Wine

Or 'whine', possibly.

I like a glass of red in the evening sometimes. Nothing wrong with that, and I don't need to justify this to you, I am sure. I drink white, too, drier the better. I'm not really fussy. Don't like sweet wine much.

Trouble is, wine is quite expensive and I am quite skint most of the time. So, in a truly academic and middle classy sort of way, I researched what the best wine you could get for cheap was. God, how sensible. I should sew some leather patches onto my jacket elbows and get a job as a geography teacher.

Anyhoo, recommended as 'a very cheap wine which could hold its head up with a ten pound bottle' is a red called Cuvee de Richard. It's Vin du Pays de l'Aude, wherever the fuck that is.* You can get it at Majestic by the case for less than 3 quid a throw. Marv-leous.

The LOML was passing the other day and picked up a half case, cos we'd run out. So, six bottles of fruity, blackcurranty, soft red wine (look, I'm quoting off the label here, I don't make up that sort of shit) in the rack.

The LOML's out one evening, the kids are in bed, and I'm tempted. I open one up, pour it into one of my oversized glasses and settle back to watch something good on telly. Idyllic.

But all is not right. The wine doesn't taste proper. It's a bit fizzy. It's corked, fuck it: fermenting in the bottle. Disgusting.

I'll take that bloody well back, I fume, opening the next one instead. Only to pour it out and have it behave like cherryade. And the next, and the next. All six: fucked.

I am livid. Then disappointed, let down. Then depressed. Why does this always happen to me? Just when I'm having a good time: the very instant I dare to think that all is right with the world and relax and admit to myself, yes, I'm pretty much happy now, then something will instantly come along a fuck it up. Like when we were skiing on the LOML's birthday and we all had a lovely sunny birthday lunch on the terrace overlooking Mont Blanc and some free genepi liqueur from Henri the bar owner, and we were all laughing and happy and then got outside to find out someone had nicked Child One's skis. Just like that.

I mean, I know it's only wine. Nothing to get suicidal about. But, fuck it, I wanted it, I had every right to expect to have it, and now I couldn't. I had a couple of bottles of wife-beater instead, which was ok, but not the same.

So, this morning, a cheque arrives through the letterbox: paying the LOML for some wedding flowers that she did a couple of weekends ago. Fine. Better, though: it is accompanied by an unmistakable tissue wrapped shape. A large, litre-and-a-half tissue-wrapped shape. A magnum size and shape. They have champagne at weddings, I think to myself, and I am excited, my fingers trembling slightly as I peel away the purple paper.

It is Lambrini Original Slightly Sparkling Perry. Serve chilled. 7.5% alcohol.

I am utterly crestfallen. It isn't even wine, for fuck's sake. It isn't even cider. It's made out of pears, which is just wrong. And it's sweet.

The LOML says I shouldn't be ungrateful. They didn't have to give us anything. She's right, of course.

But, I mean, fuck.

*I've just looked on the bottle and the helpful little map says it's the south western coastal bit. I've been there: it's lovely. Just wish they could put a cork in a wine bottle properly.