Jack Daniels

JACK DANIELS, just say it and the memory of the taste taunts you. That distinctive bottle in the hands of all those metal heroes, all those t-shirts and badges, lighters and tumblers, the sight of it behind the counter, out of reach and out of price range, just what a couple of seventeen and eighteen year old metallers needed to get pissed. “Thunderbirds please”, it was loads cheaper.

Just to show you how important it was:
Martin lived with his mum near a sheltered housing complex, I got to know him much better many years later but in those few encounters in 89-90 he impressed me with two things, one: the biggest collection of fantasy and sci-fi books I’d seen and two: the top of his wardrobe was covered in empty JD bottles. I bumped into him when he started going out with a girl I new from work about ’98, “hey I know you” I said, he looked confused, “you had shitloads of empty JD bottles on your wardrobe”, “yeah, I did, who the fuck are you?”

Jack Daniels, Jack or JD, it was important, it wasn’t the best, it wasn’t the strongest, but it was important. It still is. It was my luxury tipple up until 1995 when all the dope smoking dance music tossers started drinking it, I moved on to scotch. People still insisted when I asked for whisky on getting me JD, it started to piss me off. My little sister still bought me a bottle every Christmas until last year when I said I’d prefer a single malt or at least a scotch of some sort, I said I don’t really like JD anymore. It was terrible, I missed that bottle so much I’m still a bottle out of sorts, maybe I’ll go buy one tomorrow and try to redress the balance.

Sorry Jack, I promise to make it up to you