The Wineman

I was up so early this morning I met the wineman in his little winefloat delivering the fresh wine to everybody’s doorsteps and whistling a very merry tune.

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As so often, he had crashed the winefloat onto the roundabout, so many of the bottles in his wine crate were broken and he was trailing wine up and down our garden paths.

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He didn’t seem to mind at all and gave me a cheery wave which caused him to overbalance and land in a holly bush, which he didn’t seem to mind at all.

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Morning just isn’t the same if you don’t have fresh red wine to pour over your cereal.

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Many people are just not people until they’ve had their cuppa of hot white wine with a teabag in!

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Dead posh people have their champagne plumbed in, but for us plebs, there’s nothing like a cheery bottle of Asti Spu upon the doorstep!

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Remember when winters were so cold that the wine on your doorstep froze solid in the bottles?

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The glass would shatter, and it’d be like you had a set of skittles: six moulded from urine, six from blood.

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Remember that time we found the wineman frozen in his winefloat, and we had to put him in the bath and mull him in his own wine with orange peel and cinnamon sticks?

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Remember that look in his eyes when he finally came to – like a hate-filled stoat or an atheistical otter.

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