The Sacred Art of Drinking Port: A Gentleman’s Guide

Port isn’t a drink. It’s a ritual. A ceremony. A spiritual experience best performed with all the proper equipment, and no, we’re not talking about fine crystal glassware or silver-plated decanters. That’s rookie stuff.

Let’s begin with the essentials:
First, the armchair. Deep. Worn. Possibly inherited. Must squeak when you shift your weight, like it’s mildly judging your life choices. The fireplace should be roaring to a level considered hazardous by most modern insurance standards. No fire, no port. Those are the rules.

Next, the smoking jacket. Ideally velvet. Ideally burgundy. Ideally previously owned by your shady Uncle Dicky, currently serving a ten-year sabbatical for insider trading, but still a man of excellent taste in loungewear. The jacket should smell faintly of betrayal and cologne from 1987.

Then we have the cigar. Not to be smoked, necessarily, just waved about with exaggerated flair like you're mid-monologue in a BBC period drama.

And finally, the cocker spaniel. This noble creature serves two purposes: warming your slippered feet and performing post-Stilton crumb retrieval. If you don’t have one, a reluctant dachshund will do, but don’t expect the same level of aristocratic side-eye.

Drinking port is not about quenching thirst. It’s about asserting dominance over one’s living room. It’s about sipping something sweet and fortified while reflecting on the glorious days of Empire, when trousers were high and morals were optional.

So, charge your glass, strike a pose of smug contentment, and remember—true port drinkers don’t drink. They convene.

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