As the Queen starts making her own Windsor wine, the industry enjoys a record year
✒ It's been a tremendous year for English wine with our vineyards producing an amazing 4m bottles, a record. And it turns out that the Queen is going to start making her own wine at Windsor, though you won't be able to buy it for three years and will, of course, have to wear a ridiculous hat while drinking it.
I popped along to English wine's annual show this week and tried as many as I could without falling down. The days when a French vigneron could say to me "yurr English wine, eet tastes of rain" are long gone, and some of the sparklers are now quite exceptional – far better than champagnes selling at the same £20-24 mark. In fact, some, such as Camel Valley, Ridgeview and Nyetimber, strike me as being just as good as the premium brands from famous names being sold to footballers and rock stars for more than £100 in shops and at even sillier prices in clubs and restaurants.
It's a matter of prestige. People still feel that for really special occasions, the wine must have the word "champagne" on the label. Soon, however, I'm sure people will say: "We're laying this aside for our daughter's engagement; it's from Cornwall…"
✒ I really enjoyed the royal wedding. I know most people didn't – the viewing figures were comfortably less than half the population – but I saw no point in leaving the country as some did. You could always keep the telly switched off.
But here are the seven worst things about it, aspects of the event that were actually quite annoying:
• Tony Blair and Gordon Brown not being invited. Whether Blair "cashed in" on Princess Diana's death (he didn't), or because Cherie refused to curtsey, or because Blair's memoirs said too much about his dealings with the royals, the snub was to all of us and to democracy. And it gave what should have been a national celebration a nasty, class-bound, party political tinge.
• Beatrice's fascinator, or "repulser" as it should have been called. As if Medusa had gone to Nicky Clarke.
• The fly-past. A miserable six planes! A real, eardrum-rattling, fly-past would have looked like an RAF raid on Schwenningen.
• Prince Harry's speech. Obviously we only have press reports, but a proper, traditional best man's speech would have been packed with disgusting jokes and filthy allusions to the groom's previous girlfriends. That is Prince Harry's role in life and he let us all down.
• John Rutter's specially composed anthem. Sounded like Coldplay.
• Elton John's hissy fit when he asked to be moved to a more prominent seat. Calm down, dear, as we say these days.
• The kiss. Call that a kiss? A bit of tongue, please, Will.
✒ Why does the BBC insist on calling the soldiers and police employed by various tyrants in the Middle East and north Africa "security forces"? For example: "In Syria, security forces are said to have killed up to 60 demonstrators…" Security is the last thing these people provide. The Beeb wouldn't say: "A bomb planted by IRA freedom fighters has caused at least 10 deaths…" Just say, "government troops".
✒ I've been watching some of the host of new cop shows on TV. (The BBC says it has scrubbed Zen because it wants more women detectives. Well, many of the women I know think that Rufus Sewell is quite all right to be going to on with. You might as well say: "Men aren't interested in watching Scarlett Johansson. They want to see burly chaps pouting on TV…")
The new crop of women detectives are real people, damaged and with problems. If they get on well with their male deputies, then they have a terrible relationship with their male superiors. As my colleagues in the Guardian have pointed out, the more realistic the cops, the more fanciful and improbable the murders. And the cliches remain the same, whether in Vera, Lewis or Case Sensitive.
Here are some more recent ones I've spotted: the first murder is usually the weirdest and is unexplained at the end. Any group of children having a boisterous outing will always stumble on a body. All mobile phone calls come at the worst possible moment. When the sidekick searches for a crucial clue on the internet, he invariably finds it immediately, usually with a cry of "bingo, boss!"
✒ Labels and notices, continued: Suzan Carter bought a pack of "whole almonds" from Sainsbury's: "allergy advice – contains nuts". David Voas also went to Sainsbury's, for a steak. The label gives instructions for cooking rare: "2 ½ to 4 minutes each side… Always check that the product is cooked throughout, and no pink colour remains." Thanks, paranoid lawyers!
Les Herbert bought some fish in his local posh supermarket, the one that pushes up house prices by just existing: "plaice fillets in a bespoke Waitrose crumb". A bespoke crumb? Sounds like a very annoying tailor's assistant in Jermyn Street.
Vic McLellan photographed a sign mounted on a fence by a stream near his home: "Kew Angling Society. Strictly No Fishing."
A reader who requested anonymity to spare his wife encloses a leaflet for the Estring brand vaginal ring, used to replace oestrogen for post-menopausal women: "The Estring vaginal ring is not recommended for use in children," it says. Into what bizarre mind could that warning have wandered?
Linda Paramor bought some limnanthes seeds for her garden. "Handy tip," it says on the packet, "plant carefully as they can be evasive." I love the idea of the flowers coyly hiding when anyone tries to admire them.
I didn't love the leaflet that came with Dick Tuckey's penicillin prescription: "Unwanted side effects can include nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, and black hairy tongue." No, please!
✒ David Scott startled me with a tale of a merciful guard on, of all services, Virgin. He was on a London to Manchester train sitting near two Norwegian tourists. One of them said he had lost his ticket and the ticket inspector let him off! "I won't tell you which train it was," David says, "because he would be sacked."