I have only drunk one bottle of wine this past week worthy of writing about, but unfortunately I have been sworn to secrecy about it. When inspiration in wine deserts me, I can always trust in pure anger at stupidity. Unfortunately there is never a lack of that.

The stupidity currently on my mind is any talk about a boycott of South African wines as a response to the recent farm worker strikes.

Locals may think this is just the mutterings of an ANCYL crackpot. The idea however, has travelled. The Guardian newspaper asked its readers in a poll on the front page of its website whether they would support a boycott of South African wines. 59% said they would.

The poll struck me as darkly comic. Right now South African fine wine is enjoying a momentous streak of good publicity. Goode, Molesworth, Atkin, Suckling and Martin (how white and male the wine world is, no wonder I find it so comfortable) – all influential and respected wine writers – have heaped praise on South African fine wine recently. So while critics implore the British to drink more of our wine, editors are asking if they will boycott it. Amazing.

But the good press is amazing. We have been called the most exciting new world wine producer. Can I get a hells yeah?

I can’t? Sorry, what was that? A strike? R69 rand a day for wine farm labourers? Surely not that low. I mean that’s just horrid. Charles, did you hear what these boers are paying their poor workers? Five quid a day! Can you believe it Charles? It’s just too terrible. We must do something about it. Really, in this day and age, I mean what? Listen here Charles, no more South African Chenin. Do you hear me Charles? No more South African anything. That’ll show ‘em. It reminds me of the old days Charles; when we used to march down the high street singing and chanting, “Free Nelson Mandela”. Will that country ever change Charles?

The boycott: making armchair activists feel as if they were doing something since, well, armchairs.

I have been accused of fiddling – with wine, I assume, although it could just as well be myself* – while Rome burns. I think this analogy misses the target considerably. The point that my accusers are trying to make, however, is that instead of telling you all about delicious Pinot Noirs and scintillating Chenins, I should be raising my voice against the naughty farmers, or the irresponsible workers. Castigating either the police, DA, ANC, Nosey Pieterson, Wieta, WOSA, Su Birch, Bawusa, or someone, because GODDAMN IT HARRY R69 a day.

The causes for this strike run far deeper than wine producers. And I would bet my bottom bloody dollar those that produce the wines garnering South Africa all the positive reviews treat their workers fairly. But sixty-nine fucking rand a month while you drink a two hundred rand bottle of Pinot. That’s disgusting. You fiddling burning-Rome-watching wanker.

Ah yes, instead of focusing on a range of issues that plague our labour forces across the country, it’s far easier to focus on this easy to understand nugget.

It’s so easy to compare the R200 bottle with the R69 daily wage. The comparison is simple and cutting. Perfect for the dinner table. An easy quip to take Brian, that prick from down the road with his new BMW, down a few notches when he arrives for the dinner party with that expensive South African Cabernet.

While I am sure the Guardian column will not do irreparable harm to the industry, the stupidity of it is galling, and some harm will no doubt be done. While I can tease the middle-class English, and their silly pretensions I would of course rather they buy our Pinots, Chenins and Syrahs over anybody else’s.   

I have never felt qualified to talk directly about the strikes. To offer my opinion on something I am not fully informed about is foolhardy. I see though, quite clearly, that the wine industry has a role to play, as do the unions, and the rest of the agricultural industry. That, I believe, is a simple enough observation to make. So to read of people conflating a complex issues into a shallow boycott is exasperating, especially when it occurs right when we are shaking off the burnt-rubber-smelling, awful-pinotage-making, cheap-as-chips-selling image we have held for so long.

*Please, for the love of god, don’t point out the reference is about a fiddle. I know. Nearly all men prefer masturbation to violins anyway.