Nurse the Hate: Still Hating WSET Fortifieds

I have been drinking an astonishing amount of fortified wines.  I can now tell the difference blind between a ruby port, reserve ruby port and “private reserve” port.  While my WSET overlords will be pleased that I can do this, it’s really an indication of standing on the doorstep of hardcore alcoholism.  People like ruby port, and by “people”, I mean derelicts that smell like urine and enjoy the 20% fortified alcohol of cheap port.  It’s sort of the Colt .45 Malt Liquor of wine.  I wonder if guys that knock back $4 bottles of port have a phase in their buzz where they think they are like Billy Dee Williams and assume that “it works every time” like a sweet love juice?  I have got to get over to Portugal and ask around.  I have a hard time imagining Halle Berry nuzzling up to me with a glass of Taylor’s. 

I am now awaiting a shipment of Madeira.  There are four bottles of Madeira in the shipment or what is commonly referred to in America as “a lifetime supply”.  Krusty was over here last week and like a raccoon got into my small reserve of Madeira.  I don’t know if he was feeling colonial or something, but that dude knocked back a half bottle of sercial Madeira like it was juice.  The last time someone in America drank a half bottle of Madeira was in 1779 and was left stumbling around in buckled Pilgrim shoes talking shit about the British.  I half expected Krusty to start shouting about “motherfucking Brexit fucking up my wifi signal” (which is probably true by the way).

I am going to completely descend into it this weekend.  Olorosos and Bual Maderia.  Banyuls and Colheita port.  Manzanilla and fino sherries.  Rutherglens and palo cortados.  At a certain point I will lurch outside in my underwear mumbling about “you filthy sons of bitches” while the bassets wander around shitting wantonly about the general area.  The good news is that I will be not a dangerous drunk but rather “deeply appreciating fortifieds”.  I will probably have some shame afterwards when I remember neighborhood mothers retrieving their children from my view as I savagely barf into the hedge, but they will later honor me when I have achieved the Mighty WSET Fortified Lapel Pin.

I am picturing a ceremony in Olde London where I stride confidently to a stage or altar and receive this lapel pin with a crowd of admirers excitedly exploding with appreciation when it is pinned on me.  The ancient building will reek of pomp and importance.  Afterwards I will hold court at a small reception where admirers will curry for my favor.  They will gather around me laughing uproariously at my smallest remark.  I will later discard them to attend a performance of Beethoven with a disinterested local beauty on my arm while holding a magnum of Krug in hand.  I will serenely sip the champagne and listen to the music while she gazes her crystal blue eyes at my lapel pin with wonder.  

I have another month until my exam.  My goal is to slink to Spain and see where they make the sherry no one drinks.  I will wear my lucha libre mask.  I will eat jamon.  I will pass out in my hotel room from too much sherry and wet myself.  I will then quietly slip out of the hotel and call my credit card company, suggesting it was someone using a stolen identity that had used the hotel room like a urinal and later purchased inexpensive underwear at a nearby discount store.  Whatever it takes, I will do.  I will not be stopped.