A fifth of rum!

A couple of houses ago, I lived in the upstairs part of a converted two-storey terrace. The guys downstairs (the second lot of guys downstairs, the first lot merit their own chapter at some point) were two brothers from Bermuda or Barbados or somewhere else Carribean. Lovely chaps, usually good neighbours, except they'd come home stinking drunk, chunder in the gutter, crank up the tunes on their very large stereo and party with assorted friends/casual fucks/drunk people they met in the bar that night. At 3am. On a Tuesday.

One time this happened, I staggered downstairs and joined the fun. It was just the brothers and an incoherently drunk Irish barmaid from the pub around the corner. After a few drinks, they brought out a bottle of rum from Bermuda or Barbados or wherever it was they were from and poured me a shot. Wow. Dark, smooth, sweet and smoky. Makes Bundy taste like fermented cat piss (I suspect that's what it's made of anyway). Can't remember for the life of me what it was called though. And my interweb trawling has so far left me none the wiser.

Of course, I could just go around and ask them, I think they still live there. Would be faster, too. Technology sometimes blinds us to the obvious solution, no?

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