As a rule, I don't drink wine.
I drink gin.
Wine and I have a strange relationship. I can't drink red wine anymore. The palpitations and sleepless nights are too much to take. There's no point me drinking it. It makes me feel too sick. No point drinking it.
Rose and white wine are fine in small doses. I'd much rather have a glass of wine with dinner than just aimlessly drinking it. I'm better with champagne and dry sparkling wine, and I'm not a fan of prosecco. That stuff is garbage. It's the lambrusco or Blue Nun equivalent of our time.
But, coming from near McLaren Vale and actually liking wine before I stopped drinking it, I've got a reasonable palate and a bit of knowledge behind me.
Today's Christmas task was to buy a bottle of wine for Chuck, my trainer.
Chuck is a bastard. He's mean. Okay, Chuck is lovely - but when it comes to training, he's mean. I asked him what he wanted for a Christmas present. Socks? Chocolates? Books?
He wanted wine. Red wine. Pinot? Cabernet Sauvignon? Temperanillo? Grenache?
A full-bodied Shiraz would do nicely.
My issue is when I'm asked to get wine, particularly red wine, I go one of two ways. McLaren Vale, or Langhorne Creek. If he'd asked for a decent Pinot, I'd probably look out for a lovely bottle of Curly Flat from Lancefield.
Yes, I'm a red wine non-drinking wine snob.
And after today's hammering at the gym, where Chuck kept upping my weights, I went wine shopping. Blackheart and Sparrows had a decent, but limited supply.
Liquorland had a better range. Not a bottle of Langhorne Creek red in sight, but a reasonable lot of McLaren Vale reds.
If I was sensible, I'd find him a bottle for a cellar door when I go home in ten days, but as he's pissing off to get married after next week and we won't see him until late January.
But I found him a bottle. The girl in the store was really helpful.
And which one did I buy? A bottle called Fat Bastard, or one called The Murder.
I did what any sane person would do under the same circumstances.
I went with the one with the pretty label.