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DEVIL'S ADVOCATE
Indeed, a night in John’s company can be enlightening, entertaining and, at the same time, educational. Bring in the views of that other renowned Industry philosopher, Alf Bayvel, late of Chivas Bros. and you have enough politically incorrect comments—verging towards anarchy—that scriptwriters would kill for. Indeed I did wonder if we had been overheard at some point when BBC Television came up with a programme entitled “Grumpy Old Men”. All of our prejudices were suddenly being exposed on national television: computers, mobile phones, call centres, smoker’s rights, nouvelle cuisine, bloody politicians, Tony Blair, the Nanny State, the horrors of travel, lack of service in shops, the inability of people to construct a meaningful letter anymore! The list is bloody endless—feel free to add your favourites! John McDonald, who is significantly older than either Mr Bayvel or myself, sums the whole situation up, “The Country’s fucked!” I think he’s right of course, but it may just be the age I’m at. The whisky industry I was part of was rich in characters. Every company had them. They all know who they are. Whilst we all did the best we could for our respective companies, we also identified with each others issues. There was a lot of trust around and if someone gained what became known as a competitive advantage one year, the cycle would turn, as it always did and you would have your chance to make good in subsequent years. Negotiations invariably took place over long lunches—or even dinner—where surprisingly, strong drink was often consumed! Sometimes it fell to our talented sidekicks to interpret scrawled notes on menus or napkins as to what had actually been agreed. The results often came as a shock to the participants who were at the meeting! Over the last 5 or 10 years this civilised way of doing business began to change. Lunch was often frowned upon, drink certainly was. Fizzy bloody water appeared at meetings, as did boring bloody sandwiches. Our colleagues went off on team-building exercises—making rafts and abseiling—and when they weren’t bonding with each other they were out bloody jogging at lunchtime. Don’t get me wrong, I know there are still pockets of resistance out there—those who would be none the worse for an old-fashioned whisky industry lunch or dinner—but they seem to be in the minority. It seems to me and to my adversaries over the years, that it sure as hell is different from how it used to be. This could, of course, be errant nonsense. It may be simply a generation thing. When we were in our prime, the generation that preceded us probably shook their heads and wondered where it had all gone wrong. With rationalisations, mergers and take-overs—the never ending quest for efficiencies—it’s all too easy from the privileged position of being happily retired to look in at the Industry as it is now and arrogantly take the view that it will never be as good as it was in our day. And yet I know that there remains in the Industry a generation still young enough to make it happen in the ever challenging environment in which they now have to operate. Whilst they are younger than us old retired farts, they are old enough to know the benefits of real networking—after all they learned at the feet of masters! So I look to this new generation to carry the baton forward, then they can replace us (after they have buried us) as the next generation of “Grumpy Old Men”. They deserve to. Whilst I know many of the new generation personally, there are an increasing number of big hitters in the Industry that I would not know if I fell over them. These are the ones who have arrived over the last 3 or 4 years. Since I am unlikely to ever meet them, or they me, (certainly not at a boozy lunch or dinner), it struck me that my witterings in the SWR are of absolutely no relevance to them at all. In consumer terms, I think I have reached the end of my shelf life. I also have a confession: I don’t really give a damn anymore as to what the Industry is up to—who is merging with who; what is being rationalised; or who is doing what. Who gives a shit? I could get animated were the pension to be threatened. I do get animated, as we have seen, with my fellow grumps. But more and more one should recognise that nobody gives a stuff as to what I think. That’s fine, that’s exactly as it should be. So if my readers haven’t fallen asleep by this stage, this has been a long preamble to simply say “That’s it, I’m out of here.” I should take this opportunity to allay the fears of my vast army of fans out there to point out that this second “retirement” has absolutely nothing to do with an unfortunate, relatively minor health scare earlier this year. Strangely I had just completed my last piece on the great Cardhu cock-up, worked myself into a good grump, despatched the first draft to “the boss”, and was then unable to respond to his minor editorial changes! He did a fine job anyway and he never even docked my pay! My thanks to Richard for the invite in the first place, it’s been fun. The Loch Fyne Scotch Whisky Review is enjoyed by an ever increasing readership—and rightly so. It’s fun, irreverent, and never boring. Unlike other serious Whisky Magazines I could mention! I’ll bet they eat bloody sandwiches! What is a bloody lye pipe anyway? And who cares? I’ll be a tough act to follow—but then I always was! I reserve the right, however, to write to the Editor in my now full-time role as a Grumpy Old Man should anything upset me unduly. Don’t say you haven’t been warned! Farewell. It's been fun.
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