April 1984... I am in Dublin, Bow street, Ireland, at a lunch meeting with my fellow colleague journalist, Job, on invitation of the Irish Distillery Group. Our host is Des Heather; I don't know why but I never forgot his name! Des keeps urging me to try some of the delicious Irish fresh salmon on the table but after a morning of tasting too many bites of Irish Whiskey too soon,  I just can't get anything thicker than a matured single malt through my throat. He can't have none of that because he has to get his two unique selling points over to those journalists from the continent of course. In vain, my stomach just won't allow it... So in a final attempt to outdo his bid he suggests: we will go down to taste his oldest whiskey in the house. I don't recollect it's age but it was for sure over 60 years old! So he pours to glasses of this ambrosia especially for us and I swear I have never tasted something nearly as good alike in my life. In comes a bunch of American tourists who just had had their free tour. A guy says: * I would fancy some of that stuff* and Des, being the noble man he was, just didn't want to be a bad host and poured him a bit of his blood too. The yankee took a sip; made a face like it was pissing in hell and then filled the remainders of the gold up with a coke; it was kinda all right then!