< Back to search result

02 July 2010
The Bucket List
By Tom Morton

Every man should have a spittoon. And woman. In fact, some would argue that every room should have one, although other members of the family might object to the presence of such a utensil. Imagine a spillage! Of course, servants would solve the problem, but alas, you just can’t get the staff nowadays. Just try advertising for a live-in spittoon-emptier and see how you get on.

I have been doing a lot of spitting (into an old mop bucket – we are a spittoon-less household) lately, as I have had to avoid swallowing a great deal of whisky. Not that swallowing whisky is normally a hardship. It’s just that, in this instance, I was facing the bizarre job of judging whisky, which entailed remaining sober. Not swallowing. It was like being in hell.

It all began with the Independent Bottlers Awards, which I had rashly agreed to help judge as a member of a panel of the great, the good, the available and the willing. Yes, they were desperate. I had absolutely no idea what was involved. Soon, dozens of small white-capped urine-sample bottles began to arrive at the house.

First came a batch of 30 – all Islay malts, labelled only with a number, their age (four categories: 12 and under, 19 and over, no age statement and 13 to 18) and alcoholic content. I was relieved. Islay, the whisky region I knew most about. And just, err… 30 samples. Easy peasy.

Then another clinking box arrived: 10 more whiskies, this time non-Islay island malts. Hmm... and a deadline so near as to preclude what I had anticipated would be a leisurely, sociable few evenings with friends, all of us discussing phenols, Christmas cake-iness, banana milkshake overtones and the increasing redness of each other’s noses until the medical services came home. Or my wife kicked everybody out.

But it quickly became apparent that there was to be nothing sociable about this at all. Nor was actual consumption of the (very generous double-double) samples going to be possible. Because if these whiskies were to be compared, with relative accuracy, I was going to have to tackle them in substantial tranches, in intense periods of nosing, swilling and, well, spitting. Even then, the mouth membranes were going to be somewhat seared and would absorb alcohol. Despite dilution (professional master blender’s advice, here – 80-20 whisky and water), a degree of discombobulation was inevitable.

And all of this went against the grain (sorry). After all, whisky is a social drink, to be consumed ruminatively and in good fellowship. As such, some are obviously better than others, but when you pay, and drink to your friends’ health, you are investing in enjoyment. I was paying nothing, but I was, all alone, being expected to test and rate for other’s potential pleasure. And I had no idea how to begin.
But I did have score-sheets. Against the sample number were three blanks: the ABV percentage, the date tasted and the score out of 10. I could, I was informed, use decimal points. And that was it. I was on my own.

So I began. I sniffed, swilled, rubbed on my hands, inhaled again, and spat. What disappears very quickly in the judging process is the poetry. It’s very easy to be seduced into verbosity by whisky. I defy anyone not to be overwhelmed by the combination of ambience, aroma, history and lip-smacking loveliness of consuming a glass or two at the Society’s Members’ Rooms in Edinburgh. Or in any number of wondrous warehouses. At home, a Society bottle may initially be a number. But it comes with clues, hints, descriptions, Tasting Notes, extra bottling details and a lovely label. It’s for pleasure.

But there I was, dealing with my very first piece of whisky judgementalism, really wanting to talk, misty eyed, of salt water and seaweed, the icy January skies over the sea, the chewy sherry overtones, the mildness of the peat, the great age, the truly glorious smoothness, the magnificence of... Ref.55014512, ABV 49.4, age, amazingly, 31. I wanted to sit, sip, luxuriate in what was – is – a tremendous bottling. I wanted to take that memory to bed and cuddle it.

But in the competition game, you can’t. You can’t even swallow. The Islays were done in one day. Scores ranged upwards from 0.1 on the Tom Morton scale of  loveliness. I was looking for balance, complexity, elegance, a lack of aggression... I was looking for magic and wonder. I found it. I also found mean-spirited, vicious drams that gave every evidence of being from dodgy casks. And the supremely average. I was uncomfortably aware that ‘supremely average’ would have been just fine in the aftermath of a game of say, paintball, but this was not paintball, no sirree.

A few days later, it was time to tackle the 10 non-Islay islanders. Even more variations in scores, but by this time I was confident. I fired off my result sheets and thought it was over. A week later, I had my first for-pleasure dram for what seemed like a long time (Society Cask No. 26.48 “Church candles and hessian”).

The judge of judges, Rob, got in touch, slightly concerned, a few days later. Yes, my scores had been received. Yes, they were broadly in line with the other judges. Well, their trends were. There was just one little problem. Scores of zero to five were usually reserved for seriously faulty whiskies and I had rated most of the drams in that bracket. Still, it would all work out, he assured me. Never mind, I thought. They’ll never ask me to do it again. Thank God.

And then another clinking box arrived unexpectedly. Thirty more sample bottles, this time bearing labels stating ‘World Whisky Awards’. An email was wafting its way, making clear that I was now a judge in good standing for said competition. My heart sank. This time it was blended whisky (12 years and under, 13 to 18, 21 and over) and blended malts.

Due to my previous waywardness, there were now guidance notes from the estimable Dave Broom, chairman of the judging panel, real whisky expert and sporter of odd facial hair. I now knew that 0-5 was for ‘butyric or corked whiskies’. After looking up ‘butyric’ (think vomit, parmesan, body odour, anaerobic fermentation, death) I nodded, knowledgeably. Even ‘very poor/poor average’ was 5.1 to 6.9, said Dave. Oh.

Done, and I thought dusted. It was only when a mammoth parcel arrived containing  a further 52 samples that I realised I had only been participating in one section of the first round. Now we were in the final, and as well as the top blends, single and blended malts from Scotland, the best Japanese, American, Canadian, ‘rest of the world’, Irish, and grain samples were now in the house. There was even a liqueur. I was getting concerned: was this how professional whisky writers lived? How did they avoid liver failure, just from the inhalation? 

Worse, there was a request, in five cases, for a ‘tasting note only’. I kept those for last – a liqueur, an American “non-bourbon”, a Canadian blend, a Scotch blended malt, and Irish grain. I devoted an evening to them, and, for once, not only inhaled, but swallowed. I’m looking at those notes now. One reads: ‘Curried kippers. Dried prunes. Rancid underpants soaked in cocoa.’ Another says: ‘Drambuie and petrol, horse glue and talcum powder.’ The words ‘WD40 and vodka sour’ appear, along with ‘creosote a-gogo, bitumen river, rust, vinegar, childhood sideboards.’ Lovely.

In my defence, it had been a long, smelly, alcoholic business, and I was tired, perhaps a little emotional. What I wanted was to stop tasting blind, to see labels, bottles, to pore over the Society map, daydream about trips to secret water supplies, lost distilleries with romantic Gaelic names. I wanted the places and the people back. I wanted the codes, the key, the pleasure and the love. I had a cup of tea and sent the score-sheets and tasting notes off. Nobody’s been in touch since.

Share this article