First sip makes a big impression; this isn't just smoky, it's a forest in flames, a peaty explosion. Sugar and salt tickle the palate in delicious combinations, smoky bacon with maple syrup, toffee apples, honey-roasted nuts and sweet and sour pork.

The nosings spread out a little bit into a plethora of nature's best offerings: plants and herbs (oniony fennel, coriander leaves, licorice and coffee), more tangy offerings (orange zest, aniseed, paprika and pepper) and some nice locations (a pebble beach with a fire, The W...

Sean Bean is also definitely here with some jelly beans. He described the taste as “imagination of the X-files under-the-skin crawly alien� at which point we asked him to leave.

From the sawmills to the farmyard, with undertones of burning turf and old leather, it’s stylishly unrefined. And for those dessert enthusiasts, there’s even a dollop of molasses in there to sweeten the deal.

Those savoury thoughts expand out to mid-Century Scandinavian rosewood unpolished furniture, the feeling of a recently blown out match on the tongue and an olive oily texture (no, we weren't drunk, promise.).

We’re down on the farm and we are smoking everything from cheese and tofu, to pigs ears and sausage. And not just any farm, it’s a kinky farm with the condoms stacked up on the fetish tractor.

This does justice to soothing the remnants of last night’s spontaneous soiree. An interesting mix of cider, sherry and apple sourz chasers served with green olives.

It was very medicinal (but unlike usual Islay medicine, more like homeopathic 'medicine' - ARGHH). Don't read too much into that, it smelled amazing - but a bit less 'classic Kilchoman' than the 129.1.

Sweetness came in in the form of a Flake, some fudge, a donut and a dank, old cupboard in a hospital. Actually, scatch that last one…

Zimbabwean mint & lamb crisps take us in an unusual direction before we're redirected to herbs and freshly cut grass. Roast pork and yoghurt sounds like a tasty dish, but it's all washed down with evil gingerbread!

As these balance the Lion roars and there's an explosion of spice with paprika, chili and pepper combining with the cream to hint at horseradish. As everything dies down we're left statuesque with a sharp tang of orange peel and rocket as the battle continues.

The only nose we recorded was 'not much of a nose', so I guess this didn't have much of a nose. Feel like there was a lack of the typical corny-graininess (in a good way), but can't be 100% sure!

Then chili, cloves and lots of wasabi hit with some salt (from the South China Sea as well as good ol' rocks) and salted whale blubber (for research purposes only) as well as the feeling of internal public space.

Islay isn't particularly famous for its cake, but that might be as they've put all their useful ingredients into the nose of this peaty offering: cinnamon, prunes, lots of marzipan, almonds, vanilla, apples and Christmas itself.

On the way, a whale has carelessly left its blubber to filter up the nose, perhaps helping to fertilise the landscape, as first nettles and then geraniums flourish.

Like cruising through city streets in the summer (verging on the edge of regret) the taste of warm tar and worn leather merges with a strong theme of burnt food: sugar, soda bread and toast with marmalade.

If there's any fish that can be subtle, then surely it's the lowly anchovy? Imagine that poor fella swimming around unnoticed and you've got the finish down to a T.

The flames have died down, now it's like chocolate. It's got a creamy yeah (a creamy yeah), yeah. Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah. Are you recording this? If it smells like velvet, it tastes like corduroy. I really wish I had a cigar right now.

There was also bitterness, florals, some tea tannins and hibiscus. Apparently, there was slight war on the tongue, with S&M toy soldiers.. I'm not too sure where that came from.

There are memories of the Jorvik Museum, nasty sea water, damp swamps, a used griddle and dunking your head in the river – we all hold those dear.

I’m sat in the saloon, saw dust on the floor, chewin’ tobacco, sipping on a chiili cassis cocktail, garnished with candied peel. I know it’s the end of my marriage.

Everything from raisin sawdust to Burgundy-coloured tapestries, with a stopover at to see Bruce Springsteen and the original German Werther's factory.

The length seems somewhat hard to pin down, somewhere between being inside the 6-yard box to lost in the opposition half - most agree it's medium. The aftertaste brings a fair bit of salt, with much more fruit than before: melon, sour apples, lemon and aniseed.

A Scottish terrier popped along, with salty driftwood, a chalk cave and spirits. Maraschino cherries made up the fruity contingent (of one) and then... I feel angry typing this.. (who said this?!), "jodhpurs after you've been for a ride". Some people, eh?

Oh dear. I think things got a bit out of hand... Apparently tastes include SPUNK (jizz), PR@WNS!!!, the lack of fish and 'like standing on the side of the road under the Botswana sun waiting for a car that will never come'.

Give it a little while, and you’ll start to discern something approximating the smoky flavours of your usual Lagavulin - barbequed pork-steak and Frazzles bacon-flavoured crisps. Smooth it might be, but balanced to the point of obscurity.

Japanese crabs, tumbledriers and 'accidentally snorting orange juice' provided a summary that's pretty darn hard to interpret. Add to that acetone, eucalyptus and oesophageal burn and you're getting a gnat's breath closer to perception, but sherry came through at the end to ...

What? You’re back with that leather satchel? It’s Saturday night and the school discos in full swing (a lingering sense of cheesy 70s DJs).

It's the snack counter at York's famous cinema conversion project - as we pass the fire-hardened 13th century oak door we move on to the mixture of sweet and salty popcorn.

Icelandic wood then shifts us towards white wine vinegar and cloves, with basil sitting out there on its herby lonesome (who incidentally sounds like a 50s blues singer)

Back on the snacks as we gorge ourselves on peanuts and popcorn all the way to the bottom of the bag as we get the unpopped corn stuck in our teeth.

Pear and almond tart hanging off a beech hedge over a sea cliff. Tasty treats and lethal peril.

Christmas pudding seemed to feature for more than one person, but its rich depth only truly came out with a few warm up drams - but had the ability to beat its way to first place.

Burnt Moss (Stirling's son, conceived after a very sexy race at the Nürburgring, very different to Colin McRae's win at the Nuremberg Rally

That mintiness starts going menthol as piney flavours announce their arrival ("Hullo!") with aniseed balls presenting themselves as the pretentious synergy between palate and finish and eventually going home with no friends.

To round off the evening a leisurely smoke with pipes packed with dark shag tobacco. It’s the smell of a well-stocked pantry, where hungry midnight explorers stumble across left-over pizza.

Like a giant cupcake decoration thrown together by your boozy gran, there was a smorgasboard of sweet things on the nose. We found pink marshmallows smothered in treacle next to chunks of pineapple coated in marzipan!

I have a soft spot for dark wood.

Hmm, this is a young whisky, but does that explain the whiff of teenage boys’ aftershave? Oh no, I see, it’s just Chad Kroeger, munching on a mars bar.

Things get more exciting as our tongues prickle with paprika and popping candy as, the sweetness over, lime pickle squeezes the mouth and English mustard washes like rainwater over this slightly salty ending.

Liquorice, marshmallows and jelly oranges bring some childishness to the sweet class, whilst flambéed Christmas pudding, boozy carrot cake, cinnamon swirls and vanilla ice cream and even some acidic cheese escalate the post-dinner madness with an unexpected pudding course....

Lovely cinnamon, cardamom, vanilla custard on rhubarb crumble. Or maybe it’s actually like arse hair in a car mechanic’s workshop. Can’t decide.

Things get somewhat more challenging (and non-existent) with peanut brittle popping up without the peanuts (The Ghost of Peanut's Past), hanging out inadvisedly with *something witty*, a man who's so up his own arse that he has asterisks in his name.

There's also a vivacious tang coming through, best described by the presence of ginger, vinegar and - sticking it all together - some blue tac.

There were lots of floral things being brought up, but the tone wasn't that glowing: outdoors but indoors (like a greenhouse), a bad flower, parma violets - parma violence -, tomato pheromones, and those small white flowers in a flower arrangement.

The positive was almond flour. The rest was diluted whisky, clean, empty, acid reflux and a burst balloon. The finish was minus two.

McNulty from The Wire's guilt and the salt of the sweat of the Taoiseach before a general election. And finishing the whole thing of are perhaps the less-desirable flavours of melted plastic, yellow snow and oil.