Last updated 13:23, Thursday, 08 May 2008

CAN I ask you all to raise your glasses today to toast the finest beverage known to man, which is celebrating its centenary this year?

Not Whatmough’s Anti-Gravity Bitter, Boddington’s Best or even Alnwick Rum – but that nectar of the North-West, Vimto.

When I first came to Tynedale 35 years ago, the move was almost called off when I discovered the district was a Vimto desert.

I could not imagine life without the regular consumption of the purple nectar.

It was only through purchasing a dozen bottles at a time on trips back to the North-West that I managed to slake the craving.

One of the drawbacks of pulling up sticks and moving to a completely new part of the country is the unexpected things you have to leave behind.

Leaving Macclesfield meant I also had to get used to life without many of the delicacies which made me the man I am.

Oatcakes in Macclesfield are large, soft and floppy dinner-plate sized pancake affairs, delicious when grilled and smothered in butter, not the brick-hard and tasteless titbits of the rest of the country.

I was appalled that the chip shops of the North-East served neither tripe nor steak and kidney puddings, and looked askance at requests for gravy with which to anoint the chips.

They also insisted on shovelling unwanted scraps of ancient batter into my fish and chips – a practice unheard of Macclesfield.

I was almost punched when I made disparaging reference to United, by which I meant the despicable denizens of Old Trafford, rather than the heroes of St James’s Park.

While it was most pleasing to be able to purchase eight pints of beer for a pound at the Globe in Battle Hill, or 10 for a pound in the Big Club at Prudhoe, you couldn’t get a pint of bitter.

In the 1970s, you got Scotch, or bright beer like Newcastle Exhibition or Youngers Tartan, neither of which was anything like the “proper” bitter – and mild was simply unheard of.

I did finally develop a liking for McEwan’s Scotch, but only after experimenting with Lorimer’s Scotch, which remains the stickiest and most noxious beer I have ever tasted.

While it sounded impressive to tell friends in the North-West I had supped five pints of Scotch the night before, I did not confess I had thrown up after a single pint of Lorimer’s worst.

I suspect I was slurping Vimto at the same time as I was tucking into my mother’s milk, and I’m not sure which was the more nourishing.

The heavenly concoction of raspberry, blackcurrant and grape juices, intermingled with ingredients so secret no-one dare speak their name, started life as a health tonic to rival Sanatogen and Wincarnis.

Its name derives from its mystical properties to add vim and vigour to the lives of the rickety mill workers of Manchester.

A total of 29 herbs, spices and essences from around the world went into the first batch of Vimto taste in a wooden barrel in a Manchester warehouse.

It was originally promoted not only as a tonic, but as the ideal temperance tipple for total abstainers – so I’m not sure what founder John Nicholls would make of my tendency to mix it with dark rum, soon inducing a beatific smile and a tendency to fall over a lot.

And on a cold winter’s day, you can keep your cherry brandies and whisky-laced coffee – there’s nothing like a hot Vimto for inducing a Sellafield-like rosy glow.

Hot Vimto is indelibly associated with the snack bar where my mother used to work, where leather clad rockers would step off their BSA Road Rockets or Triumph Bonnevilles and quaff it by the steaming pint.

And while it is wonderful hot, it is even better cold.

There is nothing finer than filling four or five tall Tupperware “glasses” with strong Vimto, and shoving them in the freezer for 24 hours.

They make best ice lollies in the world, even putting Jubblies in the shade.

My four sons soon became fellow Vimto-aholics , and I had to resort to hiding bottles all over the house, to prevent them drinking my entire supply.

I became so adept at concealment that occasionally, I still come across a dusty bottle tucked away in some ingenious hidey hole.

The last one still tasted delicious, despite the fact it had passed its sell-by date in 1986.