My descent into middle-aged, middle class poncery continues with the increasing and disturbing urge to take part in some sort of wine-tasting course.
Yes, I know. There is nothing for poncey, wine tasting courses surpass even celebrity chef cookery course in which said celebrity chef may make an appearance for ten minutes on the final day.
I realise that I am genetically pre-disposed to a life of ponciness - much like Cockneys are born within the sound of Bow Bells, I am from Parson's Green in West London, within the sound of a million braying yuppies in ine bars. Being a ponce is in my blood, and I may as well surrender to it.
So, here goes, a lovely little bottle of Chateau Paraffin, £1.99 from the local co-op.
I'm getting fruit. And road kill. And the tortured souls of the dead.
Yum.
2 comments:
I genuinely bought a bottle of Côtes de Thongue from Budgens once. Then again, I was born within the sound of bow saws being taken to the last tree on the road between Liverpool and Manchester.
Not Parson's Nose, then.
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