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In which Old Parn burbles unconvincingly about branding in wine, before drawing some frankly ill-considered analogies and scattering his sheep’s pellets of wisdom in the direction of all who don’t move away quickly enough
Tresolmos Verdejo from the Wine Society is exactly what you need after battling through the bleak London rain
… is elegant and lithe and beautiful and charming as you like — but with that little glimmer of filth in its eye.
… is like the taste equivalent of a massage that makes every single part of your body feel amazing. It’s a perfect, coruscating globe of flavour, tickling every tastebud, expanding to fill every corner of that slavering gob of yours.
… is like a sweet mouthful of ripest autumn — and is the nicest wine to grace Old Parn’s palate so far this year
… is the kind of wine that probably wouldn’t mind holding onto your parcels for a day or two
… is just the kind of wine into whose welcoming alcoholic embrace you’d yearn to tumble after a day of bubblewrap and despair
… is the kind of white wine I’m very happy to shove in my face, repeatedly, perhaps even to excess. And at this price, you should shove it into yours, too.
… smells like Bulgarian woodsmoke in August; smells like respite from the guilt of being A Bit Shit With Bulgarian Orphans; smells like charmingly self-indulgent adolescent ennui
… is neither despicable nor mucky. Or, if it is a tiny bit mucky, only in a reassuringly rustic kind of way.