“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





07 April 2016


Crunkable Skunk Mountaintop Ranga Grinjablisto 2074 

I just really love going to dinner with these coolies up there with the vines in the rocks and no rows.  It’s so cool.  Everybody’s so peaceful.  They make this wine in a thing made out of all their worn-out jumpers and beanies soaked in pine resin and mud and you can breath every bit of the life they’ve had through the beautiful natural grooblies.  You can tell the wine is made by somebody who talks real quiet and has a lot of shit in their car and is probably called something like Fernly Moss or Starre Grazer.  You wouldn’t take your shotgun up there.  It probably wouldn’t discharge on account of the vibe.  But you can see the littlies stabbing their grandparents’ woofers and tweeters with knitting needles and chopsticks while the intermediary generation hums aw that’s cool baby, that’s so cool and the speakers start making a noise like a plane crash slowed right down and everyone chills right out. And the wine?  Man this wine is so stacked with goodness you can’t see through it, and it’s white!  When you encourage so much life to thrive in an ongoing living thing like this it’s more of a movie than a drink. Neither digital nor emulsional.  It’s bioillogical fructal Fibobrot mandelaci living shit! Chill. 

Junketpants Flora di Pecule 2034 

Rarely do we see a gloop as alliaceous and caprine as the ’34 Junketpants.  Push back your lussie toosk, dicht the gurr, pass your krater the trentlet virmish it deserves and waller til your trapple’s globus. Wet da sleb and the plenilunary hairst is immediately evident.  Nae swash for the peerie bairn, parvenu or parviscient, the damn thing reeks so strong of rosmarine miasma and gutriv effluvia you’ll be yearning to ozeanischlück it with pilticks in your porridge. On the other hand, served cold – fifteen minutes in the ice bucket is suffice – it will just as well accompany pets de nonne, or, in extreme conditions, maybe a stack of petit pets de putain.  On the whole, it’s a powerful indicator of the force and flexibility of Flora di Pecule: a variety deserving much more attention in the hallowed halls of academe [take note Swine Research Institute!] This is probly a wee prod personal but if his Mither'd permit it Proust would have been  proud to use a tincture like this in his Search For Lost Time had he the moment to spare and this mug in his mit.  Who knows the volumes of wonder it would have weweased? Vín kallak that! Fuck my temples, Lothar!

photo and old notepad illos©Philip White

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