In the world of spirits, old is gold: Price is what fools pay

“What’s a jalebi but sugar friedAnd where the infant who never cried Where the lover who’s never liedOr the wind-blown willow that never sighed?”From The Diary of Rosemary Marlowe by Bachchoo My father, an Armyman, would pour himself a whisky each evening, reserving Sunday afternoons for beer with friends and fellow officers on the lawns of our cantonment bungalows. “I think it’s only sold to British aristocrats.” I was sure at least one or two of them would search for the Vermillion that went beyond the Red, Black and Blue. For me the wonderous issue would be “which idiot paid this price for a bottle of booze?” Some years ago in Birmingham the scion of a capitalist trading company, a Sikh gentleman who was graciously lending us his premises for a TV series, invited us to dinner. “You’ll be glad to get rid of these stale old wines,” my friend added.