Drink: Bottles by the Tay

A fanatical fisherman died. On arrival in the next world, he found himself on a river. A ghillie was proffering him a 16ft Hardy. ‘This is the life,’ thought the fisherman. ‘Or, rather, the afterlife.’ Within seconds, he made a perfect cast into enticing water: just the sort of pool which would seduce big fish into lingering. Within a few more seconds, his line was racing, the reel screeching, the rod dipping. Five minutes later, a fresh gleaming 30-pounder was on the bank. With arrogant jaws and an angry, imperious eye, this was no mere salmon. He had caught a lord of the river. ‘O death, where is thy sting?’

A second textbook cast, and a similar outcome. He had landed another fish, worthy to lie beside its confrere. ‘O grave, where is thy victory?’ A third cast, and an even finer trophy: a glistening, majestic 40-pound monster. Suddenly, the fisherman felt uneasy.