[Asked, how can you drink that wine?] You raise the glass to the lips, you tilt the head slightly backwards, and you let the liquid trickle down gently past the tonsils <sip/> like that. Of course I’ve had an awful lot of practice, but even you’ll come to it in time.
Of course, there is another reason I drink Pomeroy’s Plonk: Not to put too fine a point on it, if you drink enough of this stuff you stand a good chance of getting blotto.
I dare say there is a patch of barren soil in some corner of a foreign field where the Fleet Street grape struggles for existence. Probably somewhere between a car shed and a pissoire.
Ummmm, a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene. Comparing this to Chateau Fleet Street is like comparing a planning appear in the House of Lords to an indecent exposure before the Uxbridge Magistrates.
Yes. An all too familiar taste. And to those of a cultured palate demanding an immediate visit to expectoration corner. Chateau Thames Embankment 1986. A particularly brrrutal year.