Slovenia, Slovakia; Slovakia, Slovenia. Two nations that, I realise, are entirely distinct and just happen to have names that a mindless idiot like me is always getting mixed up. I’ve never been to either (perhaps, had I done so, my confusion would cease). But I have met several people from both countries, all of whom have been delightful hum
Gin Corner: Greenall’s Bloom — The Slug’s Choice
Oh. The leafy, herby, juicy green aroma of corriander. Heck. It’s like you’re a slug munching your way through a herb garden. (You are such a slug.) Greenall’s Bloom is, I suppose, aptly enough named. It is a big ol’ herbaceous gin. Here at Old Parn labs, we put Greenall’s Bloom through a rigorous and scientific testi
Lemons, stones and sunshine for a sodden marmoset
What do you need after battling through the bleak London rain? What do you need after huddling shivering and sodden on the back seat of a bus whose windows have been inexplicably flung open by some masochistic Chelsea commuter?* You need a glass of Tresolmos Verdejo, you miserable, trauma-eroded marmoset, you. Because it’s very nice. And (wh
Yeah, it’s been ages. No, I’m not sorry.
Smell. Smell is the most evocative sense, innit? The one that can yank you (via a chance waft of teenage perfume) back to that time when you first kissed that girl. You know. That one. Or to that time when you walked out in the field and the air was heavy with summer and you knew that in two weeks’ time you’d be going into the big scho
Wise up and smell the Casillero del Diablo
Winemakers, in general, need to wise up. Okay, sure, practically everyone (myself almost certainly included) needs to wise up. But winemakers need to wise up, specifically, because they are lamentably bad at communicating with normal people. (Notice the ease with which I refer to normal people. Almost as though I knew some.) Winemakers generally d
Pain, Lloyd-Webber, Relativism, Redditch and Macon-Villages
‘So, Tom,’ Elaine asked softly, ‘how high is your pain threshold?’ Elaine is, it turns out, very, very strong. 10 minutes later, I am face down with Elaine’s elbow in my back, wimpering like a child. Elaine grew up in Redditch. I learnt to drive in Redditch. There are lots of roundabouts in Redditch. My driving teache
Cellophanity, Putin-pleasuring and Pinot Gris
‘Remove cardboard sleeve and peel away plastic film.’ It sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? But, honestly, they may as well have said, ‘Remove cardboard sleeve and give Vladimir Putin a blowjob’, for all the chance I have of accomplishing their instruction with any modicum of ease or pleasure. I’ve written before
The Irrational Purchase of St Emilion
I have a problem with authority. Yeah, I bleached my hair and defied my school dress code to exactly the calculated degree of defiance that’d piss people off but not get me told off. But that’s not what I mean. I have a problem with being arbitrarily dictated to, sure. But I also have a problem with dictating. You see, I’m not a r
Say it loud and there’s music playing / Say it soft and it’s almost like praying
Last time we talked, dear buttery reader, was when I blathered on for ages about drinking a Waitrose St Emilion and not really having an opinion. I like to think that, in contrast with (say) Ed Miliband, I was at least honest about my lack of opinion, and didn’t artificially attempt to take a position purely for the appearance thereof. One of
Shoehorn in a Tube strike reference, why don’t you?
Wowch, hello, Lunate Fiano. This is a properly powerful character. Lots of Fianos are the kind of middling, inoffensive cack that’s practically crying out for a Tesco’s Finest label. This one isn’t. It’s bloody full, for a start. Sort of like Earl’s Court station has been, lately. But it smells a fair bit better. (Jes