AS WINTER becomes spring, death into life and all that, your intrepid sommelier has come over feeling all phoenix – Simon Phoenix that is, the baddie in Demolition Man.

Yes, my usual, mild-mannered self is harbouring an ever-towering rage that will eventually see me rise like a corkscrew-wielding Colossus, casting down fire and lightning on those who would lead the fine people of God's country to damnation.

I should probably explain myself. The big, nasty people are doing the usual post- January sales drive and putting out nasty bottles of sweetened radiator fluid at less than the price of a couple of loaves. It may be claimed I make my living out of mankind's need for debauchery, but I have always tried to advise a more enlightening approach to the old dancing water.

It is our duty as executive hedonists to eschew the temptation of planting ourselves into a state of rollicking lunacy via three litres of jumped-up grape cordial and seek out more righteous methods of loosening the old swearing muscles.

If you feel yourself tempted to throw a hard-earned tenner down somebody else's drain, I propose the following remedy. Cancel all engagements, book a flight to France, Italy, Spain or Germany and seek out a few small vineyards.

You will be invited to sample some wine, perhaps even try it alongside some local food, you may even be asked to escort the eldest daughter to a local barn dance. You will ponder the idyllic environment you find yourself in and may even decide to sell the tanning salon and get yourself a small winery down in good old Provence – excellent, if nothing else you have a soul.

After your splendid daydream, visit again with your recently acquired, wine-making buddy. Ask him how many hours a day he works, the last time the family had a holiday together, how much of the crops were destroyed in the spring thunderstorms.

Then, and only then, ask the lovely fellow how much he gets paid for a bottle of his astonishing wine. A pittance. A Californian winery churning out millions of bottles per harvest can handle the cheap selling price, the quality winemaker who will be handing down skills to future generations so that we can enjoy a smart bottle of swag with our beef, cannot.

Talking of good swag, I had a swoop down to Keith's Wine Bar, on Lark Lane, recently. This is one of those weird places, I know I can get a marvellous bottle of wine at a very clever price but I hardly ever visit. I was lucky enough, on this occasion, to be advised by the mighty Keith himself, who looks a bit like Keith Allen, as it goes.

After a few minutes’ deliberation, I toddled off with a very suave little New Zealand Pinot Noir, for fifteen quid. The juice was fantastic, the price was astonishing. Mr Keith actually apologised when he quoted the bill, apparently this is one of his most expensive bottles. The place is open seven days and is definitely worthy of your custom.

So, there you have it, amongst the globe- encompassing monsters, there are a few decent fellows out there who want you to have a princely slurp at a pauper's price – Keith's, Vinea, The Everyman – to name a few. I shall endeavour to find others.