A Tale of Two Parties

It was the best of times..

The first party. A posh North London flat. A guy in the wine biz invited me to his son's fifth birthday. More adults then children, but drinking was still secondary. A wine and Pimm's crowd. The party wine was a 2003 Premiere Bordeaux Chateau Haut Rian.

A bit thin, not notable. Light airy, aloof, like many at a party. Little oak, less earth. Slight aroma of berries, mainly black, and that is about it. 8.2 points. Perfect for a party. Easy drinking, inexpensive red. Didn't complain of course, yet the host said 'this one's for you.'

Lovely to be special. A bottling from Austria. Forgot the vintage. Made mainly from a grape called St. Laurent. Also Merlot, Zwigelt. Cool climes for cool times. Given my own Riedel glass for a proper tasting. Word is spreading.

Seemed a bit bland at first. Let it breathe. The strong tartness gave way to sublime bitterness. Dig the dark chocolate. The wine found it's soul when finally set free. Almost desperate to impress. Excellent. 8.9.

The second party served spirits. Clear liquids bubbling in plastic cups while drinkers pretend to enjoy chatting and, deep inside, wish to burst out their skin. Wasn't invited to this one, a few houses down. Neighbors.

Drank a bottle of Montepulciano di Abruzzo from Marks and Spencer. 8 pounds. Italian wine is a minefield. Montepulciano, for example, was the grape used in the wine from Abruzzo. However, Montepulciano is also a town in Tuscany, which makes Vino Nobile. Made from Sangiovese. Huh? What's that? Make sense. Please.

Went to sleep with bass thumping from doors down. Everyone needs to unwind, especially in this city. But then, around two a.m. the sound of drunken laughter as a game of soccer was starting in front of my door. One thing you can count on is that spirits drinkers always cross the line.

Jumped out of bed, Montepulciano boiling. Flung open the door. No one there. They had gone, thank god. But wait, where's my daughter's football.

My daughter's football.

Stolen.

Red wine flows into my eyes,seeing only red. That's taking the piss.

Dressed only in boxers and my Japanese fighting stick, my jo, resting in my hand. Took a walk to the neighbors. About 30 eastern Europeans, kicking up a storm, and somewhere inside, kicking around my daughter's football. It's the principle of the thing.

Montepulciano tells me he can take the spirits drinkers. They're out their heads, they are as tasteless and cold as the liquor stagnating in their dixie cups. Well, if wine has my back...

But how to begin. Shall I impress them with my vast knowledge of alcoholic beverages and how they are wasting their time with such rotten fire water? Shall the shirtless, shoeless stick-holder play the stereotypical American by shouting, "We saved your asses from the Germans, and this is how you repay us?"

Montepulciano whispers an obvious out in my ear, 'pretend you're sleepwalking.' Hell. It worked.

Pride is that feeling whose price fluctuates greatest on the stock exchange of human emotions.

"An intruder stole my daughter's football and I happen to be sleepwalking." Pride 100 points. The response: "No football here," Pride 50 points.

Started walking away and a woman shouts, "we love your little shorts," pride 0 points. Even the overseas investors are starting to bail.

Make a joke, says Montepulciano. "Thank you, I only wear them to sleep in, so consider you noisemakers lucky." Pride declays bankrupcy.

Then, as the beaten wine drinker shuffles off, low and behold, a spirits drinker gives him an out. "What do you think you're going to do with that little baseball bat?"

Wine drinker turns around. Montepulciano is not pleased. We both had decided to walk away. Spirits drinkers.

"It's not a bat, it's a jo, a Japanese fighting stick," Montepulciano yells through the wine drinker's throat, making wine drinker's muscles flex and making, at that moment, moonlight shimmer across his red-stained teeth. "And if you want to see how it works, then we'll show you. Come here."

Spirits drinkers run for cover, stash themselves in their house. Pride 50 points.

The next morning Montepulciano is gone without a trace. Didn't even leave a telephone number. Drank all the milk on the way out to boot. Italian wines are all the same.

Open the front door and there it is. My daughter's football, set atop my doorstep.

Wine drinker's pride, 100 points.

Spirits drinkers, Zero.

Well, as my dear old mum used to say, "If crazy sells, then this family would be drowning in cash."

EDITOR'S NOTE: No animals were harmed in the writting of this blog.