Friday 18 September 2009

Wine is a Real Pain.

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No sooner had I got into wine, did my nose pack in. A cruel fate indeed to have a nose like mine. I sometimes wish I'd never gotten into wine at all. There, I said it. Obviously each time I think this, I am wrong, but it goes some way to show just anguished I am in this situation.

My own fault of course. Substance abuse y'see. Just in this instance, my substance was Otrivine Nasal Decongestant.

My first time it felt so good. So good. For some time, the only way I could get a full nose of air was by pushing up the tip of my nose to look like a pig-snout, either by hand, by sellotape or by wife. And I had to wait for her to go to sleep for that. I'm not sure how it had gotten quite so blocked - apparently often caused by misgrowth or trauma or just sheer bad vibes. Man. Either way, I'd sort of had enough. Not enough to go to the doctors or speak to anyone at all, but enough to squirt dangerous chemicals up there. Why not? So my first snort of Otrivine.

We fast forward probably two years and I'm steaming through a bottle every couple of days. My inner nasal wallpaper stripped down to plasterboarding, and the Rebound Effect swelling that plasterboarding back up within minutes of each spray. Hooray Henry.

I'm clean now though. But what I'm left with is something more horrific, more devastating and frankly just more disappointing than you ever could have dreamt. Every glass of wine you have now, you can physically feel your nose and sinuses begin to beat and swell. I don't know what it is. Especially the red. The tannins and general thick beauty of each glass just manage to suck all remaining moisture from your nose, and leave it like a crap air-bed showroom (kingsize), in your cousin's dark and miserable attic. If there was a god, which there isn't, I could easily begin to resent the man. And his little dog too.

Tonight though, I'm trying this nice wee Bardolino from the shop down the street. It was hidden away from the main selection of wine, obviously a sign of something special. Where better to display your best wine than on a wooden bookshelf usually displaying Quavers and cat food? Nowhere better is the answer. And the price? £2.99, with the numbers glaring at you in pink marker from the off-yellow paper. Blu-tacked to the shelf I might add.

The wine, it's really really good. A rubber cork and ruby red. It's dry and soft and without any hint of the acid, off-tang that often accompanies such price brackets. I think I may have found a one to keep hold of. I've seen it in the shop before but never gone for it. The label all sunburn orange with swirling dark hills, it wouldn't look out of place in that wine whore Marks's - something we all aspire to.

Even though I know almost nothing about these things, I think you can almost tell it's a massively mixed bag of grapes. It rolls down really easily without an awful lot of fuss and you can just about taste some sort of fruit floralness before it disappears in nothingness. But it's good, perhaps some seasoning wouldn't go amiss, bit o' salt and pepper, but I'm definite I will grab it again if it's still hiding amongst the pig snacks next time.

We don't have a digital camera so I've scanned the bottle in instead. This is much better. Arty.


My nose ain't good for much, but I'll be damned if it can't still sniff out a bargain.
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