Confessions of a Wino

I’ve just returned from the opening night of the Opera North production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare’s play reconfigured as an opera by melody dodger, Benjamin Britten, whose proud boast seems to be never to have written an opera in a major key.

I normally love Opera North (full disclosure, I know one of the chorus quite well), but I am not a Britten fan.  A Midsummer Night’s Dream reminded me of all the negative aspects of the earlier, and otherwise superior, Peter Grimes.  Incessant horns and strings in deliberate discord, keeping the audience on its edge in the same way Hammer House of Horror films used organ fugues to build tension.  Britten never seems to let go, though.  It was like sitting on a train, delayed because of a fatality on the line.  One feels sorry for the victim (or cast in this case) but I just wanted to get home as quickly as possible.  Listening to a gauntlet scratching up and down a blackboard would have been more entertaining, and arguably, more musical.

The humour (what little existed) was 50 years old and could probably only have been written by a tortured homosexual of the repressed mid 20th century.  There were clearly a few from that era in the audience, occasionally chortling and even applauding.  I watched with the same cringingly embarrassed feeling of watching a Carry On film from the Beatles epoch.  Fortunately, to avoid total boredom, I was simply able to stare up at the awesome ceiling of Leeds Grand Theatre, the home of Opera North, and surely one of the best theatres in the world for architectural detail.

Just round the corner from the Grand Theatre is Lounge Bar and Grill, and that is where we chose to eat before the performance.  With 25% off, the bill for two with a bottle of wine came to only £40 plus service.  Even for Leeds that is cheap.

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Software and wine should never be mixed, unless you happen to run a software company and you like wine.  Or someone named after a manure breeze block launches a wine that happens to emulate a content delivery software company.  In this world of legal battles between Apple and the Beatles, who will sue who?

But if you write software, the chances of cutting some quality code when pissed are about as good as enjoying a soirée recital of Vogon poetry.

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The map looked interesting.  Leaving central Manchester on the towpath of the Bridgewater Canal, we would simply walk to Sale, a brief stroll of about 5 or 6 miles.  Surely there would be friendly pubs at every bridge?  No.  Surely it would be an interesting walk through historic architecture and Manchester’s trading history?  No.  Well, perhaps a decent stroll along a pretty canal path?  Thrice no.

Fortunately the walk ended at a quality pub in Sale.  The tramstop is right opposite the pub.  Can you guess how we got back to town?

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Why keep an online diary?  I am not Samuel Pepys.  I don’t have a burning desire to share my (albeit valuable) thoughts with the world.  I have no reason to create an alibi, or lay a false trail for the police.  I don’t have much spare time in my life, so I have to write quickly and from the gut (well, bladder to be precise).  So why do I do it?

The answer is as simple as the various thoughts that meander through my sponge-like brain.  I am exploring the world of wine and I wanted to keep a record for myself because my memory is patchy.  But even I would be bored by reading bland tasting notes, or wine ratings (no, no, no, no, no, please, wine is subjective!).  So I wrap my thoughts in inane claptrap…for some reason.  And I know it’s bad form, but when I do look back at my various posts, I sometimes laugh at my own jokes (someone has to).  Above all I recall happy things that simply would have fallen through my colandar like memory otherwise.

The imaginatively titled “102T” is not a name likely to hang around my hippocampus.  It came from the Chilean Pinot Noir case I ordered from the Wine Society for about £82 recently.

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My tour of the Pinot Noirs of the world is a long way from completion and getting more and more interesting by the minute.  This one, from the Wine Society mixed case Chile Pinot Noirs (£82 for twelve bottles) is earthy and earthy.

An earthy smell with compost and wet leaves is not the greatest compliment to a wine.  The taste was sharp at first but it mellowed over time.  Mixed berries, carrot, grapefruit skin and mushroom – nice? You judge…..

14% alcohol is not too much really, but it is a bit new world. Then again Chile is in the New World so maybe this is a great wine, just not to my taste.

Life is a box of chocolates according to Forrest Gump’s mama, which probably suits my moody temperament.  My current mood in respect of grapes is, as ever, two faced.  One old school tie, one new kid on the block (to me anyway).  I am currently on a virtual world tour of Pinot Noirs which I described as the Brigitte Bardot of grapes.  The other varietal that has piqued my interest recently is Carmenère, which is the James Dean of grapes.  A rebel without a cause that lives on the edge, smokes a lot, and whilst externally attractive, lacks substance.  Scratch under the surface, and often you will simply find more surface.

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After my review of Sam’s Chop House raised a bit of a storm about people’s privacy, I was reticent about reviewing the sibling, Mr Thomas’s.  After waiting for about 243 minutes behind a twitcher’s tent, I finally found a moment when the coast was clear and grabbed a quick snap (below).  If only the atmosphere inside was as interesting….

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As dark and dingy restaurants go, Simple is amongst the darkest, although to be fair not dingiest I have visited.  I admit my eyesight is deteriorating with age, and I struggle to read small text at a distance closer than you would view a computer screen, but we were sat beneath the aircon unit, unlit, and whilst other tables had an odd spotlight to illuminate, even the red candle on our table couldn’t reveal to me any of the menu contents. 

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Maybe Rowan Gormley took offence at my assessment of Virgin Wines as good for everyday glugging because he dropped me an email suggesting that I try something more serious from the Virgin stable.  I already have problems with my neighbours over a Leylandii hedge, so being an anagrammatic sort of a guy, this Landelia sounded appealing.  And in any case, since I am a sucker for pretty much any Argentinean Malbec, I had to try it.

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When one reaches one’s forties, birthdays are quickly forgotten.  They are not anticipated with the same excitement of youth, rather the disdain and fear of middle age.  Nonetheless, they are still a cause for celebration and an opportunity to go and splash a few quid on some top nosh and wine.  This year we went to Linen in the lofty (metaphorically and physically) surroundings of Manchester 235 Casino.

My camera was not welcome for obvious reasons.  The discretion of the clients (and I will indiscreetly mention that most of the Man United team were in that evening) is clearly important.  I am also sick of getting papped by photographers from the Daily Mail who have clearly mistaken me for a footballer or some TV star (yeah right…).

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