Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, everyone. This is about the time of year a lot of people listen to and/or post links to "Fairytale of New York".

Of course, it means a little more this year with the recent passing of Shane MacGowan. I decided to honour him I'd drink like him. With perhaps a touch more moderation.

I googled interviews and articles and found out his favourite whiskey was Tullamore Dew. So that's what I've been drinking. It's pretty good, a little more complex than Jameson, which is the Irish whiskey I usually drink.

There is an official Pogues whiskey, named for MacGowan's band, and it happens to be available at the mall right here in Kashihara, Japan, where I'd be surprised if two people have heard of the Pogues or Shane MacGowan. I guess I didn't buy it because I suspect MacGowan probably just signed a license agreement, took a check, then went off and bought bottles of Tullamore Dew. But who knows, maybe he actually went and scouted distillery locations and took discriminating sips from ladles before giving an okay symbol to his handpicked staff. I'm sure I'll try the whiskey at some point.

I also read an interview in which he said, when writing "Fairytale of New York", he ate peanuts and drank sherry to pretend it was Christmas. So I've been eating peanuts and drinking sherry. I love sherry but, as with all wines, it gives me some of the worst hangovers, I've basically felt like I was transmitting my life from another planet for three days. That's with just two glasses of sherry a night (three last night). I never realised how well sherry paired with peanuts, though.

Anyway, Merry Christmas, everyone.

X Sonnet #1801

"But that's the tree," she said, recalling late.
Another sign the crooked road returned.
She paused and checked her book; another date.
"It's wrong," she said, "as prying eyes'll learn."
A stolen car commenced the extra slice.
A touch of blue could chill a drowsy room.
"We need some tools," said she, "and something nice.
"A string of lights could sew a gangster's doom."
Divesting her of tinsel traps, she starts.
A dozen twink'ling eyes beheld her path.
"You see the plan," she traced her scribbled charts.
"We wake with love then sleep with spirit wrath."
Her bank was built of metal orbs and canes.
"The blizzard comes," she says, "and evening wanes."