My life could easily be chronicled by embarrassing moments. I like thinking back to all the horrific, toe-curlingly humiliating events which have occurred in my life – it’s good to reset the ego.
The first such embarrassment happened when I was around 8 or 9 years old. I was a sprightly young Cub Scout enjoying collecting the latest knot-tying badge which mum could sew onto my uniform when Barry, the leader, approached and asked if I would be part of the Cubs quiz team. “Great!” I thought, this would certainly secure another cool fabricated badge to add to my somewhat dodgy collection. For the next few weeks I crammed as much knowledge into my 9 year old brain as I could. I was reading everyday – from my Guiness World Records book to Plato’s The Republic (joke). I was a verifiable juggernaut of knowledge, or so I thought.
The day of the quiz arrived and I was in a team with two other Cubs from my district – we were crushing it! Answering questions faster than Mark “The Beast” Labbett on speed, until one fateful question was fired my way. It was a slam dunk; I already had the answer before the quiz-master had finished his sentence;
Which football team plays their home games at White Hart Lane?
I knew it! They were my favourite team in League One! Gazza and Lineker play for them! I was on the edge of my seat waiting to answer, already proud as punch that dad, who was in the audience of parents, would know how much footballing knowledge his son had.
“My favourite team, Bristol Rovers!”
Silence. Soul crushing silence. I knew I fucked up straight away, I could already feel the blood rushing to my cheeks as I recoiled deep into the chair with sheer embarrassment. I knew the answer was Tottenham Hotspur but for some reason my mind decided to answer with the local football team.
“You we’re so self-assured” dad laughed as we spoke about it last week. That’s probably what is the most embarrassing part, answering with such pride and getting it wrong, so very wrong.
I started drinking Plymouth Gin when I used to visit my older cousin Ben at the weekends. He lived in Warwickshire and being 18 years old with not enough money to drive I used to catch the Friday afternoon special – a decrepit National Express coach which always used to stink of urine and despair. When he picked me up from the bus station our first stop was always the local wine merchants where he would pick up a couple of bottles of Plymouth Gin, tonic and a shit-ton of limes. Ben taught me that the real “man” way to drink Plymouth was in a pint glass, half-tonic half-gin with a fistful of ice and a full lime. Real connoisseurs of Plymouth gin also know that it should be kept in the freezer to make it thick and viscous like syrup. We would spend the weekend getting blitzkrieged on the stuff, between top-ups we would order pizza and play Gran Turismo. I thought at the time that Ben being older and more worldly than me was drinking the best-of-the-best, the rarest of gins – after all he bought it in a wine merchant! I worked in a bar at the time (see previous posts) and had never seen that gin so it must’ve been extraordinarily recherché.
I believed my own fallacy about Plymouth Gin right up until year one at university. I was going through a beatnik phase of listening to a lot of The Doors and wearing kaftans but thankfully still had a band of close friends. One of them, Dave, was my drinking partner-in-crime. Dave and I were regulars at the Student Union and every Thursday I worked the bottle bar and gave him (and I) free drinks. After working our way through at least 10 bottles a piece we would saunter off to our student houses but always stop for a night cap or two. One evening it was my turn to host and I invited Dave to try “a rare gin” I had in the freezer, it was a bottle of Plymouth Gin Ben had sent me as a birthday present. I was so excited to share this rarity I launched into a spiel about my high-flying cousin who only buys the most luxurious items and that he had bestowed upon me a great gift. I reached into the freezer and pulled out the iced bottle and showed it to Dave like it was a Palme D’or. Dave’s face didn’t change for a couple of seconds, I was watching him, expectant that at any second he would coo over my rare gin. A thin smile started spreading across his face, “this is it” i thought, he was about to thank me for being such a good friend to let him try what could possibly be the last bottle of Plymouth on the planet.
And then he started laughing. Laughing like a madman. “HAHAHA! That’s not rare fuck-o! You can get it in Tesco on the High Street!”
The familiar feeling of blood creeping up my neck, past my ears and into my cheeks came swiftly. Hello embarrassment my old friend, how long has it been? I had a flashback of calling Mrs. Glasby “mum” in year 5 and remembering how all the other children laughed; just like Dave was doing now. I tried to rescue the situation first by totally denying that the gin was rare, anger came next swiftly followed by the acceptance that for the umpteenth time I had been wrong, caught short in the urinal of life.
I text Dave today to see if he still remembered this interaction. It’s good to know nearly 12 years on it is fresh in his memory.
Despite this, Plymouth remains one of my all-time favourite session gins (much like Adam with his Martin Miller). It is rare in it’s own way – Plymouth Gin itself is made in The Black Friars Distillery the oldest working gin distillery since 1793. Not many other gins can boast a history as prestigious as being a true Navy gin like Plymouth.
On the nose Plymouth is heavy on the juniper and orange peel, the flavours whoosh up your nostrils and make a raindance on the back of your tongue which leaves you salivating. When mixed with ice, a strongly quinine’d tonic and lime the flavours of the other aromatics burst through – the orangey citrus of the coriander is what I love about it. After your first sip you will notice the familiar earthy dryness which comes from angelica root. It really does taste better which poured straight from the freezer – it oozes over ice and you can really smell the juniper as it hits the glass. If you are younger, try having it in a pint glass, half tonic, half gin – but be warned, it will get you inebriated.
Plymouth gin is the reason I love gin, it is quintessential in its taste and holds many a fond memory for me.
Price Paid
Not as rare as it once was – available in most supermarkets from £18-25.
Tastes Like
A cold smooth kiss from a once forgotten lover.
Would go well with
Playing The Witcher 3, especially the Blood and Wine DLC in the dark.
Recommended?
Yes, although if offered to a vir’gin’ drinker, perhaps go light on the gin and a squeeze extra of lime.
