Whine of the Week: Fucking Pedestrians

Picture this: soft jazz playing from the wireless, a wine glass gently resting between your thumb and two fingers while you engage in a heated whinge about a topic on the lips of Cantabs.

This is w(h)ine of the week; a review of a lively bottle of plonk with added mulling spices of criticism thrown in for good measure. Crack open a bottle think about anything you hate and read on.

This week I started off with a bottle of Mont Rocher Carignan Vieilles Vignes, which hails from old vines in the Languedoc region of the South of France and is £7.49 from the Cambridge Wine Merchants. A clean red which, despite its young 2013 vintage, had low tannin and acidity with a subtle violet flavour.

One of the easiest reds I have ever drunk, not bad for consumption in volume.

Clean and fun wine, much like an episode of Bake Off.

Rating: 3 star

Value for money: 7/10

The clean simple red stands in stark contrast to Cambridge’s semi pedestrianised roads.

Whichever idiot at Cambridge city council decided to disguise the main thoroughfares as pedestrian friendly zones, should be taken to Switzerland and given a lethal injection next their demented mother. The number of fudging times I’ve nearly crashed into tourists, old women or three year old children while cycling, is comparable to the number of ways I wish I could kill Miley Cyrus (a lot).

Way number 35: ricin laced safety pin in the eye.

Put yourself in the eyes of a newcomer to Cambridge. You are walking along the pavement, it’s a little crowded so you think, “Hey I’ll just move into the centre of this sort of pavement looking road”. Smack. I come in like a wrecking ball and there is only the city council to blame. Your broken ribs, my blood stained front wheel and tardiness to lectures can all be blamed on lackadaisical town planning.

Roads are for fucking vehicles, street parties and Victorian children with hoops and sticks, not large groups of Spanish school children or Asian women taking pictures of themselves with phones mounted on telescopic poles.

Get out of my way!

In my world there would be hard mettled tarmac, with dead badgers strewn at the side near double yellow lines. Then people would know it was a fucking road and not get in my way. If anyone gets hurt while I wait for things to change, then I guess I’ll change my name to Haig, the butcher of Sydney Street.

I will write a letter of complaint, but only after my second glass of wine and once this Miles Davis track ends.