Ok, new drink.
Leftover carnival rum lurks like a shadow next to the kettle; when you’re trying to freshen up, there’s always the threat of funkin’ it up. In the wake of wedding of the year, we’re having an open house for all heads that are about. Visitors from half a world away and an array of assorted friends. Everyone’s bouyant from the celebrations and thirsty as fuck. In the garden, the BBQ struggles to cook a man’s weight in jerk chicken, in the kitchen I shamble around putting something refreshing in a glass, with The Director for company.
We reflect on a time a few years back, a Parisian adventure with more twisted turns than we can remember, when I made some of the scruffiest and most purposeful sangria we’ve ever tasted. The formula was simple: cheap red, some orange juice, sugar and a splash of something aggressive. In Paris the aggressive secret ingredient was Calvados, and it worked too. This time, everything is incidental, and all of the ingredients are of serious quality. I load a glass with things like this:

Cockspur Rum. One slosh.

Ice. Smashed to fuck in a carrier bag using aforementioned rum.

Hungarian Pinot Noir. From somewhere near the set of The Borges.

Black Grape KA. From the shop.

Captain Morgan. A dribble, for dark sugar sweetness.
Secret ingredient: some booze from the south of France that tastes like Buckfast, the estate-ruining wine. Aka Floc de Gascogne.
Quantities are useless here, as I barely measure anything. Ratios are simple, more red wine than anything else, with everything else to taste. Your Yardie Sangria will taste great if you’re half blasted by the time you’ve got the mix right. There is no picture evidence as there have been only two instances of this drink. I’ve yet to capture them on camera, so here’s some snaps of this year’s Carnival nastiness.

And that’s the carnival action. The evening ended with frantic living room action; topless sofa bouncing and rum spillages.