21 May 2022
Picton Bay Marlborough NZ 2021
Here we are back, in front of a computer, with a glassful of Trader Joes’ swill. Or is it??? I’ve actually been drinking this wine for years. On the nose, unmistakable NZ Savvy, Guava and peach, and wow, not that much more. Here we get to a moment where I could be a real critical prick. And I will, but only out of professionalism, not for the sake of it. Now, I kinda like this, but it has all the complexity of a Trump supporter. Meanwhile, I’ve given up all hope of having a normal and creative evening. Therefore, I’ve settled in to this lost day, this bottle of abject boredom, an episode or 20 of 8 out of 10 Cats Do Countdown, and the soft and steady droning of the dishwasher. I don’t exactly have an exit strategy, as I took a nap around 1400 because about 200g of fried rice is enough to send me into a geriatric coma. About this nap, no one wants to hear about someone else’s dreams, but I am in a sadist phase, and therefore I will, and with entire sincerity, state that I dreamt of a very suburban version of the car chase in Bullitt, whereby I’m being chased by an obese sociopath dressed in a red and orange clown suit, that ended on bicycles, in a dodgy block of high rise council flats, in some overwhelmingly beige American City. I’m pretty sure, I was wearing what Ino Paalman would call a Frank Fiorello suit, meaning some archetypal Yank detective in the 70’s, also beige, and miraculously unstained. All of this is a distraction, from how I do NOT want to finish this bottle, but rather, I would rather dig deep into my shallow cellar, and pull up something that elicits a bit more intrigue. Following the style of my creative mentor, Karl Pilkington, I will digress within the ongoing narrative, rather than edit to state that it is, in fact, Frank Furillo of Hill Street Blues. Meanwhile, my evening has shifted to Sodoma Reykjavik, a disaster of a film, set in Suburban Iceland in the very stylish 80’s. What’s funny, is that I’ve seen this, but I remember fuck-all, as it is truly awful. That said, the Scando-Mid-century housing is mental. Typical of Iceland as well, the male characters are odious and shallow, the women are complex (unlike Picton Bay Sav Blanc), gorgeous, and capable of solving problems.