Milo – born Rupert Myles Baxter-Stuart-Lane – is a self-proclaimed ‘wine wanker’. He is 27 years old, works at a B-Corp production and social content agency, lives in Stoke Newington, and dreams of running a wine bar in Clapton in the hope that Topjaw might someday notice him. His favourite film is Sideways. He watched it for the first time last month. He even has a tattoo to prove it: ‘I am NOT drinking any fucking Merlot.’ The tattoo is on his left buttock. After enough biodynamic Zweigelt, he’ll be happy to show it to you.
Milo likes to say that he ‘came to wine late’. This is a complete lie. It was his father – who definitely didn’t have a political scandal in 2004 involving cocaine and a Cher impersonator at the Groucho Club – who introduced him to the vine. Milo’s father is what we would call an ‘old wine drinker’. Before abandoning his campaign as an MP in Bognor Regis and Littlehampton for reasons redacted, his father was quite the host.
And it was through these soirées that Milo learnt the essentials of wine. Bordeaux is good; Burgundy is better. Understand the difference between Pouilly-Fuissé and Pouilly-Fumé. The Americans have come a long way, but never trust a Zinfandel lighter than a strawberry Wine Gum. Avoid Australia unless ‘Barossa Valley’ is on the label. Serve champagne (preferably 60 per cent Pinot Noir) before dinner; serve prosecco if your guests are poor; and serve English sparkling to your grandmother – she’ll be dead soon, and she can’t tell the difference anyway. Only drink rosé if it’s warm enough to wear shorts. Never buy an Argentinian wine – lest we forget about the Falklands. And disregard anything south of Tuscany.
Fortunately for Milo, he unlearned much of his father’s antiquated advice during his tenure at the University of Manchester. There, Milo survived on a diet of Barefoot Cabernet Sauvignon, Dr. Oetker pizza and ketamine. By the time he had finished his degree in film and TV, he could scarcely tell the difference between a Burgundian Pinot Noir and a glass of vodka-Vimto.
After graduation, Milo relocated to east London. It was here where he rekindled his love for vino. It started in Bethnal Green. He’d seen an Instagram post for a bar that served sobrasada and something called ‘skin contact’ wine. He decided to check it out. Upon arrival, he realised he was among friends. Like Milo, half of the clientele had attended Bedales (the school, not the London Bridge wine bar). And like Milo, not a single one of them knew a thing about wine, including the waiter trying (and failing) to get an American tourist’s phone number.
Very quickly, Milo understood that he could make wine his entire personality. If you’ve been to a small plates restaurant, you’ve seen Milo. He’s usually perched at the bar with his current Hinge date saying something like: ‘This is a tarty little wine. Pure filth. You wouldn’t marry this wine, but you’d certainly take it back to the Premier Inn and have some fun. Put it this way: you wouldn’t want your mother meeting this wine.’ He prefers to drink wines that smell like Grandad’s bunions and taste like apple cider vinegar. His favourites are pét nat, unfiltered Beaujolais (chilled) and anything orange with bits floating in it. He refers to wines as being ‘flabby’ or ‘high in minerality’ but has no idea what that means. If the bottle has a drawing of a nude woman on it, Milo has to buy it. He’ll then say something like, ‘I love wine that empowers women.’ After that, he’ll ask his Hinge date if she’s open to one-sided polyamory.
When asked what Milo loves about wine, he tends to deploy the same answer: ‘I love wine because wine is life. Jesus knew that. That’s why he turned water into wine. I’m not religious, by the way. Religion is the opium of the people. I saw that on a t-shirt once, haha. But yeah, I just think there’s something so sensual about the winemaking process. Are you single? Haha.’
Milo has failed the WSET Level 1 Award in Wines twice. He tells people it’s because he hates writing essays – this doesn’t make any sense because the exam is multiple-choice. Regardless, his oenological shortcomings haven’t deterred him from starting his own wine Instagram page. Here, he posts photos of himself biting his cheeks and holding bottles of plonk bought by the Bank of Mum and Dad, or what he likes to call ‘Daddy’s dirty Tory money’. He tells his Hinge dates that he votes Labour. In truth, Milo doesn’t vote. Not out of protest, but because he can’t be arsed to register.
Wine is just a passing fancy for Milo. He’ll soon move on to something else. Perhaps cooking. Or maybe padel. He’s always thought he’d make a good DJ. But for now, wine is Milo’s life. At least that’s what he tells the jaded wine waiter as he pours himself another glass of Sicilian low-intervention Catarratto and tries not to gag from the smell.
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