Jonathan Ray

I have quite the spring in my step as I write and no, clever clogs, not just because of my regular mid-morning sharpener, satisfying and restorative though it was. What do you take me for? No, it’s because I have nothing but good news to impart this week and I’m confident that your happiness is secure. We have six very tasty, exceedingly easy-going wines on offer this week; we have an extremely generous 20 per cent discount on all bottles and — yippee! — our celebrated Spectator Winemaker Lunches are back with a bang, kicking off on Friday 17 September with many more to follow.

Klaxon alert! Calling all wine lovers! Whatever you’re doing, stop it this instant and read this immediately for we have a bona fide belter of an offer this week: an exclusive on the newly released 2015 Chateau Musar. Thanks to our chums at Mr Wheeler and their longstanding relationship with the estate, Spectator readers have first shout on this magnificent wine and if you like Musar — and come on, everyone likes Musar — I beg you to get stuck in. I’m assured that the 2015 vintage cannot currently be bought anywhere else in the UK.

We’re looking back so as to look forward this week. It has been such a rotten 18 months that in order to greet our longed-for freedom in appropriate bottle-draining style, we’re revisiting highlights of past FromVineyardsDirect offers. Previous vintages of all the bottles below have been huge hits with readers and I have every confidence these new incarnations will hit the bull’s-eye too when the shackles finally come off on 19 July. It’s a sort of vinous These You Have Loved. The 2020 Rive Droite, Rive Gauche (1) from vineyards on both banks of the Rhône is as tasty a Côtes du Rhône Blanc as you will find. A blend of Grenache Blanc, Bourboulenc and Viognier, it’s dry but creamy with delicate hints of apricot. £9.

Robin Yapp, the dentist-turned-wine merchant who founded Yapp Bros in 1969, used to scare the pants off my poor father on forays to France. A somewhat insouciant driver, Robin would belt along in his ancient right-hand-drive estate car, foot to the floor, with his mind on other things. Every now and then, mid-anecdote, he would drift languidly into the left lane to overtake whatever French fool impeded his progress. My father, white-faced in the passenger seat, would gulp at the oncoming camions and yell ‘No, NO, back, BACK, something’s coming!’ as Robin coasted casually back to the correct side and continued his story.

After a monumental, liver-challenging but heart-lifting and even tear-inducing 12-hour lunch with Fuzzy, Nigel and co, we’re back with a bang. We drank, we danced and we hiccoughed our happy way home as if Covid and the long, spirit-sapping lockdowns had never happened. And so, jabbed and double-jabbed, drinks in hand, here we are strolling on the sunlit foothills of Mount Hope. Everything is possible and normality is just around the corner. Hurrah! Indeed, let me present to you my reworking of that beloved acronym SNAFU: Situation Normal All Fabulously Uplifting. The sun is out, the birds are singing and it’s hard, even for a grumpy pessimist/realist like me, not to feel happy and excited.

I haven’t been to Le Marche for yonks. Heck, I haven’t been anywhere for yonks. Who has? My last jaunt abroad was an overnight flit to Paris in February last year. It was huge fun, with the opera followed by such an exhaustive bar crawl that I needn’t have booked a hotel. I only went there to retrieve my bag and have a pee before legging it to the Gare du Nord. I pine to go away properly and I pine for Italy’s Le Marche especially. Sandwiched between the Apennines and the Adriatic, Le Marche has everything that Tuscany and Umbria have, minus the crowds and the prices (I’m talking pre-Covid of course).

After the debacle of my crash landing at The Griffin the other week, Mrs Ray has been keeping a frustratingly close eye on me and I’ve been forced to take it easy. It turns out that I’m on some sort of probation and spend much of my time on the naughty step alongside No. 2 son, banished thither for too much cocktail-making and too little A-level swotting. We keep our spirits up by discussing what we’re going to do once his wretched exams and this ghastly lockdown are both over. Next week can’t come soon enough for either of us and we have big plans. Big plans. It’s brilliant timing, then, for this peach of an offer from our chums at Mr Wheeler. We’ve offered the wines of Domaine de la Jasse before and readers greedily hoovered them up.

I think it’s fair to say that I overshot the runway at The Griffin the other day. So excited was I to be out and about, large glass in hand, mixing with much-missed mates on the East Sussex gastropub’s fabled ‘Serengeti’ terrace, that I foolishly didn’t keep as close an eye on the speedometer as I should have done. Bottle followed bottle and by the time the patron’s postprandial limoncello appeared, I was completely undone. Happy, but undone. I slept through most of Mrs Ray’s finger-wagging in the cab on the way home but got the gist — ‘undignified’ and ‘at your age’ being the constant refrains. The trouble is — as I pointed out before dropping off — I love the taste of wine.

We’re so nearly there. This time next month, groups of six will be able to dine the night away indoors and then, just five weeks later, we’ll be free. Hurrah! Happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again, dum-de-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum. I simply cannot wait. I miss my mates, I miss the bottles we share and I miss the nonsense we spout as the dregs are drained and the kummel is unleashed. Happily, our shackles are being shed just as we enjoy the most beautiful part of the year: spring, in all its hope-inducing glory. In other words, it’s prime rosé season and time for our annual offer from Le Roi de Rosé himself, Sacha Lichine, proprietor of everyone’s favourite pinkers: Whispering Angel.

Crikey, I worked up quite a sweat putting this one together. But you know me, always the team player. After selflessly draining dozens of bottles on your behalf, I finally cracked it with this bumper Antipodean selection showcasing two countries, seven regions/producers and ten different varieties/blends. Don’t say I don’t try. We in the UK drink more Aussie wine than we do wine from anywhere else and we spend more on average per bottle on New Zealand wine than on anyone else’s. In short, we Brits love the wines from Down Under and the following bottles give the perfect illustration of why. The Kiwis have grown Sauvignon Blanc only since 1974 and the SBs of Marlborough in particular are celebrated the world over.

The last time I drank mead was 7 April 1978. It was my 18th birthday and —unforgettably — it was snowing heavily. My chum Mark had bought me a bottle of Lindisfarne Mead which I knocked back on top of several Tequila Sunrises, a bottle of Black Tower and a few Brandy Alexanders. This toxic mix took its toll and I was violently sick during an all-comers’ snowball fight the length of the Fulham Road, before getting arrested for being drunk and disorderly outside the Café des Artistes at 3 a.m. I only mention this because my younger son, Ludo, is now 18 and has developed a serious mead habit.

Mrs Ray and I are barely speaking. When she accompanied me to my appointment with the vaccinator yesterday, she loudly declared that when it comes to needles I’m something of a fainter and that she had stay and hold my hand. This is utter tosh of course, unless you count that time my dentist thought it would be funny to mutter ‘Is it safe?’ from the film Marathon Man whilst waving a massive seven-gauge syringe in my face and I collapsed in a heap. ‘We’ve got a fainter!’ yelled the security guard yesterday and the shout went down the line until the head nurse was called and I was ushered into a private room complete with bed, vaccinator and a 20st rugby player called Kevin, there to catch me when I fell.

Hold on to your hats folks for this is one heck of an offer, nothing short of a good old-fashioned Spectator scoop. I humbly suggest that you must be either crazy or teetotal to overlook it. We’ve five wines, all from Anthony Hamilton Russell in South Africa, of which two — the 2020 Hamilton Russell Vineyards Chardonnay and the 2020 Hamilton Russell Vineyards Pinot Noir — are not available to buy anywhere else in the UK until Easter at the earliest. Our old mates at Private Cellar have cannily sourced the initial UK allocation of both wines (50 six-bottle boxes of each) and Laura Taylor, PC’s marketing director, has generously agreed to offer first dibs to readers of The Spectator. Laura, thank you!

OK, so that stone I put on during the first lockdown and then managed — very smugly — to lose, thanks to my patented ‘don’t-eat-anything-white-and-ditch-the-chocolate-you-idiot’ diet… well, I’ve put the whole darn thing on again. Every bloody pound. I was 13st 2lb, then 14st 2lb, then 13st 2lb and now I’m flipping well back to 14st 2lb. Grrr! As the pounds fell away, I gaily bought thin clothes online which now don’t fit. And since the fat clothes I used to wear were binned in a fit of misplaced optimism, I find myself somewhat between wardrobes. Thank goodness there’s nowhere to go, no one to see and Zoom — if one’s careful — is only from the neck up.

I don’t know about you but I’m now comfortably back in the saddle after a serious but ultimately doomed attempt at dry January. My corkscrew and I are inseparable friends once more and it’s as if I’d never been away. Wet February here I come! I ache for uncorking time — which Mrs Ray and I have currently set to 7 p.m., with an option to bring it forward an hour if either of us is struggling. I have a daily mantra as I ready myself for yet another night stuck chez nous. Wine is made to be drunk… it’s good for us (I know, I know, in moderation)… we need our pleasures… no need to go crazy… break yourself in gently… drink less but better… such God-given delights are there to be enjoyed… and so on.

Dry January? Are you kidding? What dry January? I’m sorry, but I really don’t think this is the year to be considering such things. Having sought a number of opinions, the consensus was this: don’t be such an idiot, now is not the time. At Mrs Ray’s behest I did try my best, though, and managed almost three weeks before discovering a well hidden but fully stocked bar on my careening wagon. I was undone in a trice and have been grinning ever since. Anyway, we’ve made it to the cusp of February and, courtesy of FromVineyardsDirect, I’m delighted to present the ideal wines with which to fill the gaps left by Christmas, NYE and bloody lockdown. As we all know, a Muscadet keeps the doctor away and the 2016 Comte Leloup du Ch.