Diary of a Wine Clubber - Day 9

Day 9 of nominating myself to do 12 wine reviews in 12 days…. And I am ahead of schedule (this is bottle 10!).


Last night I pulled out the ‘Little Jack, Organic Cabernet Sauvignon, 2019… By Horner Wines’. Nice little play on words. I’m straight to thinking about poor old Little Jack Horner. Sitting in the Corner. I want to say ‘Eating his curds and whey’, but he wasn’t doing that was he? He was eating pie of some description. It must have been pie, because he stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum and said what a good boy am I? Christmas Pie?! Yuck!! Yuck to the pie, but also…. get your fingers out of it Jack, you little germ.

Bullying is complex, but I'm going to bet my left flap that Little Jack Horner copped it rough. I don’t even want to give you the full visual description that I have in my head, but I am pretty sure one hand was on the pie, the other was firmly squeezing his little cock. Not sexually. Just with awkwardness. Some boys do that. Ok, fine. I'm trying my hardest not to shoot him down, but he was sitting in the corner with his thumb in a pie, feeling all proud of himself. It sounds like a scene from Bad Boy Bubby if you ask me. ‘That me pie!’.


Anyway, from reading the label (which I did before I drank this one) it seems that the wine maker's surname is Horner, therefore his nickname became Jack. This makes sense.

This got me thinking about nicknames. I’ve had a few. ‘Larry’ is my most recent one from my roller derby days, but my first ever nickname was ‘Smartie’. I was named this by my Year 2 primary school teachers. Not for being intelligent or even for being a 'smart'-arse. No. This was because of the one lunchtime time that I had had to make an urgent call for help after one of the chocolate smarties that I had purposely lodged in my nostrils for the entertainment of the schoolyard crowds, never came back out.


I’m no doctor, but it’s common knowledge that if you head further North from your nostril, that’s the direct route to your brain. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. This was a Code Red Class Clown emergency. I was scared. The fact that no-one else was concerned, wasn’t helping. I asked my best friend to get help, and warned her ‘please don’t tell anyone’. No-one came to help, and of course, she told everyone. Every teacher in the school seemed to have immediately signed my name change documentation and from then on I was known as ‘Smartie’. Cunts. No wonder I want to bully Little Jack Horner. I still have lingering anger displacement issues. It might be obvious.


A few years later, I earned myself a new title. Finally!


I was a strong swimmer when I was young, so it didn't take me many school sports days to earn the nickname, 'Fish’. I was proud of this title. I remember my Year 4 swimming teacher laying on the hot concrete on the side of the pool, demonstrating ‘side-stroke’, using the analogy of ‘Pick an apple, put in the basket. Pick an apple put in the basket’. I knew how to pick apples. And I knew how to to put them in the basket. The other kids really struggled. They flopped in the water, attempting their own versions of sideways breast stroke. I’ve seen people have seizures with more coordination than that.


Side-stroke quickly became my favourite stroke. I still hold the Side-Stroke Record at the Heathcote Public Swimming Pool. What a champion. Ok, so Side Stroke technically isn’t even a stroke anymore, but that just means that title is mine, forever. Winner.


Oh yeah, hey, back to the wine! Let’s keep it short…. This one wasn't my favourite, but it initiated some good nick name conversations over dinner..... so let's go with a 7/10. Cheers Jack.


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