BOURBON REBORN
Armed with a simple yet incendiary notion, I was ready for a good ol’ Southern-style feud. I assumed that they would have their dukes up too, but life in faraway places rarely flows the way you expect it to.
Burdened by flashbacks of shadowy teenage Saturday nights ‘down the park’, my mission was to articulate to Kentucky’s bourbon distillers that, where I come from, the juice of their labours is shackled with a dour reputation.
On behalf of generations of binge drinkers, I took aim: piew, piew: unadulterated bottom-shelf slop… piew, piew: the trash bag’s beverage du jour… piew, piew: mother’s milk of the bogan.
“Yeah, duh, we know,” they collectively capitulated. Job done, I thought, blowing imaginary smoke from my make-believe pearl-handled Colt 45. Not quite…
Yes, even in bourbon’s
