The joy of 1995 Lagavulin

In a small cupboard at the end of my office sits a bottle of 1995 Lagavulin, distilled in a Pedro Ximénez sherry cask. Just looking at it from my desk gives me immense pleasure. I can open it and smell the cork if I need inspiration. And sometimes, after The Spectator is put to bed, I may take a sip or two. Maybe not even enough to reach the throat, just to moisten the tongue and refresh the palate. It is the most remarkable whisky I have ever owned.

I’m sure that Taki, our High Life correspondent, knows his whisky. I like to think, then, that he appreciated the bottle he somehow liberated from my office to pour into a plastic glass at The Spectator’s recent tea party. We had some of the most delicious tea in London, kindly sponsored by our friends at the Intercontinental Hotel around the corner, but our High Life columnist was in the mood for something a little stronger. He was standing next to the Low Life columnist, Jeremy Clarke, and I was chatting to them both outside, when I sniffed the Lagavulin, and knew what had gone down. Worse, Jeremy was running low and had found a Cognac bottle. I watched in horror as Low Life and High Life appeared cheerfully to mix the two.

There is no name for a Lagavulin and Hennessy cocktail: I’d suggest ‘the sacrilege’, as it defiles both drinks. But there are different approaches to booze, and I’ll admit I’m a wuss. It’s said that the true drinker of Taki’s vintage gets as much pleasure from a single man-sized swig as a faint heart like me derives from years of gazing, sniffing and sipping. Taki and Jeremy have a combined age of 128 and they know how to put it away.