Reviewed: Tweet of the Day on Radio 4

Morning has spoken.

Tweet of the Day
Radio 4

A new year-long series started this week – every day (5.58am), early risers heard the call of a different species of bird and a brief description of its quirks. Each programme lasts just 90 seconds, David Attenborough presents this month, and others will pass the baton until next spring. Of the 596 species on the official British bird list, 286 are considered rare and the BBC’s natural history unit has gone through thousands of old bird recordings and made some new ones, starting with the spring song of the male cuckoo.

Just enough of the cuckoo’s call was broadcast to cast a spell (immense, immediate) and then precisely the right amount of information about its migration patterns or habits or history given in between each little stretch of the song itself – it used to be believed that the cuckoo turned into a sparrowhawk in winter. The minute and a half was perfectly balanced. Sound and silence, words and song, infinitely poetic: pure radio.

Simon Armitage, in his introduction to his 1999 collection of very short poems, writes about poetry being radiophonic. “Poetry, like radio, enjoys the open space that surrounds it, and invites the imagination to fill that space. On the radio that space is silence and the absence of any visual stimulation; in poetry that space is empty white paper surrounding the text.” He is right. Not even fleetingly did you miss a visual image of the cuckoo even when Attenborough almost taunted us with Wordsworth on how hard they can be to spot with the eye: “Shall I call thee bird/Or but a wondering voice?” The sound was quite enough. Presence in its most concentrated form.

Later in the week the wood warbler’s song was described as a “spinning coin on a marble slab” and swifts as “these screeching gangs of tearaways” – lovely writing. The only drawback to these tiny, shell-perfect meditations is that no larger point is ever drawn, and if there is one to be made about our primal fondness for birdsong it might simply be that if the birds are singing then the world is not yet, not quite, defunct.

Or as Ted Hughes put it when writing about Swifts returning to his garden: “They’ve made it again/Which means the globe’s still working, the Creation’s/Still waking refreshed, our summer’s/Still all to come.”

Birds on the wire. Photograph: Getty Images.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 13 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Eton Mess

NANCY JO IACOI/GALLERY STOCK
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There are only two rules for an evening drink: it must be bitter, and it must be cold

A Negroni is the aperitif of choice in bars everywhere from London to Palermo - and no wonder.

The aperitif has the odd distinction of being the only alcohol that can always rely on a sober audience: it is the opener, the stimulant, a spur to the appetite for good food and good conversation. This preparatory beverage is considered the height of sophistication, and certainly nobody labouring in field or factory ever required a pep to their evening appetite. Still, to take a drink before one starts drinking is hardly clever behaviour. So why do it?

One reason is surely the wish to separate the working day from the evening’s leisure, an increasingly pressing matter as we lose the ability to switch off. This may change the nature of the aperitif, which was generally supposed to be light, in alcohol and character. Once, one was expected to quaff a pre-dinner drink and go in to dine with faculties and taste buds intact; now, it might be more important for those who want an uninterrupted meal to get preprandially plastered. That way, your colleagues may contact you but they won’t get much sense out of you, and pretty soon they’ll give up and bother someone else.

The nicest thing about the aperitif, and the most dangerous, is that it doesn’t follow rules. It’s meant to be low in alcohol, but nobody ever accused a gin and tonic or a Negroni (Campari, gin and vermouth in equal portions) of that failing; and sherry, which is a fabulous aperitif (not least because you can keep drinking it until the meal or the bottle ends), has more degrees of alcohol than most wines. An aperitif should not be heavily perfumed or flavoured, for fear of spoiling your palate, yet some people love pastis, the French aniseed drink that goes cloudy in water, and that you can practically smell across the Channel. They say the scent actually enhances appetite.

Really only two rules apply. An aperitif should be bitter – or, at any rate, it shouldn’t be sweet, whatever the fans of red vermouth may tell you. And it must be cold. Warm drinks such as Cognac and port are for after dinner. Not for nothing did Édith Piaf warble, in “Mon apéro”, about drowning her amorous disappointments in aperitifs: fail to cool your passions before sharing a table, and you belong with the barbarians.

On the other hand, conversing with your nearest over a small snack and an appropriate beverage, beyond the office and before the courtesies and complications of the dinner table, is the essence of cultured behaviour. If, as is sometimes thought, civilisation has a pinnacle, surely it has a chilled apéro carefully balanced on top.

The received wisdom is that the French and Italians, with their apéritifs and aperitivos, are the experts in these kinds of drinks. Certainly the latter are partial to their Aperol spritzes, and the former to such horrid, wine-based tipples as Lillet and Dubonnet. But the English are good at gin and the Americans invented the Martini. As for Spain, tapas were originally snacks atop a covering that kept the flies out of one’s pre-dinner drink: tapa means lid.

Everywhere, it seems, as evening approaches, people crave a drink that in turn will make them salivate: bitterness, the experts tell us, prepares the mouth to welcome food. The word “bitter” may come from “bite”, in which case the aperitif’s place before dinner is assured.

I like to think that a good one enables the drinker to drown all sour feelings, and go in to dinner cleansed and purified. Fanciful, perhaps. But what better lure to fancy than a beverage that exists only to bring on the evening’s pleasures?

Nina Caplan is the Louis Roederer Pio Cesare Food and Wine Writer of the Year

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 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times