H A P P Y S A I N T A N D R E W 'S D A Y !



The national saint of Scotland. I will desist from boring you all with details of how the Saltire came to be our national flag as I'm sure I've mentioned it before.





The tartan of my own Clan, the Gordons. One of the most powerful dynasties in Scottish history (oh there must be a mansion or castle somewhere I have a claim to surely?!?!?!) precise origins of our house are unclear with various versions told, but it is too far back in the misty history of a misty land to ever really know. However, what is known is that the Clan's rise to eminence came when Sir Adam de Gordoun picked up his sword in the service of the greatest of all Kings of Scots, Robert the Bruce in the cause of Scottish freedom. They fought at Bannockburn and Sir Adam was one of those entrusted with the great honour of carrying to the pope the Declaration of Arbroath, a remarkable document calling for liberty and freedom and arguing the case of Scottish freedom. Today you may find Gordons on most continents and their descendants are legion (it's the kilt you see - very handy for a quick shag, so that's why we're everywhere! And before you ask, no, I do not wear anything under my kilt, I am a proper Scotsman!). Not for nothing was the Chief of Gordon called the Cock o' the North (stop giggling, Lili, you dirty girl).



Other fascinating facts: you can fit a CD and a silver hip flask of whisky into you sporran; most people can wear a tartan if they choose, except of course English folks (sorry, it's not me being anti-English, it's just the law); Christopher Cockrel, inventor of the hovercraft, was inspired to his remarkable invention after witnessing a kilt-clad Scotsman suffering an attack of acute flatulence; the enormous length of the Scottish sword, the Claymore is not a penis substitute - it's advertising - hello girls! ;-).



Now feel free to join me in a warming dram of single malt. If you are drinking a blend you are a person of inexcusably poor palette. If you even think about adding ice you will be gutted with a claymore up the backside, sideways (it would be a mercy killing). Pour yourself a generous dram, preferably into a glass with a rounded bottom, like a small wineglass or small congac glass. This is so that you may then grasp the curved bottom (steady again, Lili). Gently swirl the whisky around the rounded glass. Do not drink right away - swirl a little more and allow the heat from your hand to impart a little warmth to the malt. Raise the glass to your nose and take a breath, allowing the various aromas - quite different in characteristics from malt to malt and batch to batch. Hold the glass to the light (candles are best) and admire the colouring. Now, and only now, are you ready to take a drink. Allow the whisky to wash over your tongue and let it lie a few seconds to let it tantalise your tastebuds before swallowing (BTW - if you are ever at a whisky tasting you still swallow (Lili, I'm not going to tell you again, or was that Maeve giggling this time?), unlike the wimps at a wine tasting). Does this seem elabroate?



Perhaps, but it is the correct way to enjoy single malt and you don't want your friends and associates thinking you are an uncouth peasant, do you (yes, thinking on Alex and his freebie from his publisher's jolly trip to the fine distilleries of Islay here)? And remember please that craftsmen have put tears into the creation of the drink in your hand - ten, fifteen, twenty or more - so you must treat it with respect (besides, like most sensual pleasure it is at it's finest when savoured slowly) and not just throw ice in it and down it like some East Coast preppy. Now I hear a rather fine seventeen year-old Ardbeg calling to me to toast the Saint and Caledonia (nothing like getting into a nice seventeen year-old - steady!). Slainge!



Flag gif courtesey of Flags of the World Collection (thanks)