Whisky Club

Help yourself to a Sunday Night night cap

A pub, particularly a local, is what you make it. For some, it is enough to serve decent beer at a reasonable price. For others, it is a place to come and meet your friends. Yet others will use it as a place to take in a live sporting event (or perhaps even one which happened decades ago, in the case of Montag Club!).

But for a few people, there’s a little bit more to it than just that.

Whilst we don’t have a function room, nor do we operate a reservations system, we have in the past had several groups ‘hire’ a part of the pub for an event or a bit of a do. Normally these people have been amongst the most committed regulars, so it really is no bother for us to go the extra mile and put on a bit of a wake for a much-loved customer, or a celebration to make the completion of an annual charity walk organised and attended by many of our customers.

And something else we do regularly is welcome our Whisky Club, every Sunday, between seven and seven-thirty. Their premise is that they enjoy a wee dram, so weekly they meet and keep their own bottle behind the bar. As they’re only a few in number, a bottle may last a couple or three weeks. But their raison d’etre is to sample something interesting and discuss it. Imagine a book club meets alcoholics anonymous.

Of course, after several pints and a couple of nips, the coherency of their discussion on the merits and otherwise of the bottle in question does diminish slightly. Which is perhaps how they can get away with tasting the same bottle three weeks on the spin and not get bored…

You’ve already met one of the members of Whisky Club in the first post, but for those who can’t remember that far back, let me introduce you again to Father.

Father

Father started Whisky Club several years ago with a now sadly departed friend, because of their mutual love for the Uisage Beatha. As founding member, Father remains very protective of his little club, which often leads to the odd curt word with Carl, who acts as treasurer and purchaser-in-chief of the whisky.

Often, these words result from who has the best claim to a Scottish heritage. Now in this regard, nobody is quite sure of Father’s history, least of all himself, since his story tends to change quite regularly.

For years he’s told us that he is Scottish. But he’s also frequently told us that he was born in our village, and claims to have documentary proof of this. He’s threatened to provide this proof on several occasions, but has so far failed to do so.

One thing, though, is for sure – he certainly exhibits the same frugal traits to confirm he is definitely either Scottish or from Yorkshire. Not only does he refuse to ever pay for taxis, which once resulted in one of his better friends accompanying him drunk home from Leeds in a taxi and then back into Leeds to continue his night out, all out of his own pocket, but he also has a terrible fear that his monetary notes will stick together, such that trying to extract a tenner off him to pay for his round often results in the most studious checking of the note before it leaves his hand…

So his frugality confirms he’s either Scotch or a Yorkshireman. Which then begs the question: why did he bother to go on a pilgrimage to see some of his ancestors last year in Cumbria?

His brother had done some genealogical research into their family tree, and discovered that their roots weren’t, in fact, Scottish, but were from near Carlisle. I know Father had a wonderful time seeing his ancestors’ final resting places, but it hasn’t half led to some confusion for him. If you ask him today where he’s from, he really will struggle to tell you…

Carl

Now one thing that is for certain is that Carl IS Scottish, and his Scotch thriftiness is often evidenced by the new bottle of whisky he provides from the kitty. This is most often the source of the falling out between Carl and Father.

You see, Father believes the club should exist to try interesting whisky. Carl believes it exists to try cheap whisky. Or at the very least, whisky that is on offer locally.

But when they do fall out, it’s normally over within minutes. Carl and Father have been good friends for many years, and often spend the day together. I’m told these mate dates are normally pretty fun, notwithstanding Carl being, according to Father, a ‘shit date’.

What he means is that Carl has a tendency to disappear, particularly if they’re somewhere interesting and something catches his eye. According to legend, Father has been close to sending out the search party on more than one occasion, only for Carl to suddenly appear out of nowhere and explain that he’d just been to look to some interesting tree or other and Father should have known where he was.

He even does this in the pub, when it’s his round. One of Carl’s biggest vices is the fruit machine. And his chosen time to drop a few quid into the bandit is when it’s his round at the bar. So he’ll come to the bar, order and pay for his and Father’s drinks, then spend 10 minutes gambling.

Father will be outside, dying of thirst, and his beer will be going flatter by the minute as Carl tries to recoup the £20 he’s dropped into the bandit.

Frustratingly, one of the sounds which regularly accompanies Carl’s visit to the fruit machine is the sound of many coins plummeting into the pay out slot. Jammy sod…

Fred

Fred’s father was the other founding member of Whisky Club alongside Father, and now Fred has taken his steed. Unusually for men visiting a pub noted for its good selection of real ale, Fred invariably shares a couple of bottles of wine with his good lady when they come in for Whisky Club. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him drink a pint of anything.

Their Sunday night routine is one which rarely alters – a couple of bottles of wine, a glass of whisky, and then a night cap(!). The last drink is normally either another glass of wine or some sort of short with coke for Mrs Fred, and Fred has his ‘special’ spiced rum and coke.

I say it’s special because of the special way he orders it.

“A single [wink] rum and coke for me, please”. Everybody knows he means a double, but he doesn’t dare utter the word, for fear of either Mrs Fred overhearing, or the news somehow getting back to her, that he’s deign to have another 25mls of spiced rum.

In truth, I’m certain she’s not bothered either way, but this little pantomime every Sunday is a little highlight we all look forward to.

Fred used to be a publican himself. When dodgy television subscriptions were first becoming available, he decided to get on board early for the pub and his customers. He told me recently that this television used to get everything, and he meant EVERYTHING.

If you wanted to watch domestic cricket from North Korea, you’d better bet it was available on Fred’s television.

And, of course, it also featured myriad ‘adult special interest channels’. On one fateful occasion not long after the non-too-kosher television had been installed, Fred hosted a bit of a lock-in for a few of the lads.

As the beer flowed, they began flicking through the thousands of channels, as groups of men in drink are often wont to do. And they stumbled upon exactly what you can imagine they stumbled upon…

Cut to the following morning, and his early regulars are there as always, braying the door down. I imagine they’re exactly like Robert, Tom, Rita and the rest of our morning regulars – retired, with the occasional dodgy ticker.

So, when Fred flicked on the television that morning and your man was still there giving her one from the night before, he was amazed there wasn’t at least one coronary…

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