t know about them, would I?

I drink Gordon’s, as it’s the mainstay of my Gin drinking. Recently introduced to Hendrick’s and it’s weird I-thought-it-was-a-joke usage of cucumber (something I hate in my sandwiches) I suddenly was open minded about my Gin. Like someone who only drank McAllan being introduced to Talisker I appreciated the different flavours and textures, before stopping myself and realising I was sounding like a pretentious wanker.

But, much to my dismay, last weekend during a healthy drinking session with the parents, I was treated by the staff at the Copthorne Hotel to Beefeater, a Gin I’d been told to avoid. Like someone saying “Oh, you know, I really like Famous Grouse” during a conversation about Caol Ila and The Glenlivet, I am sure many Gin drinkers will baulk at the barefacedness of my admission it was nice, but it was.

After all it’s just gin, isn’t it. Now, Wine, I have no clued about. Absolutely no clue what so ever. So I suppose maybe that’s where I will go next. Maybe. Pass me a Gin, quick.