Wine

There are different ways to approach the tyranny of Dry January. One is to drink in secret. Another is to indulge only on feast days. Personally I have always refused to make January a miserable and puritan month, which means finding excellent red wine to transition from Christmas exuberance to the long, drawn-out evenings of the new year. And so the quest to find the perfect January red begins. It should not be too expensive, but nor should it be a false economy. After the excesses of December, value is key. Readers are forgiven for pursuing a bargain in the January sales – we have all done it. But the truth is many discounted offerings represent exactly the kind of wines one should not be drinking. They are the rejects, the failures, the lesser vintages.

Perhaps because of the Flanders and Swann song in which a louche older gentleman tries to lure a younger lady to bed with Madeira wine, the drink has unfairly acquired a fusty image. While port and sherry have experienced a resurgence, Madeira remains underappreciated despite the fact it stands as a proud monument to the grand old Anglo-Portuguese alliance. One man, Jamie Allsopp, is intent on fighting a noble battle to promote the virtues of Madeira. And so to the Blue Stoops, Allsopp Brewery’s newish pub on Kensington Church Street, for their second annual Game and Madeira Dinner, named after the site in Burton-on-Trent where Jamie’s ancestors first brewed Allsopp’s Ale in 1730.

Towards the end of the war, a young Guards officer met some Italian aristocrats. They had much in common. Robert Cecil was the heir to a marquessate. The Principe di Venosa’s daughter was married to an Italian marchese. Lifelong friendships have ensued down the recent generations. Nevertheless, the English family would be the first to concede that when it comes to generations, the Italians are a couple of centuries ahead. In 1385, Giovanni di Piero joined the Florentine winemakers’ guild. The easy movement between the Florentine bourgeoisie and the aristocracy helps to explain that great city’s long success: the Medici are the obvious example, as are the Antinori, who have been making wine for 26 generations, and are still gaining momentum.

The world is in an even greater mess than was apparent. I am not referring to Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan or other swamps of mayhem and misery, although they are bad enough. No: the new crisis is in France, and it has two malign and reinforcing aspects. First, large numbers of the younger French have given up drinking wine. It is not clear what they are substituting: Coca-Cola, perhaps. If so, God help us (and them). A Frenchman who does not drink wine is a disgrace to his history and heritage. After the liberation in 1944, and in order to punish collaborators, the new French government created a crime: indignité nationale. As it is presumably still on the statute book, it could surely be used to bring condemnation on those who collaborate with teetotalism, or Coke.

Solemn, moving, serious: British. As silence fell and the wreaths were lain, even teenagers joined in the mood of reverence. Suddenly it did not matter what the gossip columns were saying about Andrew Mountbatten Windsor, or what latest mischief might arise from the Duchess of Sussex. The great ship of state and of history sailed on serenely. The sacrifices of a previous generation were saluted. They had paid the price for their Britishness. We, their successors, unworthy as we might feel, could at least salute them, especially as good bottles were about to be opened, to toast the fallen. Yet there was a problem far more important than princely indiscretions. We British won the war. Since then, we have defended the peace. Hard fighting is a tough business.

We were drinking Israeli wine as the talk ranged from frivolity to seriousness: from Donald Trump to the tragic paradoxes of the human condition. Some would claim we were discussing the same topic, yet this may not be the time to disrespect the US President. I once described Ariel Sharon as a bulldozer with a Ferrari engine. It was one of the many tragedies to have afflicted Israel/Palestine that just when he had decided to bulldoze for peace, he should have been stricken with a massive stroke. One reason I love being in Israel is that one is never more than 50 yards from an argument Now a new and mighty piece of earth-moving equipment is dominating the landscape.

Last weekend, I was in England: among two very diverse aspects of the nation. In recent months, every Saturday, central London has been plagued by demonstrations. I suppose that there must be a right to protest. But what about the right to mosey around Westminster and Whitehall without blocked roads and with any hope of peace and quiet? Last Saturday saw the largest manifestation of all: less of a protest than an English uprising – a flag-waving two-fingered revolt against the liberal intelligentsia. I kept well clear, having no wish to be caught up or kettled, and later there were attacks on the police. This should lead to jail sentences. Two conclusions could be drawn.