#gin magazine

[techdriveplay]

Garden Street Gin Club - TDP Review - This Subscription Box Allows You to Sip on Gins from All Around Australia

Exploring the world of Australian gin has never been more exciting, thanks to Garden Street Gin Club. This innovative subscription box allows you to sip on gins from all around Australia, offering a unique journey through the finest small-batch, artisanal gins the country has to offer. Introduction to Garden Street Gin Club Garden Street Gin Club, an Australian-owned and made online…

[undergroundrockpress]

Photos by Bart Harris Playboy Magazine, 1977.

[coolpeaches]

Zane Phillips photographed by Andrew Gin for Folie Magazine

[doppleganger-rental]

This 1969, scratch and sniff ad for Fleischmann’s gin is still smellable! It doesn’t smell particularly good but you can get a vague scent of the botanicals. 55 years later and it still works.

[inspirednarcissus]

Zane Phillips by Andrew Gin for Folie.

[periodically80s]

[thejazzera]

Jim Davis, Dixie Belle Distilled Gin, 1934

[rainhorizons]

OH. MY. GOD.

[war-in]

Playboy Sept 1957

[oratokyosaigunda]

Saikyo Jump cover 2023年12月 issue

[thursdaymurderbub]

from Silver Screen magazine, September 1941

[silverfangnetwork]

Silver Fang Magazine issue 8 is now live! Come read it for free at https://magazine.silverfang.net/issue8/

[musicmags]

[vaaaaaiolet]

Leon's lifeline for the past two months has been a chance encounter he met at a bar. At an abandoned payphone in the dead of night, he can only hope his guardian angel picks up his call.

mdni (mild implied sex). gn / m, HELLA pining, romance, implied alcohol abuse bc older leon, egregious overuse of religious / angel imagery, angst w/ a happy ending!

word count: 935 // read on ao3

a/n: if you know anything about me it's that: 1) i will not stop making puns even if you held a gun to my head 2) paradise edition solos your fav 3) you can tear religious imagery out of my COLD DEAD HANDS

find more drabbles in my collection: sketches for my sweetheart the drunk!

Against every neuron in his brain screaming flight, Leon breathes way too early into the receiver, “Hi?”

The payphone is a cold metal kiss against his ear. The night rain works double time to chill him right through. He’s always had bad luck. Leon never meant for it to go this far. Never meant to let things get so out of hand with you, the angel he ran into at a bar two months ago. 

Something about you just sticks. The quarter he fed into the pay slot did too. He should’ve taken it as a sign to let it go, let the drizzle soaking through his government-issued suit order him straight home from the airport, but the heart’s a heavy burden when it’s empty and besides, it gives him something to dream about.

So Leon stays. Prays you pick up. 

The music was loud the night Leon met you. He’s tried convincing himself you’re an earworm instead. You tick all the boxes, too. He can’t get you out of his head (one). Leon had offered you a drink on a whim. You’d told him his eyes looked like pieces of sky fallen to earth, and maybe it was because you saw home in him that he saw it in you. 

It was probably his own gin and tonic steering him astray. It could’ve been the twinkle in your eye when Leon kissed your knuckles in the red flush of the stoplights streaming in through the front window. But sooner than later, you had him wrapped around your wings. It just felt right with your feet off the ground when he’d hoisted you up under your thighs.

You sang so pretty in his arms. Leon’s postmarked for hell for sure. He’d taken you apart in a quiet back corner, pressed kisses down your eiderdown-soft nape, had the gall to smile at the shiver he brought out in your shoulders. You fit him like a glove. Every sweet gasp of his name that left your lips, Leon had burned into his brain to play on loop (two). 

Leon, Leon, Leon.  

And now, two months later, Leon realizes he’s angry about it. Not because of how outdated that is – seriously, who burns CDs anymore? – but because he didn’t know he was doing it. And that he’d do it for so long. He’d come to depend on the savior of your laugh to pull him through nights he’d spend with moonshine or an emptied magazine in different, more unfortunate circumstances. The memory of your voice put his fear to sleep. It was only a matter of time before Leon was skipping church in favor of taxi cab confessionals, drunk under the passing streetlights. Reciting the silvery lyric of your name under whiskey breath (three) as good as turned him into an acolyte. 

One, two, three rings pass before the line drops. Leon slips in his last quarter and punches in again the 10 digits that haunt his dreams. 

Why should you pick up? Maybe he’d hallucinated you tucking your number into his hand before you’d kissed him goodbye. Your wings could’ve been made out of paper, a false idol of Leon’s desperate invention, a feather dropped into his jean pocket from when he plucked you out of heaven. Of course he’d be the hero of the greatest love story that never was. The longest romance novel never written.

The dial tone stretches skyward. Leon sinks his teeth into his lip, stifles a dying scream to God with an aching throat. He doubts he’d listen. 

Because even after all this time, Leon is impatient. The whole city’s asleep except him. The downpour is knifing into his back and he doesn’t want to wait for the day so he can turn sunshine into sugar; Leon wants to pull the sun into his mouth. All this praying on his knees and he can’t even put his mouth on you, can’t put into use all the practice he’s had saying your name. 

He never even offered you a dance. Some kind of gentleman he is. The president’s bitch at attention and a poor excuse of a prodigal son to boot, standing at this payphone and pretending it’s only rain sliding down his cheeks. 

So when the receiver echoes back his greeting, Leon thinks it’s a cruel test. He’s sullen, tasting bitters again.

“Hello?” it repeats softly, “Leon?”

And it’s you.

Leon gasps your name, clutching the phone to his chest and scrambling to answer back. “You didn’t- is it really you?”

You laugh like tinkling bells, lovelier than he remembers. “You sound just the same.”

“And so do you.” Leon runs an incredulous hand through his hair. “How’d you know it was me?” 

“You started off with a ‘hi’. Normal conversations start with the word ‘hi’ and we’ve never had a normal conversation. It didn’t sound right with your voice.”

You remembered how he sounded. He’d called for you and you’d heard.

“I regret that. I’d like to have one of those with you sometime,” he admits. 

“It’s been a while.”

“You don’t- you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Can I be honest?” you whisper.

Leon holds his breath.

“I forgot to put my name on my number and I thought you’d never call.”

Tomorrow, Leon decides when he asks you to meet him for dinner at the Italian place you’d once told him about, right across the old church and the bar where he’d once met an angel, he’ll tell you he was always going to come back home.

And he hopes you’ll forgive him for being late.

click for my full drabble collection, and find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 divider by @/saradikagraphics

[periodically80s]

[sgiandubh]

Heughan’s voice is as smooth as his whisky. His latest venture is his multi-award-winning whisky and gin, ‘The Sassenach’, the Gaelic word for ‘outsider’. He feels he is an outsider to the industry, but the idea behind the name seems to have emerged from his mother, who is an English artist and was called ‘Sassenach’ when she arrived in New Galloway, and in Outlander, Jamie Fraser calls his wife Sassenach as s term of endearment. “The name is very special to me,” he tells me.

Perhaps the video he recorded at Everest Base Camp was for his mother ?She's on IG too and we know Sam loves her so much and sometimes doesn't call her Mum but Chrissie. Cait is not a Sassenach because she's Irish. Sam calling her the Original Sassenach it's because of her character, Claire and he recently stated Caitriona is nothing like Claire (SheKnows interview). Either way it's not a big deal so don't blame me. It's just a thought and cute anyway .

Dear Sassenach Anon,

Let me count the ways. Quoting from memory first we had ' She [C] is the original Sassenach' (at one of the seasons' premieres in London, where he brought a bottle and waxed lyrical to the press over it). Then, we had 'Sassenach means foreigner in Scots Gaelic and it's a term of endearment of Jamie Fraser, the character I am playing in OL, for his wife' (numerous times for various media outlets). Then, 'I am the Sassenach, I always felt as an outsider, but also Jamie Fraser's term of endearment for his wife, Claire' (ditto). And then 'the name emerged from his mother who is an English artist and was called ‘Sassenach’ when she arrived in New Galloway, and in Outlander, Jamie Fraser calls his wife Sassenach as s term of endearment.'

The Arbuturian is a well regarded online magazine, founded in 2009 and based in London. It looks and reads to me as The New Yorker's slightly more plebeian, younger cousin of sorts - check their masthead mascot...

... and remember (ROFLMAO) The New Yorker's Eustace Tilley, its illustrious inspiration:

By the way, Eustace Tilley, one of my favorite dandies, was itself inspired by an engraving of the French count Alfred d'Orsay, by a certain... James Fraser, sometime around 1830. I kid you not and yes, totally Clan Fraser, born near Inverness:

Can't make this shite up, even if you wanted, huh?

Anyways, back to your question and this little media outlet that could. Its targeted audience is, according to Wikipedia:

In sociological lingo, AB means an educated mid-to high level management audience, with a hefty disposable income to boot (usually more than 1 million £/year net revenue). All it takes is a short stroll through their Lifestyle pages: according to them, among this year's most sought after Xmas gifts gimmicks are a Turnbull & Asser silk pocket square (£75) for him or a £200 voucher for Fairmont Windsor Park’s Ultimate Diamond Facial, for her.

This interview's one and only raison d'être was to sound appealing to this particular dinkie (double income, no kids) Generation X audience, especially as far as his booze was concerned. For he was on booze promo mode here and he obviously twisted a bit whatever (I repeat: whatever) his real motivation behind the brand name might have been to the least controversial possible version. It's hard to question or throw shite at this mum version, let alone at a version involving a heroic single parent as Chrissie H, let alone at Christmas time. This allowed him, at the same time, to elegantly keep his personal life away and separate between business and private: something he should have been doing since the very start. But S is a sentimental man and a people pleaser - we all know that, don't we?

It was important for S to be featured in this London online magazine, read by the same people he was once serving drinks to, at parties. It's all about aspirations, social climbing and being a part of that crowd. Finally!

And you, darling, are a troll, despite your protesting. I nevertheless hope this answered your very transparently targeted question, in the spirit of Christmas. Otherwise, it would have landed in the bin, where it probably belongs.

PS: Caitriona is Caitriona, probably nothing like Claire, indeed and thank God! Being 'like Claire Fraser' was certainly not what prompted the coup de foudre - I daresay, quite the contrary. Sorry, darling, to pop your bubble, but this is not exactly how the real world works.

Later edit: if the entire Everest trek was something 'just for himself', then the recorded video was also 'just for himself'. The reason he posted it on Instagram was to probably childishly rejoice/brag he finally made it and damn the consequences. Use a bit of logic.