Wine

Clarets to see in the summer

This April was indeed the cruellest month, at least for those of us banged up in cities. From the country came reports of overflowing asparagus beds, the elfin splendour of the bluebell woods, precocious roses: the drinking of rosé, in England, at Easter. Now that we have the prospect of an end to the most onerous restrictions, what is going to happen to the weather? The British approach summer in the same way as the English approach cricket: with mistrust. Glorious days may occur, but there is no faith that they will endure. English cricket and the British climate could share a motto: sic transit. Yet there are ways of

I’m drinking half as much as usual – with no ill-effects

I cannot remember a prettier Easter, or a more frustrating one. This was no time to be in town. But there is a way of strangling self-pity at birth: military history. That brings a sense of perspective. Better to be locked-down in a London flat than charging across a D-Day beach. Bulletins from those lucky enough to be rusticated all make the same point: how well everyone is behaving. Over most of the countryside, there seem to be more volunteers than there are duties to perform. When the call came in Dorset, one mildly octogenarian Brigadier sprang into action. Appointing himself GOC North Dorset, he chose his battalion commanders and

8 wine delivery services to use during lockdown

Not only are the supermarkets running out of bread, bananas and bog roll, the wine is taking a pounding too. And if you want anything delivered, well, good luck with that. Early May is probably the soonest you’ll get a slot. Let us wine lovers thank heavens, then, that the independents are showing true Blitz spirit and are delivering across the UK every day during these strange times. Tom Ashworth of Yapp Bros tells me that they’re up 200 per cent on this week last year and are busier in the warehouse than they were at Christmas. Tom Cave of Berry Bros & Rudd reports a brisk trade in consumers

The virtual pub: how to share a digital pint with your friends

The coronavirus lockdown means we’re under strict orders from the Prime Minister not to head down to our local for a pint and to avoid social get togethers wherever possible. So why not start a new trend and share a digital drink with your friends? Here’s how to pull it off: 1. Get online Google Hangouts is great for group video calls, as is Zoom (free for the first 45 minutes) or, if you have access to it through work, Microsoft Teams. New app Houseparty is also a popular choice with young people and has been picking up users very quickly since lockdown was announced. Simply agree a time, send

No blues, just reds and whites: the Oxford vs Cambridge wine-tasting

The cellar room is almost silent save for the sound of slurping and spitting and the odd gentle sigh. One woman has her head buried in a bucket, while a chap lays his on the desk before raising a hand and asking for a refill. It has the air of a rather polite orgy, only everyone is fully dressed. Welcome to the 67th blind wine-tasting Varsity match. The 14 men and women in the basement of Berry Bros & Rudd in St James’s have the most educated palates in Oxbridge. They know their D’Arsac from their Albariño. Unlike in the Boat Race, there are no blues on offer, just reds,

The Spanish winemakers with a missionary zeal

It is time to begin with an apology, and hope. In the course of these columns, I have already admitted to a deplorable ignorance of Spanish wine, including sherry. The finest sherries are subtle, complex, powerful — and excellent value. The same is increasingly true of other Spanish wines and there again, I am lament-ably ill-informed. There have always been serious Riojas. But a couple of decades ago, the late Bron Waugh lamented the fact that most Riojas left a hint of eggshell on the palate. In those days, he had a point. The principal Spanish grape is Tempranillo, which also produces excellent reds from the Ribera del Duero. There,

My recipe to cure a hangover

Journalists exaggerate, often reaching for superlatives to chronicle mildly interesting events. Even so, there are times when it is necessary to become hyperbolic. 2019 was an extraordinary year. As Chou En-lai might have said, it is too early to assess its significance. We will be doing that for at least the next 20 years. Indeed, it may turn out to be one of the most important dates in our peacetime history. The new year has also started with a bang. It was cunning of the government to persuade Donald Trump to drive Dominic Cummings out of the headlines, but that will not exhaust 2020’s disruptive potential. Exhaustion leads one to

Politics of a certain vintage – and wine to match

I wonder how they do things now at Tory headquarters. For the ’79 election, the preparations had been completed weeks in advance. Press conferences had been planned on the basis of a four-week campaign, press releases drafted and shadow ministers told when they would be needed in London to go on the platform. Then the starting gun was fired and von Moltke kicked in. No plan survives the initial contact with the enemy. Some of the material was used, but not in the order that had been expected. There was a lot of improvisation. But it did not seem to matter. Something similar happened in 1992. The first press conference

Wine that puts politics in its place

In the era of vinyl, lost in one of Bruckner’s longueurs, it could be hard to tell what was stuck, the record or the composer. Sir Jim Gastropodi would make regular appearances in the Peter Simple column, conducting the Soup Hales Philharmonic Orchestra in a performance of Bruckner’s interminable symphony. Despite Boris Johnson’s attempts to enliven it, this is the interminable election campaign. In effect, it has been going on since 2016, but the end may be in sight. Barring a 2017-scale upset (which is unlikely — though Boris has faults, he is not Theresa May mark two), he will return to No. 10 with a majority. He will also enjoy

A vintage tale of Thatcher, Reagan and some truly great wines

Poor Old Girl. The final act may not have been sanglante, but as the third volume of Charles Moore’s life of Margaret Thatcher makes clear, it was sad. It may seem unwise to expend great praise on a contemporary book before time has had a chance to lend perspective: not in this case. Time’s verdict can be anticipated with confidence. Boswell apart — sui generis — this might be the finest biography in the language. Alas, the final volume is also a story of decline. It did not help that the Lady was sacked with as little ceremony as a cleaning woman guilty of plundering the gin bottle. But a

When did ‘big girl’s blouse’ become an insult?

Fotherington-Thomas was introduced by Nigel Molesworth, the narrator of Down with Skool!, in 1953: ‘As you see he is skipping like a girlie he is uterly wet and a sissy.’ Geoffrey Willans featured the school sissy again in How to be Topp (also illustrated by Ronald Searle, who had spent time in a Japanese prison camp): ‘It is only fotherington-tomas you kno he sa Hullo clouds hullo sky he is a girlie and love the scents and sounds of nature.’ Last week, Sky News revealed what Boris Johnson said about David Cameron in private cabinet papers, after it had obtained an ‘unredacted’ copy of documents disclosed to court. The Prime

Claret, dogs and nothing to grouse about

What do you get if you cross a dyslexic, an insomniac and an agnostic? Someone who wakes up at 4 a.m. and says: ‘Is there a dog?’ There was a lot of dog talk this weekend, and about the tributes they bring to their owners in the shooting field. A South African who had just enjoyed his first days at the grouse, walked up and driven, was incoherent with joy, especially as he had made a respectable contribution to the bag. The Afrikaners have always been an embattled race. God usually directs them to the windy side of the hill. When they do find some refuge to enjoy a settled

Summer in the city

Foolish me. I could have been writing this by the shore of Lake Trasimene, with only one problem: how to transmit it to London. Last time I stayed in the delightful house there, the technology was still in the era of Hannibal’s victory. There was no wifi, only spasmodic mobile-phone reception, and the nearest English newspapers were 50 miles away. ‘Where ignorance is bliss…’ Instead, I stayed in London to work out what was happening. As I say, folly. After two fruitless weeks, I have not even identified the questions, let alone the answers. There have been compensations: one great Test match, and very likely more to follow. Steve Smith

A wine of Boris’s vintage

My host twinkled sardonically. ‘We’re bound to be discussing Boris. So what’s the right wine?’ I suggested a bunker-busting Australian Shiraz, preceded by an alluring, minxy champagne: cuvée Madame Claude. ‘No, we need something intellectual, to bring perspective.’ ‘That sounds like Graves, perhaps a Pessac-Leognan.’ ‘Got it in one. Came across a couple of bottles the other day. La Mission Haut-Brion ’64 — the year Boris was born.’ In personality, the bottles were everything that a mature claret ought to be, with no resemblance to Boris. Perhaps a little less fruit than there would have been five years ago, but these were well-tempered wines, with subtlety, structure and a length

Letters | 25 July 2019

Rose is the right choice Sir: Every Wednesday for the past nine years, it has been my privilege to attend the lunchtime Eucharist services in the Parliamentary Chapel, conducted by the Speaker’s Chaplain Rose Hudson-Wilkin. These routine acts of worship are not public, but are attended by parliamentary staff, MPs and peers. Central to them are Rose’s homilies and prayers, which are spiritual life-support to those of us who serve and navigate our increasingly fraught politics. I did not recognise the person described by Ysenda Maxtone Graham in her article (‘Kent’s new Rose’, 20 July) and noted with some concern the author’s emphasis on perceived political agendas, which we are

Norman’s wisdom

We were in a club, discussing Norman Stone, recently departed, over a meal that he would have enjoyed. Norman divided opinions. This manifested itself in his obituaries. Professor Sir Richard Evans summed up for the prosecution. He cited Norman’s failure to build on his early scholarly promise and his chronic neglect of academic duties. He concluded by quoting an old adversary of Norman’s, who described him as ‘amoral’. This is a difficult verdict to refute. Yet it is only part of the picture. He won the enduring affection of most of his best pupils, despite — or because of — his unorthodox methods. In Norman’s Cambridge days, an earnest young

A perfect match

Cricket is the most gracious of games. County grounds in the lee of cathedrals, village greens in the perfect setting of trees and a pub, and not far from the parish church: even if the match will not be over in time for evensong, there is more than a hint of Dearly Beloved, a phrase which captures so much of English civilisation. Cricket is an intellectual game. It baffles Americans. Try explaining that a Test can last for five days and then end in a draw — which may well be the right outcome, morally and aesthetically. Think of Gavaskar’s immortal match in 1979. Any other ending would have been

Debunking Greek myths

A book, a bottle, a bower set in an ancient garden: you think that if you walked round the right corner, there would be England, putting manure on the roses. Kipling reminds us that gardening is hard work and that beauty depends on bent backs. True enough, but they also serve who only sit and admire. There was a further contrast between hard work and sedentary admiration, for the book was the first volume of Kenneth Rose’s journals: the easiest of reads, yet the product of hard labour. Kenneth was an exemplar of his craft. There has never been a more meticulous journalist. If only the same were true of

Dear Mary | 9 May 2019

Q. I was invited to birthday drinks in London. On my way there the name of someone I haven’t heard from for months flashed up on my mobile. My instinct was not to answer — I’d heard the host of the party had gone off this woman and thought it best not to answer in case the woman asked what I was doing that night. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings if she’d been excluded. Nor did I want to lie. However, on arrival at the party my host told me that all was now well between him and her and she’d been invited but couldn’t come. When I

Spare us the new

There is no new thing under the sun. Over the weekend, I read a book which was alarmingly relevant to our present discontents: The Neophiliacs, by Christopher Booker, written at the end of the 1960s. That decade began well. The country had recovered from the austerities of wartime. It seemed to be an era of social stability. Most couples who married expected to stay married and bring up their children in stable families. Living standards were rising. National service was about to end. The public schools, whose oppressive regimes had created many left-wing dissidents, were liberalising. Politics was also stable. Less than three years after the Suez debacle, Harold Macmillan