Sitting here in my ‘studio’ on a rare sunny Friday, I’ve been interrupted in my critical creative pursuits by a series of cartons of wine, arriving as if by magic on the Corner Cottage doorstep. It’s like Bacchus took over Santa’s job for a day and hijacked his sleigh for the purposes of transporting booze.

Boxes of bottles of wine? That brings back a memory. But first, what’s the deal with wine in our cosy home? You have our thoughts on whiskey, but not on this less specialist subject. Well, like a lot of topics, we just haven’t gone there because it’s not a simple thing you can sum up in one facetious post. 

Wine is like sex and driving — no one wants to admit they’re not particularly good at it. When put on the spot, people seem compelled to show they’re au fait with the world of of ‘fine wines’. Maybe they believe it confers an air of sophistication, but overstressing your oenological lexicon will land you in the ‘trying too hard’ category, so just chill — like a nice bottle of spumante.

But I’m at a disadvantage — I like drinking the stuff but have very little solid know-how on what is a very broad and complex subject. It’s the kind of thing an obsessive personality might dedicate their whole life to, to the detriment of, say, photography or bicycles.

So like many an ignoramus, I like to relax and taste the stuff, preparative to glugging down a healthy volume of it. I have learnt to stick my nose in the glass first and take in a good snort — it’s surprising how much you can gain from this initial engagement of your virgin palate. And let me be clear — this is not pretentiousness: this is opening the doors of perception and running your sensory apparatus over the material on offer. Anyone can do it.

Then it’s all about wallowing in the deliciousness. It helps if your standards are quite low — let’s be frank, if it’s not taking the enamel off your teeth or inducing acidic indigestion, it’s a decent drop, no? If compelled to give an opinion, I tend to go with, “very drinkable!” It’s never wrong, if you think about it.

I’m not saying there’s no such thing as a bad wine, but these days, given the vast array of choices available, you can get your gums around a really good wine for not too much money. Why dress it all up in flowery language? Why inflict unnecessary posturing on your drinking companions?

I should say at this point that we have recently returned from the Adelaide Hills, where we indulged ourselves with some beautifully curated tastings. I could go nuts about the cellar door establishments — their stunning architecture, gorgeous views, friendly and professional staff — but that’s not the point right now. Just let me suggest that if you’re ever in the area, have a look at K1 and The Lane. You won’t regret a visit to either one — these are where two of today’s deliveries came from.

No, today I wanted to relate another vintage tale about the halcyon days of youth, in which cartons of wine played a central role. And that involves a quick intro to my legendary uncle Dave.

I could go on and on about this man, but suffice to say, among many accomplishments he’s a taster of and and a writer on wine. He has dedicated his life to sharing the wonders of wine (and gin, brandy, beer and sundry liqueurs). During the London Years, he was always an honoured guest at my Hackney flat; he brought with him great conversation and bottles and bottles of wonderful vino.

But way back in 1986, I was a penurious student at a small liberal arts university in South Africa. I lived in a hall of residence with 149 other oversexed pimply young men — and once a year, we held a Hall Ball. That year, I was on the Ball Committee and was charged with finding a few prizes for the lucky ticket draw. The theme was ‘Bottlestore Galactica’, so naturally, I tapped the best contact I had — Dave!

I asked him for a few samples of plonk to dish out at the ball. A few weeks later, the local boozer contacted me — they had some wine for me to pick up (apparently in those days you could only transport wine to licensed premises). So a mate and I popped down there in his car — and found six cases waiting for me. Six cases! That’s 72 bottles, good people. Of wine — and pretty good stuff too.

Do you imagine that I donated 72 bottles to the Jan Smuts Hall Ball Committee? No sirree bob, I did not. They got six bottles, which was good going if you ask me. That left me with 66, if my mental maths serves. I had to find a few inventive storage solutions to fit them all into my room.

And 66 x 750 ml bottles go a long way, believe me. I was very popular among the denizens of Jan Smuts House. They were knocking at my door at all hours, hoping to score some after-hours alcohol.
“Got any of that rosé left? I’ve finally managed to get a girl back to my room.”

Years later, I spoke to Dave about this transformational event in the early adventures of your author.
“Dave — that time you sent me six cases of wine was so cool!”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, somewhat deadpan. “I actually told my people to send you six bottles.”

So everything ended up just fine — the Hall Ball Committee received more than they’d hoped for in the form of a half-dozen good raffle prizes, and I received a considerable boost to my . . . liquid assets.