Thursday, 22 January 2015

Meal Deal or no deal? Tesco Finest Toro Vinas Del Rey

Mrs K rings. She is running late, and is picking up a Meal Deal from Tesco on her way home. Sorry, that’s a Tesco Finest  Meal Deal – not a Tesco Regular, Everyday, Normal or Just There On The Shelf Meal, oh no, but the Finest that Tesco can presumably offer.

For those who have not experienced a Meal Deal, it’s a sort of package offer of a complete ready meal for two for just £10. That’s a main course, an accompaniment and a dessert – plus a bottle of wine. Several supermarkets now offer these Deals. And what intrigues me is not the Meal (main, veg and dessert seems a reasonable basis for supper); nor, indeed, the Deal (the price is pretty good for a meal for two). No, the interesting thing is – why does a Meal Deal include a bottle of wine?

The first possibility is that wine is now seen as so everyday, so much a part of an evening meal at home, that it’s an essential element in anything purporting to be a complete meal for two. The supermarkets simply have to include it, or the offer would not be perceived to constitute a proper Meal, and angry customers might report their advertising to Ofpissed.

The second is that they want to introduce new customers to their range, by providing them with an enticing sample, as part of a bargain package. Thus tempted, they may return later to buy at full price, and drink Tesco wine happily into the future.

And the third is that this is an attempt to raise a ready meal to a higher status, to take it out of the lonely singles market and make it more akin to a romantic restaurant meal for two, and that’s  why a bottle of wine is included. The dishes themselves are relatively complex; once they’re out of their foil dishes and plastic containers, they could be quite sophisticated (pass the square plates and the tweezers, dear). We could be sitting in a restaurant, albeit one with no other customers or serving staff, and with a sommelier who seems to be a malcontent wearing his slippers.

So, the wine. Mrs K has grabbed this bottle from those included in the Tesco offer. It is red, and it is freezing cold; because to ensure customers only choose bottles included in the Deal, those particular wines are kept alongside the Meal – in the chill cabinet. Yes, even the red.

Mrs K says she thought she might have seen the word Toro on a wine that she has liked. Well, if you’re going to remember one single word from a wine label, this is marginally more useful than remembering ‘Chateau’.

Of course, that might have been Sangre de Toro. Or it might have been Concha y Toro. But it’s unlikely to have been a wine from  Toro, as this one is.

The 2012 version of this wine gets some rather nice mentions online – but unfortunately, this is the 2013. It has warmed up slightly in the house, but it is still less like a restaurant wine, more a crude and unheated garage, along with its accompanying oil, petrol fumes, antifreeze and battery acid. It puckers your cheeks and leaves a sour aftertaste. It’s terrible. It’s nasty

(According to their own website, Tesco appear unable to find any sellers of an Oxford dictionary ; bizarrely, those who viewed the page bought a set of fireside tools instead. Does this inability to source a dictionary explain such an egregious misuse of the adjective “Finest”?)

Now, given that the entire meal for two costs just £10, how much can this terrible wine possibly cost? Well, the till receipt details a price for the Meal Deal elements should you have paid for them individually. And theoretically the wine is the most expensive single element, at £7.19.

But in a discussion on the Tesco Wine Community website, the Tesco Wine Advisers explain that this wine “has been produced as an exclusive line to accompany the Tesco Finest Meal Deal which appears in-store. As it is exclusive to this offer it is unlikely it will appear amongst the range in the wine aisle and unfortunately, will not appear on WBTC [Wine By The Case].”

Which surely makes the £7.19 price tag purely nominal? Tesco can say it would  cost whatever they like – because it never will.

It also blows the bargain sample idea out of the water, because if you believed this was representative of a £7.19 wine, the Finest that Tesco have, you’d never buy another again.

Then I get it. It’s the restaurant thing, isn’t it. They’re so keen for their Meal Deal to resemble a proper restaurant meal, they’ve decided to mark up the wine in true restaurant wine list manner. Just like a restaurant, they have listed their wine at roughly twice what it's actually worth.

And yet. Mrs K and I may possibly repeat this adventure, despite the shockingly bad wine, priced at twice its value, and the curmudgeon of a wine waiter. As dining experiences go, the food is reasonable, the atmosphere convivial, and the dining room surprisingly uncrowded. Plus, we live here.


Thursday, 15 January 2015

Gin - Alchemical Drink of 2015

So I'm taking part in this small, hand-crafted, guided tour of the Sipsmith's distillery in West London - Sipsmith being the award-winning London gin company which started only a few years ago, but which has already become one of the defining spirits manufacturers - and I have one of my hugely unreliable personal epiphanies, the gist of this one being, I am going to drink gin and nothing but, for the rest of my life.

Not hard to see why, of course. The tour is being adminstered by a bright young dude who works for Sipsmith's, and who breaks off every six minutes to say, 'Okay guys. Time for another tasting. Who'd like to try some of our fantastic damson vodka?'

I can barely get the word yes out fast enough. Each tasting snifter is sweeter than the last, even the room-temperature standard London Gin with nothing in it, a drink I would have thought undrinkable in the modern world. But no, Sipsmith's stuff is so finely-wrought that it fills me with warmth and well-being, like a TV Christmas Special. Not only that, but the distillery is really just a couple of large rooms in an anonymous shed, and one of these rooms is completely dominated by three large and intensely dramatic stills, all burnished copper and caressable steel, and they have names: Prudence, Patience and Constance. It is like a fairly-tale, or, even better, The Big Rock Candy Mountain. I am in a state of Prelapsarian happiness, and at times like these, decisions are made, life choices insist on articulating themselves and before you know it, I am about to turn my back on the World of Wine and devote myself entirely to the great-tasting World of Gin, where, as a happy by-product, I can support a local business and consume something which is authentically London, the greatest city in the world.

But it's not just the fabulous taste, nor the atmosphere of quietly tolerant hedonism in a patch of backstreet light-industrial which is so appealing. It's - I can't avoid the word - the alchemy of the gin process which really turns me on. After all, the stuff's made from a very basic grain alcohol, which comes in bulk through the front door, but which is then transmuted by the actions of the frankly filmic Constance or whoever, plus a magical admixture of botanicals and aromatics, into an elixir. Which then generously lends itself to further transformations - with basic mixers; in scores of cocktails; into playful infusions. There is a wall at Sipsmith covered in small carboys, each containing a trial concoction of gin + herbs, or flowers, or fruit, each silently glowing container a monument to the human imagination. The Sipsmith pranksters even used their old Christmas tree to distill a new flavour. You try that with a Chassagne Montrachet. It is all about possibilities, re-inventions, freedom. And the stuff doesn't even go off once you've opened it.

Won't I miss the profligate variety and dismal snobberies of the World of Wine? Not much. Over the course of my Sipsmith's evening, I had a world-class G & T made with lime and Fever-tree tonic; the neat gin; that damson vodka (one of their adorable sidelines); and, to round it off, a mesmerising Dry Martini, made by the bright young dude (who is, I should confess, a family friend, but, even allowing for that handicap, is still a bright young dude). This last drink generated such a sense of existential clarity that I can access it even now, some weeks later. There is a gin for every occasion, in other words; and I wasn't even hungover in the morning, certainly not with that listless cosmic dread which can follow an evening of wine. There's even a quiet internal narrative harmony: a few years ago, PK and I stumbled upon Sipsmith's gin at a wine fair, when it was still cheeky and relatively unknown. And we said, This is good, so good that PK actually gave me a bottle for Christmas. This latest encounter is therefore another moment in a long-term, deepening gin relationship, a juniper-scented love that will see me through into old age and the grave, where my fragrantly pickled corpse will resist the earthworms and centipedes for decades.

There remain only three small problems. First, Sipsmith gin is sublime, but it costs around £28.00 a bottle; Fevertree Tonic comes in at 75p per 200ml. Aldi, on the other hand, do a bottle of what claims to be London Dry Gin for just under a tenner, plus a litre of tonic for 37p. Clearly, corners will have to be cut, sooner rather than later.

Secondly, the question of drinking neat gin at room temperature: the last time I saw this done (apart from by a load of breathless enthusiasts in the Sipsmith distillery) was in the 1958 Anglo-American tweed'n'turnups classic Gideon of Scotland Yard, starring Jack Hawkins. Generations have gone by since gin was warm, and It will take time to properly re-integrate tepid London Dry into modern society. There is still something perverse about it, like wearing a jacket indoors.

And thirdly, there is the question of the entire case of crotch-grabbing Californian Shiraz so generously gifted to me at Christmas by my Father-in-law, plus five or six mixed reds and whites, all left over from the New Year. They will have to be dealt with in the appropriate manner, and dealt with severely. And then the gin awaits. Give me a couple of weeks; three, then. That's all I'm asking.


Thursday, 8 January 2015

Question Time

Well, I seem to have been ignored by the New Years Honours list yet again. Despite what people say about cronyism, the fact that I have drunk wine with both the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury seems to have carried no sway whatsoever. It’s about time people realised that I have things to say, on matters which are more significant than whether I have recently been in an accident, or ever possessed PPI.

Still, as the co-author of our modestly successful hardback book, I do now find myself in the position of answering questions about wine. I answer from experience, rather than qualification – but then, so does my greengrocer.

These are what I believe are described as my FAQs. Sediment have only infrequently answered questions in public, and a couple of them seem to be FAd by my wife, but that is neither here nor there.

Is this any good?
This is usually asked as a companion hoists a bottle from a shelf, or points to a bottle on a restaurant wine list. But I have also been asked this by a complete stranger in the aisle at Sainsbury’s. Have I finally developed the air of a connoisseur? Or, less appealingly perhaps, the look of a wino?

However, it’s reassuring that these people approach wine in Sediment’s own, direct manner. They do not ask me whether a wine exhibits floral notes, or minerality, or indeed, in a description CJ once memorably questioned, “thick-textured, late-Romantic, Rosenkavalier-like decadence”. They just want to know if it’s any good. So a connoisseur’s response about regions and vintages and pairing and Der Rosenkavalier would quite frankly be wasted. And actually in most cases, the honest answer is, “S’alright…”

How much did it cost?
This is a leading question, and it’s leading to trouble. Whatever the cost of a bottle of wine, there will be something else in the household budget demanding that sum. Yes, we could have had that stilton/rose bush/drive resurfaced instead. But they didn’t have 25% off six stiltons last week, did they…?

The advantage of maintaining a modest cellar is that you can go on about buying en primeur, many years ago, goodness I’d have to look it up etc etc. But an honest answer in my own case, which also conveniently leads the conversation in a different direction, is “About four Sunday newspapers”.

What do you think about wine as an investment?
The same as I think about oil as a drink.

(Incredibly, a member of our audience actually asked us this. We probably know less about investment than we do about wine, and that’s saying something. Do we even look  like shrewd investors? Never mind wine, only one of us has invested in a properly co-ordinated wardrobe.

Or perhaps we should start an investment blog, in which CJ seeks savings accounts which still take copper across the counter, while I judge banks on the quality of their stationery…)

What’s all this ‘midlife’ business? Are you really in your midlife?
Absolutely. As long as I live to 116.

Where do you buy your wine?
As anyone who reads Sediment regularly will know, our wine comes from supermarkets, corner shops, warehouses, mail order operations, snobby wine merchants and Azerbaijan. So now you know where to avoid.

What have you got against screwcaps?
When I open a bottle of wine, I like to feel I am participating in a centuries-old experience, not a functional modern alternative. Exchanging the traditional cork for a screwcap is like swapping shoelaces for Velcro.

Where, with a screwcap, is the solemn unwrapping, like carefully opening a gift? Where is the gentle pop, an audible stimulus to the tastebuds like the ringing of Pavlov’s bell? Where is the opportunity to demonstrate my finesse and flourish with the Waiter’s Friend?

As long as a bottle contains a cork, it lies somewhere on a spectrum topped by the finest wines in the world; whereas a screwcap indicates the depressing practicality of an electric car.

Should I be opening my 2009s?

Look. If you want the straightforward answer, there are plenty of charts with little leaning bottles and half-full glasses which will tell you what various critics and merchants think. But they have nothing to do with real-world agonising, which is bound up with whether an occasion is significant enough to crack open the case, and how many people are coming, and are they people who will appreciate them, and what if I die  before they’re ready? Eh?

Did you drink all of that this evening?
No of course not. This is the bottle I started last night. Honest.


Thursday, 18 December 2014

The Sediment Christmas Wine Selection: Week Two

After last week’s set of shoddy suggestions from CJ, I can only imagine the foreboding of his friends and family, who now realise what they will have to suffer drinking on Christmas Day. As I have said to him before, things have come to a pretty pass when you spend more on your turkey than on your wine.

No, this is the time of year when you feel that you can  sweep into a wine merchant that sounds like a chartered surveyors, a wine merchant posh enough to have an ampersand in its name. A chap in a striped shirt will say “Can I help  you, sir?”, in that manner which suggests “Can I help you to find the other place you are clearly supposed to be?”

But this time, you can reply “I hope so – I’m looking for a bottle of Pol Roger…” And he will smile knowingly, and you will feel that you have earned your right to be there.

So of course, my Christmas Day will begin with Pol Roger White Foil Brut, because it was Churchill’s favourite champagne and, like him, “My tastes are simple. I am easily satisfied with the best.” Churchill supposedly had 42,000 bottles opened over his lifetime, but for my Christmas Day a few less may suffice.
If someone objects to CJ’s budget Cava, he’s got no-one to blame but himself, but if anyone disapproves of my choice, I can always lay the blame on Winston. And while I’m trying to conquer the cooking, I can come out with his quote about champagne: “In victory I deserve it, in defeat I need it”.

(Of course, you don’t have to get your Pol Roger from a posh wine merchant. You can get it from Majestic. But the chap serving you might be wearing a polyester fleece…)

Let’s not get carried away with this “traditional” business. I mean, I don’t spend Christmas prancing around in a periwig. But on the other hand, a screwcap New World red is simply not on. A screwcap wine is about as traditional as a vacuum-packed turkey.

And again, Christmas is a rare opportunity to stroll into a proper wine merchant’s, and boldly ask for a bottle of claret. Not a bottle of Bordeaux; use a proper, Olde English term for a proper Olde English occasion. I shall leave it to your better judgment as to whether or not you add “my good man”.

A wine merchant might not know what you mean if you wander in forsoothing and gadzooksing, but he’ll know what you mean by claret alright. He’ll know you’re someone who appreciates tradition. And so will your guests – which matters, because if you don’t appreciate tradition, why are you having a traditional Christmas dinner?

You’ll want a wine you can decant for the Christmas table, because I find it’s one of the rare meals for which you can put out a decanter and no-one will accuse you of being pretentious. So you also need a wine which will benefit from a bit of breathing space; unlike CJ’s rubbish, whose flavour uses the excuse of meeting the open air to disappear faster than Santa’s reindeer. You’re looking for a wine with a bit of clout. Of course this is the time for something like my treasured remaining Leoville Barton 1989, but if you’re looking at under £20, something like a Larose-Trintaudon 2007 will retain a sense of sophistication, while stunning the range of flavours in a Christmas dinner into submission.

CJ asks why on earth you would need a bottle of white for Christmas dinner. The simple fact is that while he is still wrangling with his recalcitrant oven, civilised folk are having a civilised starter, like smoked salmon for example, which cries out for a nice bottle of white. I’m not as precious about the New World when it comes to whites, and something like First Press Napa Chardonnay from Waitrose is half the price of its Burgundy equivalent, but has the richness and complexity to go with both the starter and the pud. And it will go with the cold cuts on Boxing Day if there’s any left. If…

In the interests of symmetry with his own post, I am not permitted to stray into the contentious territory of vintage port. CJ seems to object to it because, and I quote, “It is not 1908.” Well, it might as well be at my abode, given the dinner table decorum and the talk of Winston Churchill, so we’ll be finishing off properly with port. As I’ve said, this is the one day when it’s all about tradition; so woe betide anyone who passes it the wrong way.

Haven’t you spent enough on presents already? bleats CJ. Well, probably not for yourself. What better way of demonstrating the generosity and largesse of Christmas, while simultaneously treating yourself, than indulging in some splendid wines? Go on, go for it – and have a great Christmas.


Thursday, 11 December 2014

The Sediment Christmas Wine Selection: Week One

So we are where we are, with Christmas only two weeks away, and we need to start getting the drink in, because nothing is going to get us through the unmitigated horror of the Festive Season except being very lightly oiled nearly all the time. The good news? The crisis contains the seeds of its own resolution: we are necessarily talking quantity here, not quality - no-one is going to thank you for serving up the Chateau Palmer at Christmas, the whole thing is a gastric warzone from start to finish - and this gives us all the licence we need to head straight for the bargain section of the nearest supermarket/cornershop/petrol station and do the business right there.

What do we need? We need sparkling; we need red; and we need a bit of white. Thus -

Sparkling: Tesco Cordoniu Cava, for which I recently paid £7.49 a bottle, and even that seems excessive, although not as excessive as what they seem to be asking today. What am I going to do with it? Get it absolutely frozen, so cold it might as well be screenwash additive, and dispense it in a hurry, and often. Any complaints about the taste? Throw in some crème de cassis or noisette and remind the complainant that there is more than one use for a turkey baster.

Red: We need a ton of this stuff, for when everyone sits down at the table and gets stuck into the (by now) overdue Christmas Dinner. But what, exactly? After all, it's going to be paired with sprouts, stuffing, Utility gravy, congealing Pigs in Blankets, awful things in their own right, only tolerated because of the time of year. So my two top picks turn out to be

Aldi Chilean Carmenère - Gooseberry nose, nice overlay of caramel and chocolate, well-controlled acidity, not much finish, slight throb in the temples and an odd whiff of gunsmoke at the very end, but at £4.99 a bottle, this is the way forward, only challenged by

Sainsbury's Winemaker's Selection Corbières - an absolute steal on the day I paid £4.75 a bottle for it, generating a nice sensation of armpits on the nose, some good tannins, a hint of brush cleaner, perilously little finish, but on the other hand a fabulous colour, positively imperial in its depth and murky richness.

White: Why do we even need a white? I know a dessert wine quite often makes its way onto the table at the same time as the pudding/mince pies, but realistically, everything calls for one of the reds above. Except: not everyone drinks red. It's Christmas. The obscure Auntie Sis has come to town; she only likes white; you've forgotten to get any. What to do? The obvious: rush round the corner to the newsagent or petrol station (God knows what time of day this is when she reveals her preference, I'm assuming the supermarkets have shut) and get a bottle of Blossom Hill Chardonnay, priced around £5.99, + or -. I have to admit that this is weird drink, with elements of nasal spray and marshmallows, a fugitive implication of grapes, a kind of terrible brightness about it, like an American TV news network. But this does not matter, because Sis, who only drinks white, who drinks it with rare roast beef and venison flanks, doesn't care as long as she's got some to console her through the long flatulent orgy that is Christmas Day. 

And relax.

Next Week: PK's more portentous take on the same thing, but honestly, I wouldn't waste your money. I mean, haven't you spent enough on presents already?


Thursday, 4 December 2014

Sonic Decanter; Lidl Rioja

So there are times when I wonder if this isn't the moment to start up a Sediment test lab, to catalogue the various ways in which the wine drinker can improve his or her experience of the drink without spending any long-term real money or having to buy any big-ticket wines

I mean, so far, and quite without any proper co-ordination, PK and I have played around with a mug, a pichet, a Riedel Tasting Glass, a wine aerator, a Duralex tumbler, plus some variations on the DIY angle, just to see what easy, low-rent, low-cost, ameliorations can be achieved in the wine/drinker interface. At least two (Duralex tumber; Riedel Tasting Glass) have turned out to be more or less guaranteed to lift the experience of drinking - one by wrapping it in a psychologically benevolent envelope; the other, apparently, by messing with the physiology of consumption, although anyone who spends £25 on a wine glass is going to have to justify that little indulgence any way they can, physiology or not, and I remain unconvinced, but that's by the by. Anyhow, every encounter with wine is mutable: the wine itself being nothing less than an opportunity to deal in sensations.

To prove the point, it turns out that scientists have properly stormed the winerack, with the creation of the SonicDecanter - a miraculous device from, obviously, the United States, which treats wine as merely the first term in a narrative, using ultrasound to Make every wine better.

How does it work? We know this much:

- It uses patented technology
- Ultrasonic energy transforms the molecular and chemical structure of wine
- It softens tannins, esters and polyphenols
- You have to put a bit of water in the base to get it to work, stick an unopended bottle of wine in, then press a white button for whites and a red for reds
- No decanting, no aerating. It takes twenty minutes to soften up a red
- You can control it from your smartphone
- Gizmodo reviewed it, declaring that I Zapped My Wine With an Ultrasonic Decanter and It Tasted Pretty Good; while hollered Great Results in Wine Tasting and a lot of other fabulous things
- The inventors went to Kickstarter to get enough funds to start production, and in no time had hit their target of $85,000. Last time I looked, they were heading for $140,000. There is clearly a need for this device

It seems that the vast majority of wine bought in The States costs $10 a bottle or less - pretty close to the £6 watershed we observe over here. Anything, therefore, which can make $10 wine taste like $20 is evidently going to be up there with remote car unlockers and disposable razors in terms of sheer utility. Projected UK price for the Sonic Decanter is around £150, which means it will have to double the perceived value of about 25 bottles of £6 wine before it pays for itself. Which is nothing. Why, only the other day, I bought a couple of bottles of Lidl Rioja at £3.99, both of which could have done with a good two hours in the Decanter, given that my red-eyed tasting notes reveal massive tannins, road re-surfacing, some flypaper, vanilla and crisps finish before concluding on a dying fall of alcohol haze like standing under a flightpath. Of course, at £3.99 a go, I'd have to buy 37.5 bottles before the Sonic Decanter cleared its inital costs, so there may be a law of inverse pleasurability in operation, but I think we can afford to be pragmatic.

The question then becomes philosophical, rather than economic or purely technological. How much does it matter that my £12-tasting bottle was only made with the care and attention of a £6 bottle? If breaking out the Sonic Decanter is the wine equivalent of using studio magic to make a terrible singer sound like Etta James, is it fundamentally an imposture? Is it a typically American reduction of distinctive craft skills to an approximated universality, which, in time, will leave us all drinking indivisibly okay reds and whites whether we want to or not? Do we take an objective or subjective view? And what would I have to do to get my hands on a pre-production model? I have no laboratory; but I do have a very old raincoat which, if you half close your eyes, looks a bit like a lab coat. I mean, it's a very light mac.


Thursday, 27 November 2014

Wine and snoring (and other side-effects) – Ricasoli Chianti Classico Riserva 2010

It was the morning after one of our dinner parties. A convivial evening, involving a couple of bottles of the excellent Ricasoli Chianti Classico Riserva 2010, a wine of beauty (which is all ye need to know), after which I had been contentedly dead to the world. I blearily descended to a cluttered kitchen, and asked Mrs K how she had slept.

“You were snoring,” she said, bitterly. “You always snore when you’ve had too much wine.”

Well, this was the first I’d heard about this. Various negative side-effects have been levied in the past against my wine-drinking, but snoring had not been among them. Although it's fair to say that wine has taken the rap for a significant number of my failings, from the medical and social to the financial and psychological.

Belligerence, for example. Plutarch, the Graeco-Roman essayist, said that the openness encouraged by wine led to a better level of debate at the dinner table. “Wine inspirits some men, and raises a confidence and assurance in them,” he wrote, “but not such as is haughty and odious, but pleasing and agreeable.” Which seemed to me a jolly good reason for oiling dinner party conversations with plenty of wine. Then I was enlightened by my good wife that far from being pleasing and agreeable, in fact I was philosophising so aggressively that guests became frightened.

Now I have to be more contemplative over my glass, hoping to stay on the right side of that fine line between judicious thoughtfulness and that other potential side-effect of wine, a surly silence.

Is wine-drinking responsible for extravagance, as I was once accused? I think not. When it comes to wine, one buys what is needed; you wouldn’t accuse a driver of extravagance for buying petrol. 

Besides, it is hard to be extravagant in Sainsbury’s.

In fact, my wine bill is incredibly modest, and no, it is not going to lead to poverty. And if it did, well, there are some less necessary expenditures I could point to, like food, heat and lighting. I can’t say I regret my spending on wine; I have to agree with the late great Vivian Stanshall, who said that “If I had all the money I’ve spent on drink, I’d spend it on drink.”

No, any extravagance is reserved for special occasions. Like Christmas dinner, when, as I recently insisted to CJ, things have come to a pretty pass if you spend more on your turkey than on your wine.

Some supposed side-effects of wine are down to simple misinterpretation. Wine does not, for example, induce selfishness. The wine had spent most of its time the preceding night at my end of the dinner table out of social courtesy. I was assisting the designated driver not to drink, empathising with the chap on painkillers for his back, and acknowledging Mrs K’s modest consumption, by saving them all the embarrassment of declining repeated offers of wine.

And I’m quite happy myself to suffer minor, temporary physical side-effects like stained teeth. They may even pass unnoticed. Unlike an increasing number of television celebrities, I have teeth which reflect a lifetime’s eating and drinking. My teeth are a proper older Englishman’s teeth, the colour of cardboard. They have not been artificially rendered to resemble a mouthful of bathroom tiles.

But this snoring business is obviously affecting someone else. And having looked into ways in which I might deny it, I’m sorry to say that there does seem to be a genuine link between the two. Drinking wine can cause a relaxation in the muscles at the back of the throat. (Which, had I known, perhaps I could have blamed for my growling at guests…) It seems that inspiratory resistance, which causes snoring, can increase fourfold after drinking.

And the only remedy I could find online was that of abstinence. Which sounded to me like the old Tommy Cooper joke about the man who goes to his doctor, and says “My arm hurts when I do this…”, to which the doctor replies “Well, don’t do it then.”

However, Mrs K said that she halted the snoring, with a judicious kick. So I can only conclude that an irrefutable side-effect of my wine drinking must be a deep sleep. Deep enough to render one oblivious to four-fold inspiratory resistance, surely a beneficial side-effect if one sleeps alone. And deep enough to render one oblivious to a kick, if one does not.

Nightcap, anyone?