Proof Reads

 By Patrick Garrigan

In my first/previous/only guest post I whinged on about getting berated for not liking beer or wine. Well, to begin this post-of-two-halves, a retraction. I recently drank two things that call my ramblings into question. Firstly; Prosecco. Bellinis are nice and, by extension, this substitute for champagne is not too awful. Secondly; Veuve Clicquot. I won’t get into the circumstances under which I was allowed to freely pour many bottles of a well priced vintage of this down my throat, and you can feel free to call out my working class roots if it takes your fancy, but come on! This stuff was simply yummy. As I can’t be considered to even be from the same gene pool as a connoisseur, I have no further tasting notes on either of these grapes. Sorry. 

What I am here to talk about though is amaretto. And to begin, a quote from the masters, Disaronno, themselves: 

“Disaronno is produced with only carefully selected ingredients such as the pure essence of 17 selected herbs and fruits soaked in apricot kernel oil. It is characterised by an unmistakeable amber colour due to caramelised sugar…” 

Now doesn’t that sound just lovely? And they haven’t even changed the recipe since 1525 so they must be doing something right. The name, amaretto (and I can promise you my knowledge is so full that this required zero minutes on Wikipedia until I wanted to corroborate my story, and I cross my heart and swear on my one litre bottle that I haven’t changed a word) translates literally as “a little bitter” as the almonds from which it is made taste so. Anyway, I digress. 

The reason I’m bringing it up is because Disaronno Originale is the only alcohol I’ve ever truly loved. And I’m not using loved in the “can’t live without” sense, you should have a wife for that, but in the “above all beverages,” this is the one. The king. The last taste I would wish upon my dying lips. Forget about a witty epitaph, I want an amaretto drip as I slip drunkenly out of life in old age. 

I can’t join in with people when they start liking a really good bottle of wine or find a stunning Bavarian ale, but if what happens in their mouths is anything like what happens when I swill some amaretto around then, well, crikey, it turns out there is a heaven. There’s a smell of sweetness before you drink it, and that’s the initial flavour but it goes slightly bitter on your tongue, before becoming almost too intense to hold in your mouth and so you swallow it and it is warming and suddenly sweet again and you are glad you chose to drink it with ice because you can imagine that even being slightly warm would ruin it (it does) - and right here is where the potential to lose me to not finishing this paragraph but having a drink of it lies…

 …Nice. So, next time you’re out, and you see the square bottle peeking out from behind the bar, try an amaretto with some ice. Or, if it does sound too much - it can be quite harsh if you’re not prepared - then get it with some coke. An Italian restauranteur once told me off for doing this, but you get snobs everywhere and if you like it, have it. And with coke, amaretto works just fine. (But only Coca-Cola, with Pepsi it goes all horrible and too saccharine - don’t say you weren’t warned). But whatever you do with it I promise, promise, you’ll find a way to drink it that you can enjoy. And if you don’t, I’ll have what’s left.

*Within one paragraph I already regretted not working harder than to end up with a Queen reference for a title.

 By Rob Currie

“Drink Responsibly,” is in interesting instruction.  It comes directly from health professionals and government ministers – people who worry about the state of your liver, and how much it will cost to fix it respectively.  They are telling you to drink in moderation and, from a medical perspective, quite rightly too.  But can that instruction be interpreted differently?

Alcohol doesn’t just bother your liver – it also muddles your brain and lowers your inhibitions.  People tend to talk more freely and feel a bit braver than when sober.  A little Dutch courage and maybe you’ll be able to talk to the pretty girl in the corner.  On the other hand, you might find yourself telling your boss what you really think of him, or forgetting that your girlfriend’s coming round and the pretty girl’s still asleep in your bed…

But here’s a thought: does alcohol make us do stupid things, or does it actually allow us to break down the walls of etiquette and be the person we really are?  Are inhibitions a bad thing?  Is being honest with yourself and others a bad thing?  In any other context, the answer would of course be: no.  Perhaps Dutch courage is the proper state of things and sobriety is the actual failing.

Drink responsibly.  Undoubtedly, my philosophy doesn’t go hand in hand with a healthy lifestyle but I have to wonder whether a shortened life is a fair price for a life well-lived.  I’m drunk right now, and in my heart I know the answer is Yes.  In my booze-induced state of honesty, I can say without doubt that it’s not only a fair price – it’s a bargain.

 By Patrick Garrigan

Hello. My name is Patrick Garrigan and I have a problem: I don’t like beer or wine. Phew, good, it’s glad to actually put that down and get it out there. Except, of course, everyone that I know that has ever been around me at the same time as alcohol already knows, and as strange as they may find it they’ve grown to accept (if not understand) my flavoured-ethanol preference. You, however, are presumably a stranger and on the whole will be surprised, shocked, perturbed and possibly sexually distanced from me on discovering this fact. If we were having this discussion in person then experience has taught me that the conversation would be likely to flow thus..

You: You don’t like beer or wine?

Me: Nope.

You: Neither of them?

Me: Nuh-huh. (you can’t tell on the internet but in person my voice would already sound bored with a hint of frustration.)

You: What about lager?

Me: No, no, that’s more or less the same, really. Hops, brewing, that kind of thing.

You: Yeah, but, like, just Fosters or something?

Me: I don’t think you’re getting it.

You: What about Frulli? Or white beers? Ooh, or *insert personally specific you-think-it’s-an-obscure-brewed-ale-but-acually-everyone-drinks-it here*

Me: No, just none of them, I don’t like anything of that ilk.

You would then be so flabbergasted at my responses that you’d very quickly move on to..

You: Not even a nice white wine? With lemonade!?

Me: No. Look. I can’t explain this any more. I don’t like beer, I don’t like wine, there’s lots of things I do drink that aren’t within those groups. Okay?

You: …Rosé?

Then we’d keep going round in circles. You’d eventually get the picture, we’d maybe talk a bit more before we both got drunk enough that you’d be drinking spirits too and it wouldn’t matter anymore. It’s good when we get to that point, tequila and vodka go down well.

People also enjoy telling me that they’re sorry for how expensive my life must be too. But personally I couldn’t disagree more. If I’m on a night out, I’ll get a nice amaretto and coke (venue dependent, naturally. Well done: Brudenell Social Club, Wi:re, Sandanista and a fair-few other places in Leeds, it’s a good city) and drink it at the speed of a pint and enjoy it an awful lot more. And more’s to the point, when in Tesco/Asda/Morrisons and getting alcohol for myself I’d way rather get a big ol’ bottle of lovely, delicious, high alcohol percentaged spirit over a crate of beer any day.

Ultimately everyone accepts everything and we all get on, but I’m just so ruddy bored of going through this rigmarole with new people that it completely does my head inwards upon itself like a bad independent film would. Here we get to my point (if, that is, there is one) - once the sentence “I don’t really like beer or wine” has passed my lips can that please, please be the end of it? If, for example, I’d just said “I don’t really like aubergine” there’d probably be very little conversation (unless you completely adored said purple, bulbous vegetable). There would probably even be less argument if I admitted to not liking The Inbetweeners, or only having ever seen a few episodes of The Wire, or completely missing out on Apocalypse Now. Actually, I take the last one back, with the amount of film makers I know that would probably have my lynched. But my rambling, badly made point still stands. The fact that I don’t like these things doesn’t make me any less of a person, or a drinker, or a social fucking delight.

I’m not quite as angry about this as I make out, honestly, I’m just really bored of it. So if you could pass this message on to everyone you think may ever meet me then I’d be very appreciative and next time I see you I’ll buy you a drink. But careful what you ask for. If you’ve not heard, I’m quite picky.