David Eastwood

In my garage there’s a special bottle of whisky. It’s the last delivery from my friend David, given me by his family at David’s wake four years ago. David died at the age of 54.

Every year David and his wife would go on holiday to Spain for three or four idyllic weeks of peace and sunshine. With twenty-one dearly loved grandchildren the summer break was doubly earned. On his return there’d be tales of five course evening meals, accompanied by drinks and after dinner liqueurs, all for £5.

Having been away for that length of time and no doubt carrying a few pounds, I’d anticipate my weekly squash battle with David would more certainly go my way. Occasionally it did, more often David return fully refreshed, raring to go, and hammer me off court.

David would return with a car load of booze. Knowing my liking for whisky he’d bring me back a case or two at the princely sum of £3 a bottle. You might not be familiar with the brand, ‘Statesman’. Another type he bought back was ‘Old Keeper’.

Now I used the word ‘special’ in the opening sentence, and special the bottle is to me. And in fact the label has the description ‘Special Quality’. Also says ‘Fully Matured’, ‘Finest Old’. On the rear label it says…

This old Scotch Whisky is produced from only the finest Malt and Grain Whiskies which have been specially selected and matured in oak cask (sic) for a period of 3 years or more. The individual character and taste will be appreciated in particular by those who know and understand Scotch Whisky.

I’ve no doubt every word on the bottle is true. The whisky does have an individual character, best appreciated after a good few sips of a more mainstream brand. The age of my bottle must now be approaching the more commonly acceptable age for a decent whisky of ten years… but there’s a certain rough edge I doubt will be mellowed by the keeping.

But I won’t be having an opening ceremony no matter how desperate I get for a tipple. Gives me too many happy memories of Saturday afternoons down the sports centre, stretched out in the sun after a couple of hours of squash watching a game of cricket, cool beer in hand, discussing the woes of the world and how my friend David and I would put things right if we ever got the chance.