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I could wax on about whisky. Or brief you on the back-story of beer. Instead, a short tale about a man who embraced both, albeit for a short time.

Many years ago, on his first assignment for a Scottish newspaper, my father attended a celebratory dinner in honour of dead poet (and, as of 2009, the Greatest Scot off all time) Robert Burns. Whisky flowed and my dad, caught up in the excitement of the night, soon rendered himself incapacitated.

Enter marginally less inebriated family friend and farmer John Hodge, who eventually draped my pickled pop across his Ferguson tractor and plotted a course for the farmhouse.

Upon arrival, Hodge’s burly sister Nan confiscated his tractor keys before sharply informing him that my dad couldn’t stay, as his mother would surely be worried sick....