Get busy with the fizzy

Me:  It's a Volvo. One of those big boxy estates they had back in the 80s that looked like a hearse with side-impact bars.


Lucy:  No, it's more frivolous than that.... it's a rickshaw, that's what it is.


Me:  A rickshaw?


Lucy:  Not a Chinese one, though. The sort that drunk girls ride round Soho in.


It's the tasting hour at the Bottle Shop. Every time we get in a new wine, we crack open a bottle and have a good slurp. Purely so we can give an accurate account of its character to interested punters, you understand.


Today we are tasting a £9 bottle of Sekt (German sparkling wine, for the uninitiated). It is not going down particularly well.


Vinnie:  Christ, look at the bubbles. They're the size of a baby's fist.


Me:  I'm having real difficulty knowing who we're going to sell this to.


Lucy:  Maybe we should try some reverse psychology - stick it on the counter with a sign on it saying, "Don't buy this, it's rubbish". Then people would think we're being ironic.


Me:  The people round here don't understand irony. They think it's an island in the Mediterranean. As in, "I went to Irony for my holidays, didn't think much of the food."


Lucy:  Well, it worked when we put that ouzo on the counter with "Shit" written on it. We sold out in a day.


Me:  True.


Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.


Me:  I reckon you could sell this as a breakfast wine. Something to have with your fry-up when you've got a bastard behind the eyes.


Vinnie:  I bet that's what they do in Germany.


Me:  Well, it would explain a lot about the Germans. If I was half-cut on crap Sekt all the time then I'd probably invade Poland too.


More slurping.


Me:  Gah. I can't take it anymore. It's like bloody Liebfraumilch with bubbles. I bet if you put a Franz Reh through a Soda Stream this is what you'd get.


Vinnie: You bet? Yeah? How much?


"Bet" is the one word you should never utter around Vinnie. The guy lives to gamble.


Me:  It was just an expression, Benjamin.


Vinnie:  Aww, c'mon Late buddy. You guys have got a Soda Stream up in your flat, haven't you? C'mon, twenty pounds says this Sekt is better than carbonated Lieb.


We do indeed have a Soda Stream, courtesy of one of Lucy's charity shop outings. We amused ourselves for a while by carbonating things that really shouldn't be bubbly. Fizzy milk. Sparkling tea. Then got bored and stuck it under the sink. With a heavy sigh I climb the stairs to the flat, dust off the Soda Stream and bring it back down to the shop.


Me:  Okay, we'll try it. But we're not betting money.


Vinnie:  Sheesh. Killjoy.


And so begins the Great German Wine Soda Stream Experiment. I crack open a Liebfraumilch Franz Reh & Sohn 2003 (fresh and floral with a medium-sweet palate) and pour it into the carbonating bottle. Then I stick it into the Soda Stream and carbonate it to within an inch of its life.


I pour the resultant fizz into three champagne flutes. We sip in unison.


Me:  Mmmm. Right.


Lucy:  That is...


Me:  Really quite awful?


Vinnie:  Yup.


Me:  More Sekt, anyone?


The Sekt's now on prominent display by the counter, with a sign saying "Significantly nicer than Liebfraumilch through a Soda Stream". No doubt it'll sell like hot cakes.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Trittenheimer Apotheke Riesling Kabinett 1997 (Germany). Incredible ripe fruit flavours and soft petrol notes entwine to make a very elegant wine. Just don't get busy with the fizzy. It'll really spoil it. £6.49
5.8.04 16:29


Place your bets, please

Friday night is usually the night when all the Bottle Shop staff end up down the Swan and off their heads on cheap lager. But, as young Mr Vincent assured me, Thursday is the new Friday, and thus Wednesday is the new Thursday, which must make Wednesday the new Friday. By which tortuous logic we found ourselves getting battered until well after closing time last night.


When it was way past everyone's bedtime, the talk turned (disastrously) to Vinnie's diminutive size.


Me: You're man-in-miniature, Vinnie mate. I could put you in my pocket and carry you home.


Vinnie: It's all muscle, baby. You'd have trouble carrying me out of the door.


Me: Piss off. I could carry you home and sing "O Canada" while I was doing it.


Vinnie: Wanna bet?


(I believe I have already mentioned our resident Canadian's penchant for betting. Normally I am aware of this trait and refuse to get myself drawn into any dumb wagers. Last night, however, I was tanked up on Carling and feeling reckless).


Me: Yeah. I bet you fifty quid I can carry you home.


Vinnie: While singing "O Canada"?


Me: Yep. What are the words?


While Vinnie wrote the lyrics to his national anthem out on a series of beer mats, Lucy attempted to dissuade me from this foolhardy enterprise. I think her precise words were, "Don't, you'll die." But masculine pride (and beer) won out over sense. I was going to do this, even if it killed me. Which, considering Vinnie lives over 4 miles from the Swan, it probably would.


The regulars from the pub started laying bets. Alarmingly, most people were betting against me. Even Enzo - I caught him putting down twenty notes on Vinnie. I took exception to this.


Me: Enzo, you bastard, what the hell happened to loyalty?


Enzo: (shrugging) Well, let's face it, you won't even make it half way. You're a quitter.


Me: Gee, thanks.


The whole pub piled outside to watch. To tell you the truth, at this point I was beginning to feel a little dubious about the whole affair. But a man has his pride, goddamnit! So I rearranged the pile of beer mats in my hand, then bent down to let Vinnie jump on my back.


Fuck me, he was heavy.


I staggered off down the road.


"O Canada! Our home and native land! True patriot - oh jesus - love all in thy - gasp, pant - sons command! With - urgh - glowing hearts we see thee -  bollocks, I've dropped the beer mats, I'll just put you down for a sec... right, onwards - rise, the True North strong and -  pant, pant, gasp, retch - free..."


I kept going until I threw up. Then I picked up the little bastard and soldiered on.


"From far and wide, O Canada, we stand - fuck, bollocks, shit- on guard for thee. God - oh God - keep our land glorious and -  sweet suffering fuck - free! O Canada, we stand on guard - holy Mary mother of God - for thee..."


I'd like to say I managed to carry Vinnie all the way home. I'd like to say that. But I can't. I fell over about halfway there and had to be taken back to my flat in a cab. I am now poorer to the tune of fifty pounds and one functioning spinal column.


The moral of the story: never make bets with Canadians who are heavier than they look. Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Rosso di Sicilia 2003 (Italy). Bright cherry fruits and a luxurious velvet finish. And it's all you'll be able to afford after you've lost your hard-earned moolah to a Canuck with rocks in his shoes. £3.49
12.8.04 16:44