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Deeply superficial Rosé


Reading Tracey Emin’s Guardian column, “My Life in a Column” made me think about Rosé.


I’m at my studio. I’m half a bottle of rosé down. It’s five o’clock. It’s Friday afternoon and it’s Crackerjack time. Fuck it, I make my own invitations. I phone J Sheekey and book a table for six for 10pm.

Then, slowly, everyone at the table is transformed from ghostly apparitions to really good, close friends.

At that, I demand to know where my food is, to find I have already eaten it, and have already paid the bill, and have knocked back half a bottle of dessert wine on top of the three bottles of rosé. Nice one Trace. Really cool. See how you’ve got a grip of things?




What I don’t like in a Rosé – apart from it being too easy to drink. I don’t like Rosé that had confectionary coconut-ice characters, tasted like lolly water, had a fluorescent colour, or a strawberry lipgloss aftertaste.



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