pacing the wine aisle of orhan food stores with an air of desperation usually reserved for those with sclerosis of the liver, i am defeated. i turn on my heel, petulantly toss my hair and storm out of the shop in a veritable tornado of discontent. echo falls. echo bloody falls. sounds like spin off of that awful soap with jason donovan: the episode where they all decide, screw the beach, lets all throw ourselves off the cliff instead. and making wine like that, i probably wouldn’t stop them. in fact i might give them a persuasive shove. sorry, this the only cabernet sauvignon you have? really mr orhan? oops, i believe that was my best supercilious glare that slipped out there.
i trudge onwards and upwards… city food and wine, be prepared. me, myself and my snob of a palette are stalking down the road in your direction. no bottle is safe from my glower of derision. the saga begins again. up, down, up, down, like an addict in search of the elusive (usually depressingly non-existant) stash. crack addicts of the world, i feel your pain. not getting the nourishing poisons your body and brain need is a fate i would wish on no one. after stalking the equivalent length of a half marathon along rows upon rows of garish labels and embarrassingly misguided branding, my snob within rears its ugly head for the second time on one road. the trade descriptions act should be all over this outlet: city food and wine you say? city food and saccharine grape juice masquerading as a beverage with a modicum more class, methinks. turn, toss, storm.
what is this I spy on the horizon? tesco? fear not, dear reader, the fact that outlet number three has ‘chain’ status does not automatically excuse it from interrogation of the fiercest order. up, down, up, down, back and forth more times than william hague’s sexuality. gallo and his family can curl up in their californian mansion and die. i don’t want your syrupy nonsense. save the blossom hill for the inevitable come dine with me ‘the only way is essex’ special edition- cheap chardonnay is for sipping over bacon frazzles while discussing your latest vajazzle. really it should be called chardonazzle. now there’s a marketing ploy if ever i heard one. mr hardy… stick to literature. jacob, here’s hoping you get stuck up your ruddy creek without a paddle.
turn. toss. storm.
[charlotte skeoch]
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