Why we shouldn’t raise a glass to white wine
It might be refreshing, but growing numbers of people complain about the negative effects of drinking white. India Sturgis explains
As a nation, Britain drinks more white wine than any other colour. Last year, 47 per cent of UK wine sales were white bottles, 42 per cent were red and 11 per cent were rosé, according to The Statistics Portal. But with more sugar and sulphites than red, rosé, beer and many other spirits, is it time to reevaluate this national treasure?
Finally summer is here – otherwise known as the perfect excuse for a cool glass of chablis. As a nation, we drink more white wine than any other colour. Last year, 47 per cent of UK wine sales were white bottles, 42 per cent were red and 11 per cent were rosé, according to The Statistics Portal. But as with all other guilty pleasures (salt, fat, watching Gogglebox) too much can be a bad thing.
Despite its clear, refreshing palate, white wine contains more sugar and sulphites than red, rosé, beer and many spirits.
Another issue is just how effortlessly it slips down, despite being 13 per cent ABV (alcohol by volume), meaning we drink far more of it than we realise. Andrew Misell, a director at charity Alcohol Research UK, says: “White wine doesn’t have as strong flavours, so for many it’s an easy way to unintentionally drink too much. That’s what makes it problematic.”
According to official guidelines, we shouldn’t be glugging down more than 14 units a week – yet more than nine million people in England regularly exceed this. In the UK, alcohol accounts for 10 per cent of all death and disease, making it one of the three biggest lifestyle risk factors after smoking and obesity.
But there are hints that the tide is turning against white wine. Anecdotally, increasing numbers of people are complaining that it is too sweet, too acidic (hello heartburn) or that it brings out their inner “white wine witch” – seemingly getting them far more drunk than other beverages and leading to worse hangovers.
So, with the help of some experts, here’s want to watch out for and why a glass of white wine might not be as restorative as you think.
Candida
Chef Gizzi Erskine recently admitted that she has stopped drinking white wine. Why? It triggers her candida, she told Telegraph columnist Bryony Gordon in her Mad World podcast. The yeast infection, found in the gastrointestinal tract, causes chronic fatigue, depression, joint pain and impairs basic gut function.
Nutritional therapist Emma Cockrell agrees that white wine’s high sugar content could cause, or at the very least exacerbate, the condition.
“If you drink white wine on a regular basis – combined with other factors such as having taken antibiotics, having been pregnant when hormone fluctuations upset the balance of microbes in the gut, or experiencing stress – a glass of wine a night can very easily tip the balance. Candida is fed by sugar, and wine is a great source of that.”
According to the Food Standards Agency, a medium glass of white wine can contain up to 10 times as much sugar as one of red; 3g per 100ml, compared to 0.2g in red and 2.5g in rosé.
Comparatively, there is pretty much zero sugar in highly distilled spirits such as gin, vodka, rum and whisky, as well as beer.
Rosacea
Research published last month by Brown University in America found that even small amounts of white wine can increase your chances of developing rosacea. A study of 83,000 women showed that just one to three glasses a month raises the risk of the inflammatory skin condition by 14 per cent. Five or more white wines a week upped that to 49 per cent.
Dr Nick Lowe, consultant dermatologist at The Cranley Clinic in London, believes this is down to the alcohol content of white wine acting as a “vasodilator” – something that widens the blood vessels in the skin.
“When you enlarge the blood vessels, your facial redness increases,” he says. “All people will get it from alcohol to a degree but some are genetically predisposed to be blushers or flushers. There is also a group of people whose skin reacts
White wine contains more sugar and sulphites than red, rosé, beer and many spirits
Ifirst realised that something was seriously wrong during a meeting. The lights were on and the blinds up, but the room still wasn’t bright enough and the spreadsheets in front of me were fuzzy. All I wanted to do was close my eyes, hoping that when I opened them again they would stop burning. Back then, in 2009, I was an English lecturer at Bath Spa University and nervous sat in a room full of senior managers. I didn’t want the vice chancellor to think I was napping. But my eyes felt as if the lids had been prised open in desert sun.
My GP swiftly referred me to a specialist, who performed Schirmer’s test – resting the end of a paper strip on each of my lower lids for five minutes. A normal human eye will saturate around 10 millimetres. Mine barely managed one. When fluorescein dye was used to examine my corneas, it highlighted multiple dry spots.
In the space of just a few days, my tear production had almost ceased. Nothing could make my eyes feel wet – a sensation that most people hardly notice, yet is central to our lives. The condition is called keratoconjunctivitis sicca, but is commonly known as dry eye disease – referring to the inflammation of the cornea and surrounding tissues.
Dry eye disease is thought to affect eight per cent of the UK population, although the condition is underdiagnosed. The majority of sufferers are women, which experts think is related to the hormone changes that occur during the menopause. But there are many other theories as to what causes it – none of them certain. In my case, it is thought an autoimmune condition is to blame. Risk factors can include eye surgery or injury, and certain drugs such as antihistamines and antidepressants. But it can also, simply, be put down to ageing.
The condition is chronic and, at the present, incurable. When I was first diagnosed, I crawled into bed and pulled the quilt over my head, feeling like I would faint. I was grappling with a new reality; lifelong dependence on medication, and the constant fear that my corneas would crack and I would go blind.
If you are not making enough tears, you need to use a substitute to lubricate your eyes. Artificial tears, in the form of drops used multiple times a day, are the mainstay of my treatment. It is a matter of trial and error to find the formula that works for you. Your body becomes a laboratory. Anything containing lanolin makes my lids swell up. Products with carmellose turn them red. Preservatives make them sting. For me, sodium hyaluronate (brand name Clinitas), is the closest thing to natural wetness.
These days, I am attuned to feeling when I need drops, and expert at putting them in. I don’t even pause in conversation to extract the bottle from the small purse I always carry, tip my head back, and squeeze. I forget this can appear odd. More than once, someone has winced and said, “I can’t bear to put drops in my eyes.” If only I had the choice.
Soon after my diagnosis, the specialist permanently closed the lower drains (or puncta) in my eyes to keep the limited volume of tears that I do produce in for longer. Recently, he cauterised the upper drains, too.
The procedure is done under local anaesthetic, given through multiple injections around your eyes. Once the area is numb, the doctor inserts a fine probe into the opening of your tear duct: the punctum that is located on the edge of your eyelid towards the inner corner of your eye. You have one punctum on the top lid and another on the bottom. This is where your tears drain away. An electric current is then used to destroy the tissues, in effect burning them so that the punctum is permanently closed.
I was awake during the entire thing, lying under painfully bright lights. I was shaking so much that I worried the doctor would miss and accidentally blind me. Indeed, the first eye wasn’t perfectly numb and it felt like a redhot wire shooting through my skull. Which I suppose it was. He had to pause to inject more anaesthetic.
When I emerged, my husband Richard said, my face was white. Under my bandages, I had two black eyes. But the cautery was worth it. Now I can sometimes go as long as 20 minutes between putting in artificial tears – Clinitas, or ciclosporin drops called Ikervis – instead of five.
I make fewer tears when asleep, so my eyes are at their worst when I wake and I must reach for my drops before I open them. Each day, I apply hot compresses and wash my eyes with baby shampoo to stop the oil glands in my lids from clogging and my lashes clumping into glued spikes. I swallow fish oil because Omega-3 is thought to reduce inflammation.
The question I get asked most is, “can you cry?” Here, I must admit to a strange pleasure in sadness, because I do make tears when I weep. They leave my eyes feeling washed clean, a sensation I love.
One of the hardest things to deal with is how my condition affects others. My children cannot have the dog they want. I love the sea, but my eyes cannot handle contact with even a grain of sand. I take long detours to bypass dusty building work, wear sunglasses in the wind and ration make-up. I get infections easily, so am fanatical about handwashing. Any tiny thing can make my eyes drier; the lids inflamed.
Driving is difficult, as you naturally blink less behind the wheel. Richard now does all the car journeys in our family something he, gallantly, claims to prefer. I often feel bad, having to pause mid-conversation and run into another room to get my drops. But it hasn’t affected our marriage. My eye condition is a part of me, and he accepts it.
After my diagnosis, I panicked about how I would cope at work. My eyes burned too much to read. Nor could I turn to the one thing that usually offers me comfort: books.
So, despairing, I sat down in front of my laptop and began to type. I tried not to worry about mistakes, only peeking at the screen in small bursts. And that is how I wrote my third novel. It ended up in the rejection drawer with its predecessors. But it gave me confidence and spurred me on to write a fourth, The Second Sister, which was published.
Naturally, elements of my own experience made it into the novel. In one scene, when my heroine argues with her ex-boyfriend, the smoke from a bonfire makes her eyes burn. In another, she is dazzled by the sun and loses her bearings.
Such moments are borne out of my own experiences – the heightened perception that has come as a result of dry eye disease. Thanks to my compromised vision, I am more finely tuned to feelings of fear and distress than ever before. You might go so far as to say that it has given me a new, inner sight.
The Second Sister by Claire Kendal is published by Harpercollins. To order your copy for £7.99 plus p&p call 0844 871 1514 or visit books.telegraph.co.uk