Plonk

In an otherwise somewhat sycophantic post about John Pilger, I rather liked this:

Once, it was said, Pilger had a house in Tuscany and invited some friends round for lunch. One of the guests sipped a glass of vino and said to Pilger: “Where does this wine come from?”

Pilger gestured grandly to his estate. “From the bottom of my garden,” he said.

Said the guest: ”Doesn’t travel very well, does it?”