SQUINTER supposes most of us of a certain age have tried poitín at some time in our lives. Squinter certainly has, although he has to say he’s not a fan. It’s not that he’s afraid of going blind or suffering liver failure or anything like that – although the source of illegally distilled alcohol should be the first question asked – rather it’s that Squinter’s not a big fan of spirits full stop.
He’s had the odd gin and tonic, but rum, vodka, whiskey, brandy and so on are pretty much a mystery to him – as much of a mystery as poitín, in fact. Which is to say that he has tried them once or twice, but hasn’t invited them into his life.
Fascinating subject, poitín. The word derives from the Irish for little pot – pota being pot, poitín being wee pot. And while it’s generally seen as romantically illegal, there are quite a few companies making it legally. Indeed, the Irish government gave the drink ‘Geographical Indication’ status in 2015, which denotes the elements that need to be in place during manufacture before it can claim the name, including basic materials, distillation rules, flavouring and storage.
The thing about poitín, as far as Squinter’s limited experience goes, is that, unlike, say, vodka or gin, it’s generally drunk neat, like a single malt, or a fine cognac. Even though it’s rrrrrrough. Rough as a certain part of a badger’s anatomy, as the saying goes. Well, the illegal stuff, anyway, which is the only stuff that Squinter’s ever tried.
So when Squinter was offered a nip over the holidays he respectfully declined, remembering that his last sip had left him feeling like somebody had poured battery acid down his throat. “But this is clove-rock poitín,” came the reply. And, sure enough, the plastic bottle contained not clear liquid, but a reddish concoction rather like something you might put in the tank of a tractor. Squinter remained unconvinced, but it being the party season and all, he gave in and agreed to try a nip that took up about a third of a shot glass.
And it wasn’t at all bad. Clovey, you might say: nutmeggy, faintly and pleasantly bitter, warm. Like a winter hug in a glass. Wouldn’t take ye to drink a pint of it, like, but in this case it was a case of a little of what you didn’t fancy does you good. But how come somebody decided that making clove-rock-flavour poitín was a good idea? Turns out it may well have been a Long Kesh thing, given the replies Squinter received when he brought the matter up on Twitter.
Not only was clove-rock poitín popular with prisoners – they also made butter ball and brandy ball poitín and it seems that memories of it are quite positive ones.
The widely available sweets were dropped into the smuggled poitín and slowly heated until the confectionery melted. Only problem was, it could get a little messy when the concoction cooled and the sweets started congealing. In the winter, that meant reheating the poitín every time you fancied a swall, or perhaps sucking a poitín sweet. Worse ways of getting yourself off to sleep, you would imagine.
That problem never arose when, instead of sucky sweets, you dropped in a few lozenges. For it transpires that poitín in the Kesh was also flavoured on occasion with Victory V tablets, which if Squinter remembers correctly, are powdery in nature. But if Squinter also remembers correctly, Victory V lozenges are absolutely boggin’ – sort of antiseptic liquorice-type deal. Why anybody would want to drink something tasting as vile as that is anybody’s guess. Although as an ex-prisoner pointed out when that very subject was raised at the weekend, lots of people voluntarily drink Harp, so you’d have to say that anything’s possible.
Size really does matter when it comes to sweg
SQUINTER’S not what you would call a techie. He knows what he needs to know to work his computer. He can perform a range of tasks on his mobile phone. But at the same time he’s fully aware that 90 per cent of the capacity of modern electronic devices are closed to him.
Squinter does plenty of things online. He renews his library books. He pays bills. He converses. He books tickets. He buys stuff. But he doesn’t buy clothes online. Ever.
Another Christmas over and Squinter finds himself once again smiling wanly as he pulls items of attire from gift-wrapped boxes and tries them on with two matters resting unsaid at the back of his mind.
1. He didn’t pick this.
2. The chances are high that it’s not going to fit.
And once again this year, with clanging inevitability, a shirt and two pairs of shoes were returned. The yearly festive tableau was enacted with the usual characters: presentation; admiration; hesitation; frustration; rotation. Which always makes Squinter wonder why anybody buys things online without trying them on. We’ve all got a pretty accurate idea of our measurements even if they fluctuate a little too often for our liking: shoe size; chest size; collar size; waist size; leg length. So in an ideal world you’d see a pair of trousers online that you like on your laptop or your phone, punch in the details, make a card payment and – boom! – two or three days later there’s your sweg at the front door all neat and tidy in a brown box and you wouldn’t even have to try it on, so certain would you be that it’s just right.
But, of course, while manufacturers have tape measures that are all the same size, it’s just common knowledge that one shirt with a 16.5in neck made by one company, will have a significantly different fit than the same size shirt made by another company. That’s just the way it is. So it is with trousers. One pair of jeans with a 34in waist (stop laughing at the back) and a regular leg will be noticeably different in how they feel round your middle and where they reach to on your feet. That’s why when Squinter’s out shopping for clothes he’ll typically try on both a 9 and a 10 in a pair of shoes. He’ll try a 34 and a 36 in trousers, and because he’ll also be uncertain as to whether regular or long will do the job, that means he’ll be bringing four pairs of strides into the cubicle: 34R, 34L: 36R, 36L. Same craic with a casual shirt,although suit shirts are different – you don’t get to try them on because they come wrapped in cellophane; but because Squinter buys his smart shirts from the same two or three manufacturers, he knows what fits and what doesn’t (he still won’t buy them online, though).
Squinter knows the number of people actually visiting shops is dropping and the number of people buying things online is on the rise. And he knows that what generally – but not always – separates those doing clothes shopping online from those still going to the shops is age. But he’s too long in the tooth to change now. Other people are urging Squinter to get with the programme – it’s claimed he’s headed for a place in Jurassic Park. Squinter’s quite happy to wear that cap if it fits – he’s a 57.8cm head. Or is it 58.7?
