A descent into middle class poncery

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.