It’s reviewed along with another book on Waugh by Henry Hitchings in the Times Literary Supplement:
“Looking back over my career to date, and at all the people I have insulted, I am mildly surprised that I am still allowed to exist”, wrote Auberon Waugh in 1980. For the remaining twenty-one years of his life he took pleasure in adding to his list of victims. Feminism and AIDS were bracketed together as “plagues”, ramblers were “semi-uniformed thugs”, the “lower classes” appeared “ugly, boring, humourless and desperately conceited”, and the female delegates at a Labour Party conference struck him as “either hunch-backed or hairy-legged or obviously lesbian”. It’s natural to associate such views with an age now pretty remote. But Waugh was born in the same year as John Cleese and Margaret Drabble; he was younger than Jilly Cooper and Vanessa Redgrave, John Prescott and David Dimbleby. Were he still alive, he would not yet be eighty.
[…]
A lot has changed since the period that Waugh on Wine covers. The British mass market is no longer in the grip of a “depraved” taste for semi-sweet wine. The drinkers he has in mind when he refers solecistically to “the hoi polloi” do not exhibit a “passion for filth” by favouring cheap Teutonic gut-rot. Pink champagne is easy to find, and Chianti is no longer the preserve of nurses hosting dinners in fifth-floor flatshares in Fulham. A large proportion of the most sought-after French wines now end up in Chinese cellars. The globalization of demand has stretched prices. When Waugh complains about the cost of 1982’s most rarefied clarets, he proposes as an alternative Château Léoville-Las Cases at £9 a bottle; anyone thinking of laying down its 2018 counterpart will have to find around twenty-five times that amount.
The durability of a few of Waugh’s claims is hard to assess. For instance, do the “semi-professional poules de luxe on the fringes of café society” continue to disappoint their admirers by failing to serve good vintage port? Yet much remains as it was. Dry white Bordeaux still doesn’t have a great following in Britain. Neither, more regrettably, do the best German wines. It is true that in America “only obvious alcoholics drink anything like as much as the ordinary English professional”. The British still go on holiday to France and return full of hyperbolic enthusiasm for some local plonk that they have been inspired to import in large quantities – only to find, once it arrives in Blighty, that it is no more potable than the contents of a fish tank. There is a certain prescience, too, in Waugh’s remark that the best wines are, increasingly, beyond English pockets “shrunk by the growing indolence, incompetence and indiscipline of our island race”.
Waugh writes entertainingly about the social life of the drinker: “A tremendous amount of unnecessary suffering goes on under the name of Liebfraumilch“. An enterprising young wine merchant is portrayed as someone who “in earlier times, might have spread terror among the fat galleons of the Spanish main”. He shies away from no quarrel: with greedy producers, covetous investors “who treat fine wine like rare postage stamps”, and wine merchants who spew out empurpled hype. Oddly, though, he clings to the belief that people choose wine in order to impress their friends, not to gratify their own palates, and he likes to pretend that perplexity exists where in fact there is none – “Aperitifs are not to be confused with aperients, which are laxatives designed to open the bowels”.
[…] Reflecting later on the effects of his “camped up” approach to writing about wine, he provided what could be taken as an epitaph for an entire stratum of maverick journalism: “I am not sure that it helps much, but it is more amusing to read”.
H/T again to Colby Cosh for the link.
