We reveal a collection of your top tips to enjoying a tipple or two or three or four over the Christmas period. Photo / Helena Yankovska, Unsplash
The Telegraph Letters page is alive with readers discussing the best and most appropriate time to have an alcoholic beverage. Clearly at Christmas, most rules cease to apply – but Telegraph etiquette can still be of use for the befuddled.
Obviously, the following list is more of a guideline than some sort of rigorous schedule; following it would leave most of us on our knees by afternoon tea. Yet it’s good to know that whatever time of day you choose to open the drinks cabinet, somewhere around these great isles, a fellow reader is also excitedly mulling over what to pour.
(In butter on toast, we’re not savages)
This suggestion comes from David Chinn of Middlesex, a tradition instigated throughout December by his late mother. “Despite my misgivings,” says David, “I found it to be curiously addictive.”
Elsewhere, you might be surprised to hear, a few glugs poured over porridge is considered just the heart-starter we all need. Alan Belk, from Surrey, promises us tangible benefits, as experienced by his mother. The topping, he says, was “insufficient to produce any inebriation, but sufficient to make her mornings worthwhile – she lived to be 100″.
If your breakfast is more toast-based, East Yorkshire’s Richard Stewart suggests we follow the advice of his late mother, a district nurse and midwife: “She had a nip of whisky in her tea every morning for as long as I can remember. She was otherwise of sober habits (sometimes even claiming to be teetotal) and lived to 99.”
Another rule courtesy of the inspiring late Mrs Chinn (see 8am). Explains her son, David: “My aged mother was a person of sober habits, but I started to have doubts when watching her prepare her morning coffee: half a mug of coffee then filled up with a well-known Irish cream liqueur. She said that it set her up for the day – I’m not surprised. It must have worked as she lived to be 92.”
The perfect time for a Harveys Bristol Cream or Croft Original, says Sara Ellis, from Dorset. “My dear 85-year-old grandmother enjoyed a daily glass of sherry at 11am. She gave this up for several days after reading an article saying that if you drank in the morning you were an alcoholic. Luckily, the family were able to persuade her that one glass at her age was probably not much of a slippery slope.”
Even more acceptable is on a Sunday, post-church service, points out Lieutenant Commander Philip Barber, RN (retired), of Hampshire. “Many years ago my mother was invited in for sherry after church by a retired admiral. Noting her eye on the decanter, he exclaimed: ‘We’ll have the decent stuff, that’s for the rector’.”
A bottle of lesser-quality sherry always comes in handy. Ron McLaren of East Sussex recounts a story told by his mother-in-law: “When she was secretary to her husband’s single-handed medical practice in Nottingham, a visit was scheduled by the Minister of Health – one Enoch Powell.
“The busy doctor had postponed home visits to welcome the minister, so one can imagine his irritation when Mr Powell turned up an hour late. Of course, he received a well-mannered welcome and nothing was said about his tardiness. But my mother-in-law later confided: ‘I gave him the cooking sherry’.”
Sometimes you just have to make a toast to life itself. “Here in Cornwall,” says Ray Dransfield, “opposite Devonport Naval Base, we start the week a little early when the nuclear warning siren prompts us to raise a glass at 11.30am every Monday.”
But sometimes, you can’t wait until midday. David Baber of Buckinghamshire recalls driving to a hotel in Ireland where he was due to meet a colleague at noon for lunch. “As he had not yet arrived at 11.45, I asked the barman for a fino sherry. He confirmed that he had the particular brand I wanted, but told me the bar did not open until midday. Then he added: ‘But you can have one while you are waiting’.”
(Aka. Tipple time)
News in from Surrey that the Spanish nectar can be unstoppered again officially at four o’clock: “When my father retired,” says Sheila Smith, “my parents enjoyed ‘tipple time’ each afternoon, when my mother would pour a small glass of sherry. Years later, as her mobility declined and my father’s dementia worsened, he became responsible for pouring the sherry. But my mother had to draw the line when large wine glasses were presented.”
Over the county border, in Hampshire, there certainly seems to be a clear case for an early schooner for those of advancing years. “My family usually waits until 6pm before our first drink is served,” says Peter Davies, “but I recently noticed my 94-year-old mother with a glass of sherry at 4pm. When questioned, she said she could not see the clock.”
Craig Heeley, from Badminton, reports that: “Here on the Gloucestershire steppe the rules are clear. It is G&T time at five bells of the clock, or dusk, whichever comes soonest.”
This – I’m afraid – is disputed by Graham Wistow of West Yorkshire. “As an affirmed G&T aficionado, and after half a lifetime in the marine industry, I must question Heeley’s assertion that it’s ‘G&T time at five bells of the clock’,” he says. “All mariners know that five bells is either 2.30, 6.30 or 10.30 (am or pm) – all of which, in my view, are either too late or too early for a G&T.”
A further challenge comes from Devon-based Michael J Menhenitt, who points out that: “In Gloucestershire it may be G&T time when the bell tolls five, but here by the sea it is when the sun goes down beyond the yardarm.”
On the Isle of Wight, it seems that every day has a different drink-related purpose. George Adams explains: “On the subject of drinks timings, here we have Miserable Monday (weekend recovery), Tipples Tuesday, Wet Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday (occasionally known as Friday Eve), and then it’s the weekend again. Timings are not set but it’s generally considered a bad day if the sherry is poured before 5pm.”
In Somerset, there is less of a fixed attitude to time, more of a concern that one may be judged and found wanting. Bruton-based Felicity Ogilvy says: “Like George Adams, I enjoy sherry, but if I ask for it in a private house or a hotel bar I am often met with a stare, as though I had asked for hemlock”. Wales may be a no-go area for Felicity, warns Londoner Doris Grimsley. “I remember once stopping at a pub in Wales and asking for a sherry. ‘We don’t get asked for that stuff up here’, I was told rather haughtily.”
Age can be a factor too, says John Pigott, of East Sussex, when trying to get your mitts on a nice chilled Amontillado. “I, too, am bemused by the difficulty of buying a glass of sherry when out. I recently asked for one in a popular pub and the young barman had clearly never heard of it. He had to ask a colleague and was told that, if they had it, it would be with the port. After searching, he came up with a bottle of cherry brandy. What is the world coming to?” What indeed?
(Added tears optional)
Many readers will surely agree with Nigel Peacock, of Caernarfonshire, that watching the day’s headlines demands fortitude. “In this house it is ‘news and booze’ at six o’clock,” says Nigel. “The booze (G&T) is to counter the effect of the BBC’s nonstop stream of whinging and weeping.”
But, wait, are you on licensed premises? Then you may wish to adjust your order – especially north of the border, warns Devonian Stephen Woodbridge-Smith. “When visiting the Scottish town of Ardrossan in the 1980s, I asked for a gin and tonic in a pub – only to be told in no uncertain terms ‘That’s a lassie’s drink’,” he says. “I had a pint of special instead.”
In an unexpected twist, Telegraph readers are keen to note that the port can be passed earlier than thought (although always to the left). Londoner Dominic Shelmerdine reveals that “the splendid, now sadly closed Basil Street Hotel, in Knightsbridge, London, used to serve a glass of port before every evening meal”.
In Shropshire, Steven Tong believes the port should be served as part of a cocktail. “Regarding the Basil Street Hotel serving a glass of port before every evening meal,” Tong says, “the aperitif of choice in this house is a highly refreshing dry white port and tonic – a porto tonico. However, after a particularly challenging day, this can be upgraded to a vodka portini: three equal measures of London dry gin, vodka and dry white port, served shaken with ice and garnished with lime.” Presumably followed by a duvet chaser.
If you are fortunate enough to be invited to dinner at the home of Ben Howkins in Northamptonshire, you will be proffered Champagne on arrival. Delightfully, Howkins also sees this as an opportunity for another helping of port: “Whenever I serve port at home, after decanting it I offer a snifter to my dinner guests as they sip the fizz on arrival. This way, they are able to taste this most delicious of post-prandial drinks while they are still relatively sober. They are then happily reunited with the port, now a friend, after dinner.”
With this beverage, we are more concerned about actual quantity than quotidian tumbler times. Mandy Lovick of Devon, confides: “My father decided to monitor the quantity of whisky he and my mother drank every night, so bought a proper measure. The first time he poured my mother a single she handed the glass back, saying that it wasn’t a drink, just a dirty glass. He never used the measure again.”
(Of course)
Good news for anyone worried they may not have enjoyed the toast of Oporto enough so far today. According to Susan Treggiari of Oxford, sherry is the official Telegraph readers’ go-to at any time. “My mother, who is 106,” says Susan, “normally has Amontillado before, during, and after dinner, and usually at lunch, too.” So now we know.
Telegraph readers are not entirely in agreement on the optimum time for caffeinated hot drinks, with the gauntlet laid down by Camilla Borradaile of Dorset. She says: “Louise Lear, the BBC weather forecaster, surprised me when she warned of heavy rain arriving by ‘coffee time’. When, exactly, is coffee time?”
Recollections, it seems, may vary but one thing is certain, says Tim Weston of Much Marcle, Herefordshire: “Coffee time is certainly not at 10am, as that is bait time.”
For retired infant school teacher Barbara Southward of Essex, it will always be 10.30am. “This was morning playtime for the children and 15 minutes when teachers could grab a coffee and a well-earned sit-down.”
In Norfolk, Kirsty Blunt says coffee time is a BBC Radio 2-linked religion in her household, “observed when King Ken Bruce announces that it’s time to put the kettle on ready for PopMaster”.
Couples may need to compromise. “The day after my wife retired,” says Peter Higgins, from Kent, “six years after I had, she started to make coffee at 10.30am. However, I informed her that I had adopted 10.40am as my coffee time. We now have our coffee at 10.50am.”
Norfolk’s Suzanne Burnell is having none of that. “Coffee time is surely 11am – also known as elevenses.” Unless you are in the Antipodes, Mike Ellis points out: “Immigrants to New Zealand like me find that what we call morning coffee time is referred to as ‘morning tea’ or ‘smoko’, irrespective of whether one drinks tea or smokes.”
For some it seems British weather holds the key to kettle time. Phil Coutie, from Exeter, clarifies the position: “Rain arriving at ‘coffee time’. But when is that? I would say it is 7am, 8.30pm and every hour or two thereafter. A very rainy day.”
It’s Britain though, so aren’t they all?
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