TO QUOTE a friend of mine – “What's that big yellow ball in the sky? Stone me, it's the sun . . . in summer . . . brilliant!” Yes, folks, my years of burning old fridges and driving to work on an aerosol-propelled, 18-wheeled, 30-ton, lizard-shaped juggernaut have finally paid off – my name is summer, and I am funky.

Break out the paddling pools, waste some hard-earned wedge on a pair of designer, blimping goggles and get set for headlines not seen since the late seventies – “PHEW, WHAT A SCORCHER!” and all that swag, splendid.

Summer sun brings about a nationwide frenzy, a booze-buying blitzkrieg, resulting in cases and cases of argument-juice being stored in every corner of the house, just in case the lads pop round.

This year, my brothers and sisters, I would like you to stop, collaborate and listen. We are going to do something a little unforeseen, a tad outrageous, fiercely courageous yet in a reserved and bashful manner. We are going to buy English wine, and, by all that is green and pleasant, we are going to drink it.

We are going to drink it in the parks, we will drink it on the beaches and, if heaven spares us, we will drink it in our uncle's potting shed while we laugh at the madmen downing “shots'” and fighting along to hell-spawned “house'” music.

I will forgive those of you who have yet to sample our domestic wine; it's difficult to find and not all of it is worth the bother, but first, a brief history of British plonk.

It was those rather excellent, Roman chappies who first brought the mighty vine to these previously barbaric shores; along with straight roads, bendy plumbing and proper parties.

Over the years, wineries became increasingly attached to smart monasteries, so when they all started filing for bankruptcy around 1550 or so, good old British winemaking became a bit of a lost art – pillaging, witch-bothering and empire building would soon follow it down the proverbial spout and the nation was lost in a serious crisis of identity.

It took until 1951 for a saviour to arrive and rescue our beleaguered nation from its 400-year long bout of melancholy. Major-General Sir Guy Salisbury-Jones – or Sir Squiffy, to the boys – planted a monster vineyard down in Hampshire and, at last, the nation was re-plonkified.

Britain is a real pig's backside when it comes to climate, so we can't grow the big, explosive fellas that do so well in the old colonies – Shiraz, Zinfandel, Merlot and friends. We need to plant varieties that are, like ourselves, noble, prone to sunburn and in need of serious attention.

The big winners in recent years have all been sparkling wines, made very much in the manner of Champagne. The clever blighters down south use exactly the same grape varieties as their French counterparts – Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Pinot Meunier.

If you want to have a go at the very best we have to offer, get your mitts on a case or nine of some Nyetimber sparkling.

This Sussex winery has won squillions of awards and is available from the fine chaps at Origin – originwines@aol.com – or give my long-suffering manservant, Duggy Lowe, a call on 07816162687 and he'll barter some prices with you.

The gear is a long way from cheap, but you'll be jumping out of your brogues with unbridled joy and fearsome abandon.