£7,600 for a shot of whisky? For me, it’s not worth the pain

There is no worse idea – ever – than topping off a night that’s already gone too far down Booze Boulevard by getting out the whisky. Never have I felt more wretched, sick and full of self-loathing than on mornings after a night that ended with a cheeky dram or five. It’s no coincidence that this is the tipple of choice for those on the most despairing of benders. It’s dark stuff.

Even in less sordid circumstances, whisky, in my view – despite what connoisseurs say – is a mouth-burning, stomach-churning drink. So I could have told the Chinese millionaire who paid £7,600 for a dram at the Waldhaus Am See hotel in St Moritz in July that it would never have been worth that price, no matter how reportedly high the quality. In the event, however (as I noted with glee), it was a fake. It was sold from an unopened bottle labelled as an 1878 Macallan single malt, but experts – spotting discrepancies in the label and cork from newspaper articles – have now established that the stuff did not predate 1970. The hotel has acknowledged the expensive mistake and refunded the Beijing-based customer, Zhang Wei, 36.

I know connoisseurs will find my position one of simple vulgar ignorance – my own father is one who can croon at length over the peaty notes of Scottish single malts, deliberating over just the right number of centilitres of water needed (in his view) to bring out all those blessed aromas. s.

He’s got a whole laboratory to hand to ensure the smoky components jostle perfectly with the citrus, all encircled – to quote from the tasting notes that come with his favourite Ardbeg – “by clouds of sea spray”.

Sure, I’ll sip an Ardbeg with my father, but only because I’m a good daughter. Sometimes duty calls. But whether it’s from 1878 or 1978, you can keep it. Give me, well, pretty much anything else

– any day.