NO COM­ING BACK FROM THE GOON OF FOR­TUNE

Herald Sun - - OPINION - MIKEY CAHILL MIKEY CAHILL IS A HER­ALD SUN JOUR­NAL­IST [email protected] @JoeyLight­bulb

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.

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