crown royal single barrel

Crown royal single barrel rye

 

 

Nine inch snails – Strange days

 

 

It is the past. The year is 1967.

Just inside earth’s orbit hovers a flying saucer, occupied by two space robot pilots. One, a short server robot wearing brown corduroys, the other a tall menacing actor robot with an intimidating grin. The two hover in their space craft observing the happenings on planet earth:

Patrick, the server robot speaks out loud to his friend, ‘There is a small crowd passing through an alleyway named ‘love street’. it’s the place where the creatures meet. I wonder what they do in there….’

Meanwhile, on earth…

‘I am totally laughs about the crown’s royal!’ bellowed a thick, bald Slavic man sporting a well waxed handlebar mustache and freshly shaved armpits. He is standing on a cobblestone sidewalk, lifting a heavy barbell over his head while wearing a zebra print skirt.

The weightlifter was quite smug with himself after recovering from his surgery from a few years ago; the mustache man was involved in a accident regarding a malfunctioning lawn mower and loose lawn mower parts which happened to jostle loose and inconveniently fly at neck height and at high speeds. after the flying part lodged into the bald mans throat, he underwent radical surgery; the piece would not budge from the mustache man’s throat and so he became the first in the world to survive and endure a complete neck amputation. He had his head sewn directly to his collar bone and the Slavic man’s ears hung well below his shoulders.

‘I can’t even drink it! I’m not allowed!’ exclaimed his spotter, a small person sharply dressed in a well tailored suit and fedora. ‘it’s this goddamn complexion of mine. You know I’m treated like a child because of my condition!’ he scowled.

the small person was the son of a successful rubber tycoon, and the boy suffered a rather common, hereditary condition called ‘reverse benjamin button syndrome’. The condition actually affects 100% of the world’s population in which a person is born a baby and as they’re life goes on, they become older, rather than younger. The son of the rubber tycoon looked to be about ten years old, because he indeed – was actually ten years old.

‘Waaa waaaa’ cried the trumpeter next to the spotter, blowing into his brass instrument.

The trumpeter was usually silent, except for his sarcastic brass tootings. He never really spoke, not since the accident of course: one night he and his friends were travelling from the pub to an all night diner and listening to glenn miller on the am broadcast, when the intoxicated driver ignored a stop sign and drove the speeding vehicle over a 3 way intersection, hopping right over the crossroad and landing before a bog. A little faster, the car would have flown into a swamp, drowning the group in the car. A little slower, they would have nosedived, most likely opening the skulls of everybody in the car. A slight turn would have flipped the car over, ejecting the passengers, propelling their bodies into thick trees, killing them. but no, they went just the right speed, flew over the intersection without even touching the road and landed directly, luckily, perfectly on all four wheels, right beside a tree, out of the bog. The two passengers in the back were scratched, but relatively unharmed, the trumpeter, riding passenger complained of a sprained ankle. The trumpeter looked left to his friend, the driver. Upright, mouth gaped and eyes wide the driver looked stunned out the windshield. The trumpeter shook the driver, trying to release him from his catatonic state. The driver would not snap out of it. As he pulled on the drivers shoulder, he saw one jagged broken branch jutting from his neck; it would seem a branch had broken through the window and forced a small broken sapling to snap and drive itself into his throat, severing his spine, internally decapitating the driver. The jagged barb held is chin up high. He looked as if a fisherman hoisting him by the gills, posing for a photo with his record catch.

Shell-shocked, the trumpeter never spoke since.

‘you are a child,’ a woman said as she emerged from an arched gateway. The woman was tall, and dressed in a paisley pantsuit jumper. ‘and I predict you will not be treated as an adult for another, hmm, eight years…’

The woman in question was an odd specimen; a self proclaimed psychic and tarot card reader who enjoyed chain smoking and the love of teenage boys; as she was closing in on her forties, she felt the need to suck out a young lads life energy and glee for her own enjoyment, leaving a depressed, bankrupt, aged shell of a man. She would break a boys soul and leave it void. a femme fatale she was, if you will.

twice divorced, and one ex boyfriend who committed suicide over their lost love, she was dark, mysterious, callous, unattractive and unpredictable. The years of binge smoking had turned her complexion into that of a weather torn dock laborer, even though she never worked a day in her life- didn’t really even leave home. Her face was old with deep wrinkles. Her hands, gnarled and arthritic, with bulbous knuckles. She never wore enough makeup. Her neck was long and her head was too small for her body. peroxide yellow hair frazzled, dry.

She yielded to two brothers who were travelling past, one walking on his feet while hoisting his other brother, straight up in the air, like a sheet of drywall about to be drilled into a ceiling. His brother outstretched the same, like a plank. They were dressed sharp, in black slacks and black button up shirts. They both wore curly brown hair.

‘be careful of the juggler, mate!’ one brother yelled to the other, ‘There’s too much dog blood on those juggling balls.’

The brothers were twins, identical twins. In fact not one was older or younger than the other because they were both born at the same time. The two boys were to emerge separately from their mother naturally, but due to medical error, the two burst forth at the same time, ripping their mother‘s pelvis and lower torso in half and she died on the table within seconds. The doctor said her body looked as if somebody had dropped a watermelon on the ground.

The father died from grief.

The two brothers were permanently in a stiff position, as if reaching for the sky. They were both unable to bend their joints and walked everywhere as if they were stretching. To relax their muscles, one would carry the other on their hands and walk about, and then the other brother would dismount and share the duty and carry the exhausted brother. The two would never disclose exactly why their joints refused to bend, but the brothers always found work holding signs for local charity carwashes.

The blood on the balls was in no way dog’s blood – it was indeed otter’s blood, which was odd because there were no otters to occupy this state.

The juggler who was juggling the otter blood covered balls was a French Canadian, born in northern quebec, who ran away from home and disowned himself from his lumberjack heritage. The juggler was an entertainer of many sorts, more of a courts jester. He had spent much of his childhood memorizing a 84 verse Japanese haiku, though he did not speak the language, he pronounced the poem perfectly. The haiku was a tale of tragic love; a man and woman had fallen in love and were set to marry. The father was very specific about allowing only the right man to wed his daughter. To please the father, the groom-to-be had paid a handsome sum to purchase the right clothes, take some etiquette classes and speech therapy to correct some annunciation issues and the groom landed himself a good job in an advertising firm. Indeed the groom was the perfect fit for the proud father’s family. On the morning of the wedding day the bride’s father was rushing to the bathroom because of his shrunken bladder, when he pushed the groom off the toilet to discover that the groom had blood in his stool. Shocked, the father of the bride refused to let the couple marry in fear of the grooms faulty genes. Embarrassed, the groom then ran himself on a sword he was set to give the father as a wedding present. The father of the bride, grew to become very old, and from that day on discovered blood in his own stool everyday until he died at the ripe old age of 104. The father lived so long, he even buried his own unwed daughter who died of natural causes at age 76.

‘10011100101010101011100110010’ the menacing looking robot asked.

‘no! you gave me those horse latitudes.’ Patrick, the server robot protested. ‘fire up the time machine and let’s go find texas, that’s the place with the crown royal we’re looking for. This place doesn’t have anything interesting going on. these people are strange. come on, let’s get out of here.’

The two space robots travelled to find a liquor store in 2015’s texas selling crown royal’s first single barrel release.

A single barrel Canadian whisky sold at barrel proof? Strange days, these are indeed.

Alc. 51.5%

Bottle:

Crown royal tends to stay with a certain presentation. This bottle is like the special reserve bottle and the old cask 16 bottle; its like a regular crown bottle, but stretched out to look taller. Bright white label. A medallion hangs off the neck of the bottle to indicate which batch was purchased.

Nose:

Butterscotch, egg nog, vanilla custard and citrus zest. A little floral with some modest grain peeking through. Acetone, sweet wood and yellow fruits. Nice nose, albeit unfamiliar with the crown style.

Palate:

Very sweet and fruity on entrance and moves to an aggressive heat. Good texture with an oily slick. Lots of rich vanilla and spicy char. Fades into a sweet, rich oaky finish.

Overall :

Very good!

Please note:

It is uncommon for a Canadian whisky to release a single barrel project, let alone from a gigantic company like diageo’s crown royal. This single barrel project has started solely in texas and has plans to expand to some other states in the near future.

This is a column still whisky, made mostly of corn, with a high rye content(roughly 30%), aged in virgin barrels for around seven years. This project came to materialize after some suggestion from crown advocate and Canadian whisky writer, davin de kergommeaux.

Crown royal currently hails from Manitoba and is currently working on building a visitors center for curious customers.

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