No screwtop can match the use, beauty and moral significance of a cork

Throughout life I have suffered from my cacophonous surname, now whispered into the pillows of Islington children so as to frighten them into their postmodern gender roles: "Play with dolls, you wicked boy, or the Big Bad Scrute will get you." It began at school, where I was "Screwy" to the masses, "Screwtape" to the literate and "Screwtop" to those who wished to draw attention to the mound of red hair, the crowning defect of a creature whose unfitness for human society was apparent in his every tormented gesture. This does not lead me to look kindly on the screwtop bottle. But it does prompt reflection on the use and the beauty of corks.

To the naive observer, the cork is there to keep the wine in the bottle and the air out of it, with the result that 5 per cent of vintage wines are "corked" - meaning spoiled by a defective stopper. To such an observer, the screwtop is the answer. I would respectfully retort that the risk of corking is essential to the ritual. Drinking precious wine is preceded by an elaborate process of preparation, which has much in common with the ablutions that preceded ancient religious sacrifices. The bottle is retrieved from some secret place where the gods have kept it guarded; it is brought reverentially to the table, dusted off and uncorked with a slow and graceful movement while the guests watch in awed silence. The sudden "pop" that then occurs is like a sacramental bell, marking a great division in the scheme of things, between a still life with bottle, and the same still life with wine. The wine must then be swirled, sniffed and commented upon, and only when all this is duly accomplished can it be poured with ceremonial priestcraft into the glasses.

Wine properly served slows everything down, establishing a rhythm of gentle sips rather than gluttonous swiggings. The ceremony of the cork reminds us that good wine is not an ordinary thing, however often you drink it, but a visitor from a more exalted region and a catalyst of friendly ties. In short, thanks to the cork, wine stands aloof from the world of getting and spending, a moral resource that we conjure with a pop.

The screwtop has quite another meaning. It gives way at once, allowing no ritual of presentation and no sacramental sound effects. It deforms the bottle with metallic shards: imagine a still life with opened screwtop - impossible. It encourages the quick fix, the hasty glug, the purely self-centred grab for a slug of alcohol. It reduces wine to an alcopop and shapes it according to the needs of the drunkard. It reminds us of what we should lose, were the rituals of social drinking to be replaced by the mass loneliness of the binge drinking culture. In short, there are no screwtops in Scrutopia.

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