The WC and the OP

'Twas the Friday before the World Cup final and all were atwitter. Eventual doom had not yet cast it's mournful glower upon the Dutch, who, having just vaulted into the final, were ecstatic, which our background is supposed to illustrate, failing miserably. Okay, maybe not so miserably. Not with a new found friend cast our WB! way.

Nonetheless, folks, the stir then was palpable. If WB!'s scribbler had any excuse these last weeks, it was, "World Cup, man!" Every night. For weeks. It was glorious.


So there we were, all jittery, even if feigning disinterest, and out popped a sampling of the savoury soul of Ol' Pulteney 12, as a munificent a potable creature as ever to have been imbibed on a marvelous earth that can render such bounty upon us. And what a fantastic bottle! Ready made Captain's lamp, just plug 'n play.

So, what with our blasted attempt to convey the party scene midst-stadt, here is what it was supposed to show WB! readers:

A Glen and Song for Rio

At one point, it seemed apropos. But WB!'s sniveling scrivener has displayed such abject Bartlebyism that WB! fans are surely wondering if the luscious sauce has become a distressing impediment to wretched tale-telling.

Far from it! dear readers. Eno' o' excuses, and on with a terribly belated show, which one should explain, is set in Rio on or about the eve of the World Cup Nederlands/Brasil game. History now, of course, but the important thing was the scotch, as it often is 'mongst this slavering crowd.

And a bountiful and hearty Glendronoch 15 was, lugged hither from the savage reaches of Heathrow by one of Whisky Break!'s MI5 moles. Uh, anyway ...

My, gentle readers, this Glen-baby was a yummy one. Even now, one can still savour the deep mouthful, and a robust, slow and lingering burn.

This is, of course, the crucial test, a test which rum and any other simpering wannabes simply cannot pass. Ha ha!

So, there it was: the then toast to Rio, and Brasil, Nederlanders eventual World Cup victim.

Is that mean?