Another tall tale from the wine bar philosophy group at the Withered Grape,
reported by Ian McLaren

 

The new wine salesman had been entertained by the cook at the Palace. He had softened her dour, economical soul with some samples of Port – ‘Of course they have very little alcohol, dear Mrs Twinge, just enough to lift the spirits a little’. Then he had little difficulty in selling her a cheap consignment of his company’s Piat Creek Light Red: fizzy, pink and 2%.

The wagon-load of wine arrived the following week. The salesman had renewed his acquaintance with the denizen on the kitchen, delivered the invoice to the front door, and started unloading.

The locals who were wending their way to the shops or a pub for a lunchtime half couldn’t believe it. A man in a smart suit rocketed off the path, and dropped neatly between the posts of the village rugby pitch. A large, dishevelled man yelled ‘drop goal’, then bent down suddenly to rub his toes. What had the king been up to this time?

The king was still roaring with pain and fury when he crashed through the door of the Withered Grape. “Psychopath!” he yelled, amidst the stream of profanity. “How dare he?” Two large brandies and 40 seconds later, the king was restored to normality – the swearing was only between gulps of grape spirit and at half the previous volume.

The barman to asked him what the matter was. In reply, the king waved the invoice. He turned a deeper shade of purple, and raised his voice to the previous level. “What have she done?” he demanded of the disconcerted host. “This is a delivery note for 50 cases of tasteless low-alcohol wine. Who is going to drink that?” You will have to take it off my hands. The expostulations and complaints from the other regulars denied this was an option: they had no intention of getting used to fizzy 2% rosé.

The salesman had barely dragged himself out of the bushes beyond the rugby pitch when the crowds descended on him, harnessed him to his wagon and threw the whole rig into the river. Impaled on the driver’s seat with a tarnished chip-fork was the infamous contract, endorsed ‘Rescinded by order of His Majesty’.

It was quite a long swim back to the headquarters of the Piat Creek Corporation.

July 2008