I Got Drunk on Wetherspoons' New Brexit-y British Sparkling Wines

It's another one of those heatwave days, where the sky yawns wide and blue, the pavement wafts up the smell of baked piss and every dog's rapid-fire pant sounds like a plea for the release of death. I'm turning my back to the sunshine inside a Wetherspoons while John Wall, the pub manager, pours two glasses of sparkling wine. He's just adorably referred to Brexit as the "B-word". He wouldn't normally talk about Brexit, he says, but it's part of the reason we're here together, as he prepares three non-EU-produced wines for me to taste.

A few weeks ago, headlines poured out about John's boss, Tim Martin, announcing Spoons’ plan to replace French champagne and Italian prosecco with British wines. Truth is, that's not really what's happening. Next week, the huge pub chain will be replacing French champagne with two British sparkling wines and an Aussie one. Prosecco isn't being axed right away, so everyone can chill. Broadly speaking, it's a move to make the pubs less reliant on EU products.

Tim is an extremely vocal Brexiteer. He's the sort of Brexit supporter who reckons "we immediately save £10 billion a year" upon leaving the EU, and shouts exactly that on live national television. Tim Martin is like, "No-deal is still a deal, uno." He’s aggressively looking on the bright side, staring directly into the light as this country blasts into a solar flare of unknowns.

So, in the interests of you, the person who doesn’t drink bubbly too often because champagne just always feels like Such a Thing; or you, the prosecco fan who's like, "I'm good!! What do you mean other wines? Haha, another mimosa please?" I'm sampling all three, before their general release on Monday the 9th of July

Look, I've been as sceptical as you may be right now. I used to scoff condescendingly about British wine. My parents are South African: we have sunshine and thus good wine. This country, with its blustery wind and low-hanging greyness and vegetables that tend to grow below ground a lot because winter is the short, and not long, season, didn't seem like a contender. Then I went to a plush hotel bar in Fitzrovia in March, got day-tipsy on some actually nice English wine and changed my view. But what about these wines?

In the Masque Haunt, an east London Spoons, Brazil and Mexico’s World Cup knockout match has just kicked off. John and a lovely, straight-down-the-line colleague bartender must have thought there'd be more people coming to this tasting. They’ve laid out ten individual champagne flutes and six bottles of wine, each with its own clanging ice bucket. I'm sitting at a giant group table with two each of: a Denbies sparkling Whitedowns Brut, a Denbies sparkling Rosé Brut; and the Australian Hardys Sparkling Chardonnay pinot noir. A few men in the pub for the football look over. John opens one bottle of each type.

It's time.

What is this? If it were in a shop, it would be the sort of white sparkling wine you'd buy to take round to a friend's on one of those mad days when you eschew regular programming – some beers, a vodka and mixer – because you’re feeling giddy about the night ahead. You’re not technically celebrating anything besides being alive. It’s either a really warm night or a crisp winter one with no rain in sight. Oh, you mean– OK, this is a really bubbly, dry sparkling white wine.

What does it taste like? As someone who only really likes bold or "jammy" reds, I realise too late that I do not have the vocabulary to discuss this wine in any meaningful way with John. As he looks at it in his glass, he says: "It’s a really nice colour, plenty of fizz," or as I'd put it: "Real bubbly in a way that makes me feel thirsty all over again." It’s got a dryness, and what John declares are gooseberry notes. Most importantly for the marketing side of things, it’s going to be at a much cheaper price point than French champagne.

What would a hangover on it be like? I know you’re not meant to say this, but, for me, expensive champagne sets off a pounding headache before I’ve finished a second glass. This wine feels less sharp. I proceed to get fairly trashed on all three, but within a few hours don’t have that bitterness clinging to my throat that often signals a big old wine hangover waving at you from inside your body, ready to bed in. You could go to school or work on a hangover with this one, and not want to die by midday.

Overall score: 8/10

What is this? Sancerre. Dry. Floral. Lychees. Sniffing inside his glass, these are all words John mentions, most of which I understand in principle but seem elevated to poetry on a hot day when a beautiful older woman with a long white ponytail walks by giggling, looks at all the bottles strewn across my table and asks if I’m "having a party". This is a semi-dry sparkling rosé with a colour not unlike that of a cream blush Glossier would release as a limited edition summer shade. It’s cute.

What does it taste like? Up until this heatwave, I’d look my friends dead in the eyes when they’d order rosé for the table and say stuff like, "Oh, you consider that wine? Cool." I was an idiot and wrong. When you make it bubbly, rosé can get better – and this one tastes crisp and delicately sweet.

What would a hangover on it be like? Testy, to be honest. The sweeter a sparkling wine, the more shrill the hangover. And though this would be nowhere near the blistering hell of a prosecco hangover, you’d need to check yourself. Mostly, a wine like this would then make you thirsty for a flat drink afterwards, then you’d be doing something wild like sipping voddy-cranberries, then you’d wake up with your eyes and throat crusted over with the crystals of your dehydration. Approach with caution, but also just eat something as you go and you’ll be alright.

Overall score: 6/10

What is this? When you get two grape names jostling for attention on a label like that, you’re drinking a blend. This wine pours out with a massive, fizzing head on it, and levels out to a really pale, crisp glass. "You can feel the bubbles going up your nose," John says, laughing like he’s just told the best joke of his life. I want to cry. John is pure. "The bubbles going up your nose with this are fantastic," he continues. "They are literally jumping out the glass!"

What does it taste like? John takes a sip and smacks his lips. "Nice. I think it's a mid-palette taste. It's got a bit of dryness, a bit of medium-dryness. So it’s not as bone-dry as the Denbies – it’s more of a social drink. An after-work drink: grab a few mates, put it in an ice bucket and it’s the start of your night. Fantastic." John is working overtime for Spoons – he technically wasn’t prepped to do this tasting, but just bloody loves wine – and he’s selling it beautifully. To me, this is a lot easier to drink than the Denbies sparkling white brut. It tastes like that really good bubbly your aunt always brings out over around Christmas time, which she secretly drinks all year round with her mates then lets you in on when she’s feeling festive.

What would a hangover on it be like? I’m amazed to report that I drank about half a bottle of this on an empty stomach at 3.10PM, and by 6PM was in a meeting at work, acting fine. You’d have to really glug down at least a bottle to make yourself feel rough. This one is the key to success for people who love prosecco but have been burned by cheap prosecco’s ruthless next-day punishments before. At the risk of turning this into advertorial, this one was lit.

Overall score: 8/10

So, look, this is mostly a very savvy PR move spearheaded by someone who refuses to see Brexit as anything but an opportunity. The wines themselves are tasty. People who like to drink Champagne because the bottle reads "CHAMPAGNE" and costs as much as a Reiss blouse may not be swayed. But there might not be a big overlap between those people and the Spoons clientele, which swoops from decades-long regulars, to broke people in their early twenties, to upper-class millennials who fetishise Wetherspoons’ cheapness and take selfies in the Hackney Spoons toilets, to people who like pubs without music playing in them.

When we’ve finished the tasting, John relaxes a bit. "I'm actually quite pleased with this, I don’t mind admitting that. I’m on the wrong side of 50 now, and it used to be unfashionable as a lad to say, 'I like wine.' I used to go out with my mates, and I’d order a glass of wine when they’d be drinking beer, all" – he motions raised eyebrows. He points out that, overall, "wine has gone from the sweet, sugary stuff of a few years back towards having a drier one that you sip. You enjoy it more. Never thought I’d see the day, but here it is."

He picks up one of the ten glasses, all now half-empty and starting to lose their fizz. "Cheers."

@tnm___