Monkey’s Whiskey Trials… Part Only.

Paris. Sunday night. Carousel.

It’s 5 degrees outside, or 41 fah-rah whatever. Half past midnight CET according to my laptop clock. Technically it’s Monday, but I never call it a new day until I’ve woken up. I keep to that policy at all times, even when I’m not getting to sleep until noon. Today, I have a day off from working behind a bar and whilst I enjoy hitting the proverbial Parisian ’tiles’ as often as I can manage, some days you just need a night off – having lots of hot, young foreign girls show you their tits for free drinks can really tire a guy out when he’s working. Allah be Praised, long live the Barman’s Association of Paris.

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Having worked behind a bar in Paris for a few months has amassed quite an impressive collection of free whiskey samples to clutter up my apartment. Tonight is a designated “tasting” night and these accumulated 50cl bottles are going to be sampled to within an inch of their, or my, life.Aiding my task will be one of my favourite musicians, Rory Gallagher, and from my seven hour long Rory library his sixth studio solo-album “Calling Card” is the first up to bat. This dish is to be served with a chaser of Bushmill’s “Black Bush” a.k.a “Black Label.” This is crisp and clean whiskey, and by hell I would walk a Country Mile to get a crate of this stuff. Every inch of my oesophageal tract is humming with a smooth warmth. It really is very good. Better than beer? Maybe. The second 50ml sampler has been opened – and finished. And the generic viagra price third. I’m saving the last two. These bottles of Shirley Bassey are getting a full two thumbs up.

Next up: Tullamore Dew. I’ll pass on the obvious joke. Meh. I’ll leave the second and third bottles. Some whiskeys are best left un-drunk. At the very least, not all of my time has been wasted – I’ve finished another chapter of Murakami’s “The Wind Up Bird Chronicle.” Great book. His wife’s brother has just told him how she’s left him for a lover. Man or woman? I’m pretty sure only dykes would drink Tullamore Dew – it’s a very dyke-ish kind of whiskey. Rory’s dulcet tones are keeping me company on this long, lonely task of mine. I really dig this novel of Murakami’s without quite knowing why – nothing is really going on here, yet it’s both involving and compelling. I’ll write a piece on it some other time.

Paddy whiskey is the next opened, and like Tullamore Dew, it tastes like cheap shit – so does Old Dunlow, but like an even lower quality shit. Fifty four minutes of Calling Card on repeat has been played and so far Paddy and Old Dunlow are the two classed as Public Enemy Whiskey. I think Mr Okada’s going to fuck the young girl, May. Man, I’d love to get with that little minx – I’ll hate Toru if he steals her from me. I’m jealous of his wet dreams about Creta Kano as I reckon she gives great head. Slut. I’m going to clean my pallet with some beer and jam-on-toast. I love it when a girl gives me great head – some mouths feel better than vaginas. Although I reckon it depends on the mouth and on the vagina in question. The jam on my toast is blackberry and it tastes very nice – thick and sticky.

Sick of Calling Card, the two-disc set of Rory Gallagher’s “BBC Sessions” starts up – a few songs in and a sample bottle of Jameson’s is cracked open. Plop-plop-plop goes the ice, and again into the second and third glasses. Even though this whiskey is from way-down on the south coast of rebel land… I like it. A lot. This whiskey certainly has it’s Mojo Working. It’s almost as good as Blackbush if not just as good… or better? Power’s whiskey is up next and it’s also very nice but just doesn’t have that extra gold-star that Blackbush and Jameson’s seem to have inside their glass bottles. Some hideous looking “Green Spot” bottle is looking at me. It’s one for the Garbage Man, along with those shitty dyke whiskeys from earlier. I mean really… who tries to pass these shitty whiskeys on to the general public – who drinks this shit? It’s certainly not the homeless, they drink export-strength beer these days. No whiskey for those poor bastards. Students? Jews? Do they drink these shitty brands of shitty whiskey?

Will Toru Okada fuck Creta Kano in real life – thrusting his penis into a Jackie Kennedy simulacrum? Sounds hot to me – back and to the left! I’ll fill her full of my magic bullets. Paris time is fifteen off three in the morning and my whiskey samplers are almost gone, just like Kumiko and her soft, white thighs and smooth, pale back. I dislike Noburo Wataya almost as much as I dislike Tullamore Jew, Paddy, Old Dunlow and Green Spot whiskeys. None of these poor bastards can come close to the excellence of Bushmills Blackbush and Jameson’s. North coast Northern Ireland versus south coast Rebel Land – a clash of history. Civilization versus the skull-drilling barbars. Run, runner – run! Don’t let these fuckers make sea-proteins outta your trepanned ass.