Dylan Thomas reads TS Eliot NS parody

“As we get older, we do not get any younger”

After the competition page was hijacked from The Week-End Review, “absorbed” by the New Statesman in 1933, parodies have a formed a regular feature of the magazine’s back pages. In 1946, Faber and Faber published an anthology of the best entries, edited by NS literary editor GW Stonier, with illustrations by Nicolas Bentley. In his introduction, Stonier wrote:

It will never do, in this atomic age, to be a wit. Let the witty journalist beware, he is in danger of insulting his readers; the witty politician is a self-confessed enemy of the people; the witty parson – but he vanished long, long ago. To be dull – hugely, incontestably dull – has become a hall-mark of sincerity, and woe to him who tries to improve the occasion. Insect! Anti-democratic! But there are crannies where the nimble-witted lurk, signalling distractedly and indulging a frivolity they daren’t display. Given an excuse, finding the signal returned, they will even publish a little.

A competition page, with its aura of party games, provides such an excuse. The demands are light: an epigram, an anecdote, a letter, a limerick, a parody, verse or prose for an occasion. Light but not necessarily easy, as the would-be competitior discovers…

Perhaps the most notable addition to the anthology is “Chard Whitlow”, written by the poet, translator and dramatist Henry Reed. The poem is sur-titled Mr Eliot’s Sunday Evening Postscript, and will be republished in full next year as part of the New Statesman’s centenary proceedings. However, to tide you over until then, here, reading with all the stolid grace of Mr Eliot himself, is Dylan Thomas, who will celebrate an anniversary of his own next year – having laid in a cemetary in Laugharne, Carmarthenshire, since 1953.

Dylan Thomas, doing what he loved best. Photo: Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Putting the “savage” back in Sauvignon Blanc

This grape is so easily recognised that it might as well wear a name tag, but many varieties are brasher and bolder than you'd expect.

I was once the life’s companion of a man who was incapable of remembering names. This should have bothered him but he’d grown used to it, while I never could. At gatherings, I would launch myself at strangers, piercing the chatter with monikers to pre-empt his failure to introduce me. I was fairly sure that it was the other person’s name he couldn’t remember but I couldn’t discount the possibility that he had forgotten mine, too.

In wine, the equivalent of my bellowing is Sauvignon Blanc. This grape is so easily recognised that it might as well wear a name tag: it tastes of grass, gooseberry, asparagus and, occasionally, cats’ pee. The popularity of its New Zealand incarnation is probably partly a result of that cosy familiarity – which is ironic, given that “Sauvignon”, harking back to its evolution from wild grapes in France, comes from the French for “savage”. Never mind: evolved it has. “Wine is the most civilised thing we have in this world,” wrote the 16th-century author Rabelais, and he was born in the Touraine, where the gently citrusy Sauvignon makes an excellent aperitif, so he should know.

New World Sauvignons are often brasher and bolshier. It is likely that Rabelais’s two best-known heroes – Gargantua, who is born yelling, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” and whose name means “What a big gullet you have”, and Pantagruel, or “thirsting for everything” – would have preferred them to the Touraines. They work well with spice and aromatics, as Asian-fusion chefs have noticed, while the most elegant Loire Sauvignons, Sancerre or Pouilly-Fumé, make fine matches for grilled white fish or guacamole – in fact, almost anything enhanced by lemon. In Bordeaux, where whites principally blend Sauvignon and Sémillon, the excellent Dourthe is entirely the former; 9,000 miles away in Western Australia, Larry Cherubino makes a rounded Sauvignon in a similar style.

Many variations but one distinctive flavour profile – so I thought I was safe asking my best friend, an unrepentant wine ignoramus, whether she liked Sauvignon. Her shrug spurred an impromptu tasting: Guy Allion’s quaffable Le Haut Perron Thésée 2014, from Rabelais’s Touraine; a Henri Bourgeois Pouilly-Fumé Jeunes Vignes; and Greywacke Wild Sauvignon from Kevin Judd. Judd, who was largely responsible for making New Zealand whites famous when he worked for Cloudy Bay, is now putting the savage back in Sauvignon using naturally occurring (“wild”) yeasts that make the wine rich and slightly smoky but are not, by his own admission, terribly easy to control. This was the most expensive wine (£28, although the Wine Society sells it for £21.50) and my friend loved it.

She had expected to prefer the French wines, on the slightly dubious basis that she is Old World: of Anglo-Danish stock, with a passion for Italy. Yet only familiarity will tell you what you like. This is why bars with long lists of wines by the glass provide the best introduction. A favourite of mine is Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels, a Covent Garden joint run by two women, the sommelier Julia Oudill and the chef Ilaria Zamperlin. If the menu – scallops with Worcestershire sauce, croque-madame with truffled ham and quail egg – is delicious, the wine list is fabulous, with at least ten whites and ten reds at 125ml, with prices ascending into the stratosphere but starting at £6.

There are usually a couple of French Sauvignons, although many bottles still don’t name the grapes and the winemaker Didier Dagueneau (the “wild man of Pouilly”), whose wines feature here, preferred the old Sauvignon name Blanc Fumé. Thank goodness Sauvignon, despite its reputed savagery, has the manners to introduce itself so promptly: one sip, and you can move on to the congenial task of getting to know one another.

Next week: Felicity Cloake on food

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war