Hands Off My Raasay, Russians!

My whisky versus the Russian army

[Note: I submitted this to a publication who were looking for “hot takes” and “personal essays” about “whiskey”, prioritising “snappy headlines” and “unique opinions.”

They said “thanks, but no thanks.” Oh well. At least my headline is snappy (kind of?).

I checked out their site, and headlines like this are typical:

• I've Tried Hundreds of Whiskeys. This Cheap Bourbon Is My Favorite Dessert Drink

• Looking to Try an Affordable Scotch? Check Out This Award-Winning New Bottl

• Johnnie Walker Is Letting Fans Make Their Own Scotch. Here's What You Should Know

Perhaps I don’t know what “snappy” means. (I’m being silly and juvenile, of course - all of the articles on the site had one thing in common: they actually talked about the whisky/whiskey itself. As you will see, I didn’t.)]

This is the 3rd and final part of my Ukraine reflections series.

Don’t touch my scotch, Russkies!

I’m a total fraud when it comes to describing whisky.

Even though I was once a dedicated member of the Water of Life Society at Edinburgh University, I can barely talk about whisky with any real sophistication anymore. In my defense, that was over two decades ago. And while my appreciation for Scotch has only deepened over the years, when asked to explain why I like a particular tipple, I usually just mutter something like: Hmmm, that’s smooth… peaty… full-bodied… subtle… fine oak… hints of iodine… layered…

So instead, I’ll tell you a story – about how, just over three years ago, after Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, I was irrationally terrified that the Russians might get their grubby hands on my precious Isle of Raasay single malt.

I’d been saving that Raasay, a gift from my brother-in-law sister, for a special occasion. As you can see from the photo, I’d barely had a drop of it. In the run-up to the invasion, I was so wracked with anxiety that I powered through a couple of other bottles over the span of a month or so to soothe my nerves. I used lesser whiskies to aid me in that battle (the Glen Deveron and Glen Garioch, from the looks of it).

I was fortunate enough to leave Ukraine, my home of 13 years, just 10 days before the Russians barreled over the border (pun very much intended). But I didn’t take my Raasay with me.

At the time, no one expected Ukraine to hold out for more than a few days before Russian troops descended upon Kyiv. Everyone, including many of my friends, colleagues, and students, was preparing Molotov cocktails for when (not if) the Russians made it into the city.

And there was me and my brother-in-law, worrying about my whisky.

I exaggerate slightly – but only just. Surely, you must be thinking, of all the things to worry about in an invasion, with people’s lives at stake, why fret over a bottle of whisky?

The truth is, when your world is upended, your mind fixates on the strangest things. While my daughter and I were safe in the UK, my wife was still in Kyiv, in full-scale panic mode like every other Ukrainian.

Naturally, we were worried about her. But we were also worried about our brand-new apartment, the one we had moved into just four months earlier and had barely even lived in. The living room was still unfurnished. We didn’t even have a kitchen table yet. You’d think that, with most of my life savings sunk into this place, a mere bottle of Scotch would be the least of my concerns.

In reality, I was a wreck – terrified for Ukraine, for its people, for my home. Or the closest thing I had to one.

That whisky came to represent what I’d left behind, and what I was terrified of losing.

We had put so much thought into designing our flat, and I took particular pride in my liquor cabinet, complete with its own lighting. Along with my bookshelves, it was my pride and joy. It made me feel like I finally had a real home in Ukraine. I never even wanted to buy property, but once we did, I wanted it to feel as ours as possible. And now the goddamn Russians were going to take that away from us.

Perhaps it was the alliteration of Raasay and Russians that cemented it in my mind? Who knows. When history takes a turn for the unprecedented, your thoughts become an uncontrollable mess of swirling emotions. I kept thinking about all the other things I had left behind - my best clothes, my journals, most of my daughter’s Julia Donaldson books, the new microscope she had just got for her 4th birthday and…this, another present from my brother-in-law:

We figured we’d be back in a few weeks. We left as a precaution, nothing more.

What selfish, frivolous thoughts.

And yet, I didn’t want the Russians to take our flat, and I certainly didn’t want them to get their hands on my whisky. At one point, I even considered asking some friends to sneak into the apartment and rescue it before the Russians could get there.

My wife, her mother, and her sister left Kyiv almost immediately, leaving my father-in-law behind to keep an eye on things. I told him to go to the flat and take the booze. He obliged, but only took the red wine and a bottle or two of scotch.

He left my Raasay untouched.

Three years later, the flat still stands. Ukraine still stands. And I’ve settled into life in Vienna, our home for the foreseeable future.

And I still have my bottle of Raasay, but only just. This is all that’s left of it.

Or rather, that’s all that was left of it.

Because after three years, I finally finished it, right after completing this story.

Take that, Russkies! You couldn’t get my Raasay (and you’re not getting Ukraine either).

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Other news

My 2nd book is out now, and for just a few more days, it’s FREE. Get it here:

No More Boring Worksheet(s): Spicing Up English with Chaos, Creativity and (some) Grammar

My question/gripe of the week:

Why do so many people look at their phones when taking selfies? Why not look at us? Is there a reason for this? Am I the only one who thinks this looks daft? I’m so bewildered by this that I made an Instagram/TikTok video about it.

I don’t get this:

This is better, right? (!)

Social media update:

It’s a slow and agonising process. My Ludditism gets the best of me most days and I want to throw in the towel. Stuff like this drives me bonkers:

Read that note carefully. I was trying to upload 1 (ONE!) video, which was a mere 91 seconds long. That’s it, ONE EFFING VIDEO. I tried and tried and then gave up.

The very next day, I tried again and it worked fine. I did the EXACT SAME THING.

Why does this happen to me?

And why can you only upload to Stories from the app in your phone? I HATE using smartphones. Am I alone here? Aren’t there other technophobes like me who use their PC for everything?

Bad Substacker of the week award

I know I’m being a naughty boy here, but I can’t resist. I removed this person’s name when I posted a Note earlier this week, but I won’t now. I don’t give a shit anymore.

This note hits close to home - ouch.

If stories like my agonising, heart-wrenching tale of leaving Ukraine with my daughter days before the full-scale invasion and my social media shenanigans are too ‘generic’ and don’t give you a flavour of what my ‘life is like’, then christ, I’d hate to see the horrors of ‘unique’ or ‘extraordinary’. No thanks and good riddance 😂

Or maybe my writing and lousy humour are appalling, who knows.

(For the record, I find this snarky stuff fun; my grumbling has to be taken with a MASSIVE pinch of salt; don’t take me too seriously)

Thanks for reading if you made it this far. Please leave a comment, even if it’s just to insult me. I have thick skin, I can take it!