One more hoary stereotype tumbles, and who's to say it isn't time? A toast, then, to the liberation of another libation–whisky. Forget all those sepia-toned images of dour men in thick tweeds sitting around a grey stone fireplace that throws out more smoke than heat, staring moodily into thimblefuls of amber-coloured liquid–liquid with a bite that can do serious damage to sensitive tissues–a candle sputtering on an old oak table and gloomy music, in mostly minor tones, off somewhere in the misty valley beyond.

Whisky's back, with a bright new look and an attitude that says fun is the name of the game. The game is open to all players, and there is so much to play with. Look at the names, first. Sure, there are all those Glens, Crags, and Macs, but alongside them are the likes of the Peat Monster, a new, light, "vatted" malt (meaning a blend of various malts, from producer Compass Box. For $75, it provides, behind some delightful label art and quirky words, plenty of peat and smoke and sweet and burn, and a handsome finish for a' that. Off the map, right, and right off the wall.

There is still, and always, the rainbow collection of Johnnies, as in the great pioneering grocer, Mr. Walker: Red, Black, Blue, Gold, and Green. In several blind tastings I've conducted, years apart and with different tasters, the same results emerged: the favourite was the cheapest, Red Label. Black Label ranked next; the others were for the rich and famous. And that's just some of the Scottish contingent.

The whisky liberation was largely due to the resurgence of the cocktail. Once, it was the most popular way of enjoying alcohol–mixed with other alcohol and a supporting cast of juices, waters, fruit, or liqueurs. It faded away, but has come back with a vengeance in the past decade and a half.

Starting with the clear spirits–gin, vodka, white rum, tequila, cachaí§a–the old my-way-or-the-highway martini was the first to fall. Once made with gin, vermouth, an olive, and nothing but, it opened itself up to everything in the bar book, the more outrageous the better.

Like Xerox, Kleenex, and brand names that have become generic, Martini became the alias for anything you could throw in a glass. Today's martini bears no resemblance to the recipe of nine parts gin to one part vermouth, a splash of Angostura bitters, a single olive, and no salad that began the rush.

Soon, bartenders and their customers branched off on the road to other taste components and combinations. Today, it's Cocktails "R" Us, all right. It was only a matter of time until the whiskies of the world fell into step. It's the image shift, the demographic slip-slide; the old–maybe the oldest–drink reinvents itself every so often, and now's its time.

A basic refresher, to start. To make whisky, any kind of whisky, you need five good ingredients, each one equally important: water, grain, yeast, fire, and wood. The Scots and the Irish keep duking it out for pride of place, as they have done forever, but there's no clear winner yet. They both base theirs on a common Gaelic word–uisge, as in uisge beatha, "water of life".

This is how it's made: grain is soaked, spread, sprouted, fired, mashed, mixed, fermented, distilled, aged, and bottled. On verbal etiquette, yes, it's Scotch, although a Scottish person is a Scotsman, not a Scotchman. Canada's whisky is generally called rye, although little of it these days is actually made from rye grain. America's is bourbon, even though most of it isn't from Bourbon County, Kentucky, the reputed birthplace of the stuff–Jack Daniel's, the most famous, is from Tennessee. Ireland's is, well, whiskey.

But should that be whisky or whiskey? To "e" or not to "e"? A simple rule dispatches that vowel: Scottish and Canadian whisky has no "e". Irish and American whiskies have it, hence whiskey, although the Americans seem to be shifting away from its use, in a gesture of universal slimming–as if.

There remain four major whiskies in the world: two Old World, two New. In order of importance: Scottish, then American, Canadian, and Irish. Within those four, there are two major subgroups: blends and (single) malts.

Oh, there are others, many others: Japanese, Welsh, and Manx (Glen Kella, in the same square-shouldered bottle as Bushmills, used to be a personal favourite when I could find it in my travels); Korean (ginseng whisky is a particular challenge for any sane palate); there's French, too–all right, Breton. Speaking of which, Canada's sole single-malt whisky for the time being is Glenora Glen Breton, which comes from the "cape" of the same name, sells for $90, and arrives in a most handsome presentation box. No need to wrap; just find a ribbon and a card.

Any day now, if the peat gods smile, Okanagan Spirits–B.C.'s smallest distillery, the one that has one of the world's largest portfolios of unique and award-winning spirits–will unleash a B.C. malt whisky on the world. Glen Kalamalka? One "e" or two?

There's where we hold the discourse, because this discourser, at least, has worded himself dry. Sláinte, for now, and more to come.