So
PK gets one of his mad enthusiasms, insisting that he's found
something that I cannot afford to pass up and that, whatever it is,
it has got me written all the way through it like a stick of Brighton
rock. Turns out he's referring to the SPAR autumn winefest rather
than a Bentley, but I am no match for his implacable energies and
have to admit that, yes, an hour spent poking around a small shabby
supermarket chain looking for rock-bottom wines is pretty much my
idea of a good time.
Not
that you could tell this from the associated SPAR press release,
which waves its arms frantically as it announces 'A
host of fantastic quality SPAR brand wines' to be 'Backed by
extensive marketing support including consumer press advertising, POS
material, in-store tastings and PR.' Apparently, 'SPAR’s spring
Wine Festival earlier this year saw sparkling success', while 'As a
mark of their fantastic quality, a host of SPAR brand wines have been
recognised by the international wine trade this year'. SPAR is
actually a Dutch company, its name originally De
Spar,
an acronym for Door
Eendrachtig Samenwerken Profiteren Allen Regelmatig,
or Everyone
Regularly Profits Through United Collaboration,
which has a nice 1930's collectivist ring to it, a hint of North
Korea. Equally, and at the same time, it is not what you'd call a
glamour destination, usually found in largeish villages in the
sticks, or at the marginally more weed-strewn ends of smallish
towns.
In
fact it takes me a while to locate my nearest SPAR, which although
not a million miles as the crow flies, involves a forty-minute drive
of scarcely plausible complexity at the end of which I find myself
parking my car round the back of an Isthmian League football ground
amid a heap of yellowing newspapers and discarded crisp packets. As I
walk away from it, I turn and raise my hand in tremulous farewell,
expecting never to see the vehicle again.
On
the other hand, I am right next door to the SPAR, which turns out to
be a local micromart with a few sausage rolls slumbering in a warmer and some copies of Closer
on the rack. The in-store
wine tastings and PR are either not there or so subtly done that they
are invisible. In fact wine of any sort is almost invisible, so
cunningly spread over three different locations within the store that
it keeps coming as a surprise to me to find anything stonger than
Listerene on the shelves.
Still.
I elbow aside a pensioner and an obese schoolchild and get down to
business. There is a dusty knot of wine giveaways (two for a tenner,
white and
red)
on a shelf at about knee height but no, I am strong and head
remorselessly for things that look like they might be part of the big
SPAR Autumn Wine Event. I find the usual suspects, Wolf Blass, Gallo
brothers' Turning Leaf, that kind of thing, but no again, you can get
these anywhere, especially at the local newsagent, what I want is
something authentically SPAR, and after what seems like a lifetime of
fuddled probings under the increasingly scornful gaze of the guy
behind the counter, I find a bottle of Valencia Vino Tinto at £5.49
and another of Valencia Vino Blanco for a mere £4.99.
Both 'Hand Selected By WIne Experts For SPAR' it says comfortingly
on the label, and although the choice in this particular outlet is
nothing
like
the range listed on the SPAR website (e.g. the SPAR Bronze
Award-winning Chablis, or the SPAR Commended Montepulciano, with full
heavy-breathing text accompaniment) it's near enough and the stuff
comes home with me.
Taste
sensations? Could be worse: the white (no grape varieties named)
gives you a spritz of citrus at the start with a quick burp of
acidity at the end and nothing much in between, but there's nothing
wrong with that. Similarly, the red (no grape varieties named) has a
bit of Fruit Gums, a bit of Sarsons Malt Vinegar, and a nice, chesty
finish that can be felt between the shoulderblades. It does the job,
and what else did I expect? I mean if Waitrose can make me feel that
they're doing me a favour when they sell me their everyday drinking
rust remover, then I'm not going to complain about SPAR's more
self-effacing take on the same stuff.
My
only grievance is nothing much to do with the wine and more to do
with SPAR's half-arsed, indeed, faintly tragic, idea of what
constitutes a promotion. Where are the tables with gingham
tablecloths? Where are the glossy brochures? I mean, they've got
something worth celebrating: a selection of borderline drinkable
wines at marginally approachable prices. Let's not hide it like a
guilty secret among the Dreft and the Maltesers. Let's get behind it.
Let's be proud, in a low-rent kind of way. Let's shout it from the
rooftops, or failing that, from the junction of the A238 and the
A2043, just south of Norbiton Station.
CJ
Spar... havn't a clue where one is near me. I really should rush out and find it. When I say rush...
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