It seemed like such a good idea at the time. There I was attending a virtual reality gathering which was supposedly taking place in the Scottish Highlands and Islands. I'd made my virtual way there by virtually visiting a large number of distilleries en route. Now that I was logged-on to Mr Toast's blog, I was chatting to people from all over the world : chatting about Scotland and whisky and having a good time. So why not carry out a unique experiment, an expedition to the hinterland that undoubtedly exists somewhere between fantasy and reality. Instead of virtually drinking each of the single malt whiskies, I would actually drink them. For real. In real time. Oh it all went well last night. As each successive glass of Jura or Cardhu or Glen Ord was downed, I became more eloquent and took on a writing style somewhere between Hemingway and William Faulkner. I became best friends with people I had never met before and even took to the dance-floor with the ever-gracious Betsy. But in the cold light of morning a price has to be paid. As I stumble into my room and find the half-empty bottles I begin to wonder just what I did and said last night. So I would like to issue an unlimited and universal apology to anyone I may have upset.
If I am quiet for the next couple of days don't assume it is the results of a hang-over. During a previous period of over-indulgence I agreed to give a talk to the Leeds Psychogeography Group entitled "The Circuitous Route : Chance, Information and Geography". All I have to do before Wednesday is to try and remember what I meant by this rather bizarre title. Let me leave you with wise words from William Faulkner :
“There is no such thing as bad whiskey. Some whiskeys just happen to be better than others. But a man shouldn't fool with booze until he's fifty; then he's a damn fool if he doesn't.”