Whisky Magazine Issue 57
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In Old Manhattan,Michael Jackson,and cousin Tessa,too…have fun with books,and booze
Tessa should have told me herself. All she had to say (quietly, in my ear) was: “Michael, your fly is open.” Would that have been so embarrassing for her?
Tessa, sweet, embarrassable you. We are cousins, but sufficiently removed to have fun together.
“You don't look alike,” observed a suspicious soul at Whisky Live in New York - where Tessa was my date for the evening. I think his view of English people was formed by films about Notting Hill.
The real Notting Hill displays a statue of a Ukrainian hero, and is better known for its celebration of Trinidadian culture.
Tessa is part Trinidadian, and my blood is thickened with borscht, but the spirit of our friendship is neither rum nor vodka. Tessa's discovered the power of whisky when she was 15; I experienced its glory at 18.
Before Whisky Live, we met over a Manhattan at our usual rendezvous, the bar at the Algonquin, to wait for the limo. It took us five blocks uptown to the Radio City Music Hall, looped round Rockefeller Plaza and decanted us at NBC studios. We were hustled through a crowd that had gathered in false expectation of the Neverland Kid.
The ‘Michael Jackson' billed on the canopy outside - and on the dressing room door inside was me. The child in me is still swells with pride at the temporary possession of my own dressing room, especially one with a door decorated with a silver star.
I never know, though, what to do with such a facility, as I usually arrive fully dressed. Adjusting my dress might...