The Gin Diaries
Memory #1
The stuff looked like fresh orange juice. It even had orange juice in it. A fresh glass; cold on the counter, above my eyeline. Teary with insane thirst I craned my head at a respectful angle to see where I was pawing, grabbed it and emptied the contents into my gaping gannet mouth. Whatever it was, the burning bile forced tears out of shocked ducts as the full force coated my gullet and impacted on my stomach. Agony. Murder. Treachery. Clutching my innards I wailed for assistance and waited for a nurse to come to my assistance and unpoison me. There were, after all, two in the house to minister to my tragic state.
Both came. Neither bore the hallmarks of the caring profession as they noted my quickening pulse, reddening cheeks and distinct lack of balance and laughed as I cried with hoarser vowels. The medicine which I had magicked away in my mouth in a single gulp was one of two doses. The other dose was held in my cousin’s hand.
Necessary explanation
No, dear reader. This is not the memoir of an uncontrollable alcoholic. My name is not Frey, my life is not in a million little pieces and I tend to walk more than twelve steps at a time. Whilst I’d like to write like Hemingway, taking the method approach is only going to end up in a big mess without a wallet, fixed address or friends.
But I do like gin. And recently, my education in it has taken me from a messy experiment as a seven year old in the family kitchen to gin palaces, tasting botanicals and mixology lessons in concept bars.
Memory #2
Holding it closely to my nose with my back turned from the stage lights ten feet away, smell was my primary compass. Inhaling deeply from the bottle, a ragged man sidles up next to me and implores for change or salvation or something. He should have distracted me, pulled me away from my desire to consume and back to liberal, humanistic sensibilities. He doesn’t. I’m only aware of a scent resembling French perfume that I want to wear inside and out. And soon enough, he’s distracted too by a woman who appears to be very pregnant who starts kicking him and screaming unmentionables in our collective faces.
I’m not old enough to have meandered through Hogarth’s London into dram shops or witnessed life expectancy cut short by careless booze-soaked parents neglecting their children. But my first encounter with 209 gin, surrounded by actors in a vault in London Bridge feels like a suitable homage to the fabulous vulgarity of the gin palaces that took the interiors of fashionable boutiques, lit them with gas lamps and promptly redecorated the walls with iniquity. Plus, the recommended retail price is reminiscent of the 1751 Tippling Act that took some humble bathtub moonshine and added a 1200% tax markup for good weights and measures.
(Recent) Memory #3
Cassia bark tastes like cinnamon. Grano di Paradiso was – at one point – as valuable as gold in Ghana. By EU regulation, gin is defined as a juniper-based drink exceeding 37.5% ABV. It’s London Fashion week and my bottom (which exceeds catwalk regulation specifications by at least three miles) is sitting in an open air bar designed by Tom Dixon and receiving a crash course in gin origins and history.
I’ve managed to negotiate my way past a tent of gazelles without screaming ‘eat pie and be more ugly’ and suspend my disbelief at hearing an art director’s brief (’be more fabulous’ isn’t a cliche, people, it’s a real, live industry-specific instruction). I can, just about, be told that this is all ‘magical moment between night and day where anything could happen’ and keep a straight face (outwardly). But I can do sweet FA about my instincts and a lifetime of associations.
My first experience with alcohol was the taste of gin. Memorable and painful. Facilitated by (inadvertent) theft from a parent and conducted away from society’s gaze in an antisocial mess on the floor. Slightly unfortunate and more than a little bit ironic that nearly twenty years on, I’m trudging the streets of Soho to find the one place that stocks my favourite brand and paying £35.00 for the stuff.
