It is the sickliness of mulled drinks that upsets me most. I like wine, I like cider; I enjoy spices. The fact I don’t care for their being together is my problem, sure. But with sugar, suddenly we have something altogether disquieting. In the case of mulled wine, a liquid mince pie, a potent, gluey, raisin-proffering festival of acidity, one that sticks to the mouth. Cider? Not just hot sick but a farmyard on fire; sugar-dipped hay ablaze in a cut-price fruit pudding.
Nothing is worse than mulled wine
