WE ARE SENSITIVE MEN

The meeting of the local pipe club was sparsely attended this time. Less than a dozen men. The South African wasn't there, the intellectual of solid dutch Calvinist heritage neither, the elfish man who is famous for the time that a woman less than half his age spontaneously jumped on his lap and stuck her tongue in his ear also not, nor the fellow who needs a mansierre or less thin clothing. The high-domed chap from the middle-of-the-country remained unfortunately absent too.

This, naturally, meant that my access to the duck liver pâté was unhindered.
No fear of a ravenous mob bogarting the snacky stuff.
It was very good.


This was the first time that one of the members drank mead. Despite my encouraging him to get drunk like a viking, he remained very well behaved. Which was extremely disappointing.


Various salume and charcooters, cheeses, and open bottles. Plus tins of tobacco.
So I dare say I wasn't the only one who had a good time.
It was a flavoursome afternoon.

The latest limited edition pipe tobacco from C & D is finally in. Sight unseen and nose quite unsniffed I acquired four tins of it before anyone else, and I'm not through purchasing it yet. The previous version had a profound fragrance of Limburger cheese due to the maturity of the blending components, yielding a divine smoke. Which I'm counting on this time around.
Oddly none of the other gentlemen leaped upon the supply.

Neil smoked Three Nuns in an old Peterson full bent for most of the afternoon, occasionally watching the game that was playing on the teevee in the back room. And probably didn't hear me when I remarked that televised sports always remind me of a few lines of English poetry: "Balls to your partner, Arse against the wall; If you cannot get intercoursed* on Saturday Night, You cannot get intercoursed* at all". I find it inspiring.

[The long version of that sung poem goes on for several hundred verses, which every one in Britain probably knows. It's quite epic. British people take great comfort in the ellucidation of satisfactory resolutions to every day social quandaries.]

The English are a poetic people. Probably makes up for their cuisine being so appalling.


And, in reference thereto, don't forget that Bobby Burns Night is coming up on the twenty-fifth of January. Sheep guts, boiled turnips, peat, firewater, doggerel, and accordions.
No, none of us have any intention of observing it. In any way.
Especially not gustatorily.




I take pains to point out that I like Cornell & Diehl's Anthology very much. The last time it was available I stockpiled over two dozen tins. And I shall probably end up with the same number this time around. This version is a selection of fine contemporary reds.

TOBACCO INDEX


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