Flavoured gin, like it's cellmate flavoured vodka, is criminal. I want gin to taste like gin, so the flavour should be juniper and other botanicals, be they from fox-soiled hedgerows or the verges of Swindon's top 10 car parks for dogging (though they'd have to fight urban foragers, of course, in their quest for urine-dressed leafery to serve to Jay) or indeed some beautific garden where the plants have been soothed by the lilting lullabies of angels.
Unfortunately, people do occasionally buy me flavoured vodka and for some reason and I neglect to murder them. I have a bottle of rhubarb and custard gin. Rhubard and custard. It's reprehensible. I like rhubarb. I like custard. I like gin. I don't want them in the same bottle. Worse, I have to drink it and espresso the words that's interesting.
I don't like vodka. There's the flavoured sort favoured by mid-twenties binge-drinkers, a cornucopia of foul flavours and colour that seem to span the gamut from radish to road-rash. But plain vodka mostly tastes like surgical spirit (and probably) is. People will tell you it tastes of something, how refined it is, oh those teasing little hints of a flavour. Frankly, that's like claiming you can smell the fart of someone on another continent. It's artisanal will claim someone with a beard like that improves matters. Have you had toffee-flavoured vodka? If not, avoid it like you would tuberculosis.
I won't fight Jay though. He knows jazz.