In 1998, I went to Scotland. I studied there, spent some months learning that Scotland is a country. That, in words later appearing in “Trainspotting,” the English may be wankers, but the Scots were colonized by wankers.

I also learned – no, I set about to learn – to enjoy drinking Scotch.

And I did.

Nineteen years later, sipping my nightly Oban (it tastes like pussy, apparently), I’m a bit awed. It’s not an easy task to appreciate. But damn.



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