Drunken Days of Yore

A Night on Barrel Wash

This is yet another bad idea that turned into a horrible experience. Any story that involves homemade liquor and thirsty twenty-something men with a will to drink anything is never going to end well. In retrospect, this one is fairly amusing simply for the sheer ignorance of the participants - Phlegm, Mad Dog Johnny, Myself and an acquaintance named Marty. while you will undoubtedly laugh at our foolish antics, I hope this serves as a warning to any self-respecting boozer who is looking for a super-cheap drunk.

On a spring afternoon in my early twenties, I received a call from Phlegm, who's parents own a nursery north of Cobourg, Ontario. The nursery had contracts with many surrounding municipalities to provide flower arrangements for their downtown areas. Many of these flower arrangements were created in a half-barrel, within which the flower arrangements were planted. The nursery usually obtained the barrels from a distillery that had used them to age whiskey and other spirits. When Phlegm called, the delivery truck that had brought the barrels had just left.

"Dude, you'll never guess what I got brewing!"

"What?" I asked.

"The barrels for our flower arrangements were just delivered from the distillery and they just reek of booze. Are you up for some barrel wash?"

It was back in public school when I first heard of barrel wash (or "swish"). For those of you who don't know, barrel wash is a form of cheap homemade liquor that is made by filling a freshly used whiskey barrel with water, recorking it and lying it on its side in the sun. Every day, one rotates the barrel a quarter turn. Usually within two weeks or so, the alcohol that has been absorbed in the wood of the barrel leeches into the water, and you have a barrel of watered-down whiskey to drink. Being a opportunistic drunkard, Phlegm had apparently taken a whiskey barrel and started the process.

"In two weeks, we'll have some piss-up," he promised. I should have taken it as a warning.

Approximately two weeks later, Phlegm called to say the wash was finished and ready to drink. I rounded up Mad Dog Johnny and Marty and headed up to the nursery, which was situated in a valley in the middle of prime farmland. Within the valley was a small creek, which Phlegm's family had dammed up to create a pond. The pond then served as a scummy, stagnant frog sanctuary which could then be used in an emergency to water the greenhouses in the event the wells ran down. The valley area around this pond was what Phlegm referred to as "The Pit" and was a prime location for bonfires, keg parties and other drunken tomfoolery regularly undertaken in our irresponsible youth.

We arrived in the late afternoon and pitched tents in The Pit. Phlegm used his tractor to bring down the barrel of wash while we gathered wood for the fire. As is got dusk, the fire was set and the barrel was tapped. We poured out the liquid in a juice jug and filled our glasses. The finished product just tasted like whiskey and water. Not harsh at all. We continued drinking as the night wore on, until Mad Dog Johnny suddenly spit his drink into the grass.

"There's a chunk of something in this booze!" he exclaimed.

We filled a glass from the barrel and checked it with a flashlight. Even in our drunkenness we could see that there were definitely black chunks in the liquid. Thoroughly grossed out, we thought the party was over until one of us realized it was char from the inside of the barrel. Apparently, the years of soaking in harsh alcohol, slight drying after being emptied followed by the water Phlegm added caused some of the char to come loose from the inside of the barrel and start floating on the liquid's surface. Relieved, we continued to drink thinking a little charred wood would never hurt anyone.

After a while, the taste of the swill was getting tiresome. Having a drunken brainstorm, Phlegm went up to the house and came back with a can of peach concentrate. He poured some of the concentrate in the jug and mixed it with the hooch. It was kinda gross, but cut away the tiresome taste of the watery whiskey. We continued drinking around the fire until we were all in a very drunken state. At some point, Marty went to his tent to pass out, Johnny was crashed on the ground someplace and Phlegm and I were finishing a final drink. I recall falling backwards off the log I was sitting on, and being unable to sit back on it. I crawled to my tent, and after several minutes of drunkenly trying to open the fly, finally opened it and crawled inside.

I somehow managed to close the fly and get inside my sleeping bag. I lay there maybe 3 minutes before I suddenly got the urge to vomit. However, being in the dark of my tent and in a very inebriated state, I couldn't work the zipper to get out. I was unable to get out, and proceeded to throw up my last drink on the floor of my tent. My last conscious memory was trying to position myself as far from the mess as possible as I (in the words of Mike Tyson) "disappeared into Bolivia."

I awoke to a world of pain. My head ached and my stomach felt like it had been kicked by a mule. Wondering what had roused me from the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, I heard Mad Dog Johnny slapping on my tent.

"Hey," he asked. "Is that pond water safe to drink?"

I vaguely recalled the scum-covered swampy pond that was used as an emergency resevoir for the greenhouses. "I don't think so, man."

"GODDAMN IT!"

"What?" I asked.

"I already drank it." he replied.

I drifted off for a while longer until I felt well enough to wander up to the house to wash my face and get some water and a paper towel with some vinegar. I washed the floor of my tent with the vinegar and took my tent down. Marty and Johnny had taken their tent down, and Johnny was lying on the grass looking pretty grim.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Phlegm.

"He drank the pond water," I replied as everyone but Johnny broke into fits of laughter.

"FUCK OFF!" cursed Johnny, as Phlegm pondered the possible bacterial and parasitic infections one could suffer as a result from drinking from a stagnant frog pond.

As we loaded our sorry asses into my old Malibu for the ride home, Johnny climbed into the back seat and lay down. Marty and I decided that a greasy burger from Harvey's might help with the hangover. We asked Johnny if he would like anything, to which we heard only mumbled curses as replies. We finished eating and headed down the highway, all the while listening to Johnny mumbling and cursing to himself. In fact, I don't think he stopped cursing until I dropped him off.

"I am pissed off and in a vile mood," he stated as he got out. "I'm going to go lay down. I feel like shit. GODDAMN IT!!"

I don't believe Johnny got too sick from drinking the pond water, but it wouldn't be something I would want to risk. More telling is the fact he willingly chose a filthy home for frogs to drink from, rather than the remains of the barrel of wash he willingly guzzled the night before. Seeing how Johnny will willingly chug Cisco, there would seem to be some kind of moral lesson in that somewhere.

Drunk In Dublin, Ireland

Last May, after a planned trip to Las Vegas with the now defunct Morbid Pig's Eastern European field reporter Oleg Stavrovsky fell through, I decided to soak in some family ancestery in Dublin, Ireland. Dublin is a great drinking destination for many reasons. From its ages-old pub scene, the Guinness Brewery and the Old Jameson Whiskey Distillery, Ireland has plenty to offer to both the casual drinker as well as the seasoned alcoholic. The world-famous Temple Bar is also a must-see on my list. Not only did it serve historical Irish celebrities like Oscar Wilde and James Joyce during nights of drunken debauchery, it was also the final setting that set the stage for the infamous "There's No Bus!" incident where I staggered from the pub, got on the Iarnród Éireann for Dun Laoghaire where I was staying, and passed out. Some time later, I was awoken by an irate Irish Rail worker shaking me and screaming in my face. Apparently, I had passed out on the train and rode it to its final destination in Dalkey. Christ only knows how long I was sleeping there before he found me. When I enquired about a bus to Dun Laoghaire, he shouted "THERE'S NO BUS!!!" as I was dragged off the train and shoved in a cab. 23 Euro later, I found myself in front of The Royal Marine Hotel while I wondered what the hell just happened to me. Good times for everybody involved!

It was also at the Temple Bar where I was drinking with some dude from Cleveland, Ohio and was told about becoming an "Irish Whiskey Taster" at the Old Jameson Whiskey Distillery. I was told when you take the distillery tour they ask for volunteers who are given shots of various Irish, Scotch and American whiskies and asked to choose which ones they like the best. Obviously, this is something a souse like me couldn't dream of passing up! However, between bouncing around Dublin's pub scene and soaking up some of the various tourist highlights (including a tour of Newgrange in Co. Meath), I left the Jameson tour to my last day there. Now thorougly hung over from the "There's No Bus!" incident the night before, the last thing I could stomach would be shots of whiskey. However, I still had not visited Ireland's oldest pub, The Brazen Head, and knew I still had at least one more mission to accomplish.

The Brazen Head pub is Ireland's oldest, and sits on a site that has held a liquor license since 1198. Even feeling close to death from drinking like a crazy fool the night before, I knew I had to get there to soak up some history (as well as a few pints). I wandered along the Liffey River until I found the pub in the westernmost part of the tourist district. I went inside and ordered a Guinness. After some initial trouble getting the first few mouthfuls down, the black gold worked its Irish magic, and my hangover slowly started to recede. I checked the time and saw it was only 3:00 and I still had time to make the Jameson Distillery. Feeling much better, I left the Brazen Head, crossed the Liffey and made my way to the home of one of the largest whiskey distillers in Ireland.

I managed to get a ticket for the second-last tour of the day. While the Guinness had helped ease the pain of the adventure the previous night, I still felt horrible and the last thing I needed was multiple shots of whiskey. However, even in my deteriorated state, I knew when they asked for volunteers I would never be able to resist the siren's call of free liquor and the distinction of being a certified Irish Whiskey Taster. Sure enough, when the tour began and we were ushered into a theatre to watch a short presentation on uisce beatha ("The Water of Life"), the request for 3 male and 3 female volunteers was made, and my hand shot up faster than anyone in the room. And as the tour guide pointed at me to be one of the chosen, I smiled even as I knew this was probably going to be a very bad idea.

Whiskey was invented in Ireland, who then taught the art to the Scots. Initially, both Scotch and Irish whiskey starts off the same way. Barley is soaked in water until it germinates, which changes the starch it contains into fermentable sugar. Once germination has taken place, the barley is roasted to carmelize the sugars and prepare it to be mashed into malt. Up to this point, the process is identical in both Ireland and Scotland. However, it is the fuel used to dry the barley that differs from the two regions. The Irish used coal to dry the barley while the Scots used peat. The use of peat is what gives Scotch its distictive smokey flavour. After the the barley is dried, it is placed in a mash tun, boiled into malt, and finally fermented. This entire process is no different than what is done when making beer. However, after the "beer" has finished fermenting, it is distilled three times, which accounts for Jameson's legendary smoothness in the finished product.

Another interesting fact about aged whiskey is what is known as the "Angel's Share". When whiskey is aged in oak barrels for long periods of time, some of the whiskey evaporates through the wood. The longer a whiskey is aged, the more disappears from the barrel. This missing whiskey is called the "Angel's Share" in Ireland, and was historically attributed to being taken by God's angels, who apparently love really old Irish whiskey. A barrel aged 12 years may lose a fifth of it's contents, while a very old barrel may lose up to half. This accounts for the vast price difference between 10, 12, 18 and 25 year old whiskey. The older the whiskey, the longer it sits and the less finished product the distillery has to sell.

Now came the part we all had been anticipating, the tasting. Myself, along with 5 other lucky volunteers, were given a shot each of Paddy's Irish Whiskey, Power's Irish Whiskey and Jameson Irish Whiskey. We were then told to taste each and pick the one we liked the most. 5 of us chose Jameson, while one girl chose Paddy's (silly fool). However, no offence was taken as these were all Jameson products. After choosing our favourite Irish whiskey, we were given a shot of Johnny Walker Red (Scotland's best selling wiskey) and Jack Daniel's (America's best selling whiskey). As soon as I heard the name Jack Daniel's an involuntary shiver ran down my spine. In my opinion, Jack Daniel's is one of the most horrible concoctions ever conceived by mankind. And after chugging 2/3 of a 40 ouncer in Grade 9 along with Mad Dog Johnny, I knew full well this was not going to be a pleasant experience. However, I reasoned after drinking Cisco and Thunderbird, Jack Daniel's should be a breeze, and I wanted my certification, dammit! "In for a penny, in for a pound" I remembered my grandmother saying as I managed to put down the Jack along with the Johnny Walker, and easily chose Jameson as my favourite of the lot. As I was presented with my certificate, I was named a certified Irish Whiskey Taster and was given another glassful of Jameson's finest to savour while reflecting on this awesome experience.