Britain is drowning under a tidal wave of prosecco. Whatever the party — birthday, Christmas, coming-of-age, driving licence, divorce, tax rebate — out will come the flutes and the bubbly light taste of Italy will wash away any gloom, inhibitions and sober common sense. Britons drank their way through 86 million bottles of prosecco in 2015, a rise of almost 50 per cent on the previous year and, at twice the US consumption, by far the largest market for the precious Italian export. Little wonder Boris Johnson thought warnings of a drop in prosecco sales would see off a tough line on Brexit in Rome.
Not a few Italians are rather hoping the bubbles will burst, however. To satisfy the demand for prosecco, bulldozers are clawing everything into their maws: trees, hedges, rolling hills, dipping gullies and hidden pastures are all grubbed up and flattened to make way for row after row of the magic grape. From the Slovenian border to the shores of Venice, swathes of eternal Italy are being sacrificed to the transient profits of prosecco.
The best that can be said of the sparkling wine
is that it is tumbling the mighty knights of champagne off their high horses. Here is a drink with all the fizz and fun of a photoshoot but less of the bankrupting arrogance. If racing drivers want to waste jeroboams of the stuff, let them toast their wins in the more democratic prosecco. The worst charge is that the wine is bland, samey, demotic and rather too appealing to the lower classes. Even those who rarely drink can be tempted by a glass.
But in the insular spirit of Brexit, Britain is overlooking its native answer to this continental tipple. What about the magnificent sparking wines, pink or pale honey, now being pressed from the vineyards of Kent and Sussex? They are winning prize after prize. They are perky. They may even come down in price a bit as production increases. And surely few will miss those huge ugly hop vines.