NO COMING BACK FROM THE GOON OF FORTUNE
THIS week, I received an email which I’ll label ambitious. The subject heading asked, “Cask Wine: Why The Stigma?” The smart-a--- in me had three quick retorts: “Because it tastes rank, because they couldn’t pony up to put their crushed grapes in a slender glass bottle and, simply, Goon of Fortune.”
For those unfamiliar with Goon of Fortune, it’s like chess. Except replace the pieces and board with a swivelling clothesline, silver bags bulging like rancid gourds and wildeyed players taking gulps of wine.
The International Olympic Committee is considering Goon of Fortune for the 2020 Tokyo Games, hosted by Corey Worthington and Marty Monster, with sake chasers.
Back to the email. The marketing person acknowledged the three elephants in the room: “Hills hoists, bad hangovers and a history of poor quality” have given “goon” a less than flattering reputation. Then came the sell: “Pord is art and wine combined in a limited edition mini cask wine barrel filled with four litres of awardwinning Michelton wine … covered by artist-authenticated art.”
How about that name? “Pord” hits you like a splash of bad merlot.
The PR spiel suggests you drink the Pord wine then keep the empty barrel on your mantelpiece.
Are. You. For. Real? It looks like some kind of off-brand IKEA installation. When I lived in a Glen Iris sharehouse in 2002, we arranged our empty bottles with a visual merchandiser’s touch and it looked great — we could reminisce about the Tintara Shiraz from last month’s pasta night and it reminded us it was a good drop and we needed more.
But you can’t blame poor goon though — it didn’t ask to be made “cool again”. Goon was more than happy staying in its lane, ready to floor it at the summer music festivals, your drunk aunty’s Christmas kickon and, well, whenever you couldn’t get your hands on better quality vino.
Pord got me thinking of other stigmas. Phone calls: Yep, the simple chinwag. I saw a tweet that went viral recently: “Calling somebody on the phone without prior warning is an act of aggression.” That’s poppycock, although my girlfriend disagrees. “Dude, people hate talking on the phone,” she says. No, people hate the thought of talking on the phone until it’s happening. A great chat on the dog and bone leaves you beaming.
Ironing: I’m not being ironic. A mate posted on Facebook this week: “No one else irons anything these days right?” Things kicked right off. “Undies on a cold morning,” said one person. “Never” posted several others. Threads and sub-threads spread about the pros and cons of decreasing the thread-spread. The debate was about 50-50 between avid ironers (me) and non-ironers (philistines). Not ironing is more to with laziness than mere stigma. Hey, you with the shabby shirt, sort it out.
Doggy bags: We need a new term for taking home the leftover food home from a restaurant. Back when Jerry Seinfeld released his first book in 1993, Seinlanguage, he joked that if a man was on a date and asked for a doggy bag, then they may as well wrap up his genitals, too, because neither would be used that evening.
Vaping: At first we viewed vapists like they were Bond villains. Now you can puff on stealth like you’re Kelly MacDonald’s police officer in Black
Mirror Hate in the Nation episode. Also, vaping equals less litter.
Apple’s Bluetooth earbuds. Once they looked douchey, now everyone from 15-50 seems to have them. “Lifechanging,” says a colleague.
Toothpicks: This is the hill I’ll die on. While carefully removing morsels of a recent meal.
Pop music: Troye Sivan, Rita Ora, Charli XCX, Vera Blue, Pnau. Pop ain’t slop no more.
Being a vegan: In the stand-up comedy world, vegans have been low hanging (organic) fruit. Now only goons tackle that sort of gear.