Life in camp

Scratching the boil on his arse that was coalescing but not yet ready to explode, draining a purulent slop into his pants, Alistair MacQualter Graham, M.D. gently eased himself into a field chair to put on his boots. Reaching for the already rotting cheap leather confederate boots, a corpulent rat scurried away only to look back at Alistair as if to say, "You sombitch cow pie, you disturbed my nest." It was going to be one of those days. Reaching for the bottle, Alastair poured himself a dram of Jura Diurachs' own, 16 year old, 40% vol/alcohol, with a copper orange colour, astringent nose, peppery chocolate first taste, oranges and spice second taste and a warm, "come to Jesus" finish. With whisky like this, who needs boots? Slàinte, Tommy Maaltman