So I thought, seeing as it’s Christmas and we all need a little something festive, why not swap the usual article for a proper wine story? Not a tasting note, not a review. A story. Because some wines deserve more than a score or a pairing suggestion. They deserve a moment, a bit of theatre and, occasionally, a dramatic entrance. So here it is: Christmas Eve in the warehouse, told the WineGuide101 way.

It was Christmas Eve in the warehouse and the staff had finally gone home, leaving behind the usual mix of half-empty mugs, a stray packing slip, and a radio that insisted on playing Wham! twice an hour. The lights clicked off. The door slammed. Silence.

Then, as it did every year when the clock struck midnight, the wines woke up.

Not in a Disney way. Nobody burst into song or performed acrobatics. They simply blinked themselves into consciousness, much like tired CEOs do at conferences they pretend to enjoy. A low murmur filled the warehouse as wooden cases stretched their joints and bottles rolled slightly to get comfortable.

Right at the centre of the room sat a freshly arrived 2019 Bordeaux, still in his delivery crate. He was handsome enough in that classic, slightly smug way Bordeaux bottles often are, but he carried the insecurity of someone who had been told he was special one too many times. He cleared his throat.

“Evening,” he said.

A group of Tuscan bottles looked over at him. One of them winked. “New kid. Aren’t you lucky. Right before allocation day.”

Bordeaux swallowed. He knew about allocation day. Every bottle did. In the morning, the merchant would choose which wines were going to Michelin star restaurants, collectors, corporate gifting programmes and the occasional influencer who had learned the subtle art of swirling while holding a camera at chest height.

The rest were destined for the January discount bin, a fate widely considered worse than being turned into mulled wine.

A Ribera del Duero bottle rolled closer. “Relax. They will love you. Bordeaux is always in fashion.”

“Until it isn’t,” muttered a Pinot Noir in the corner.

The room erupted into its usual late-night blend of bragging and gentle existential panic. The Champagnes were debating dosage again. The New World wines were trying to form a union. The Barolos were explaining for the fourth time that they were not grumpy, they just had depth.

Bordeaux took a deep breath. “Do you think I have a chance?”

“Well,” said a Tuscan bottle, “your label is respectable. Your vintage was good. Your tannins will soften nicely. You will probably get a decent human. Maybe even someone who can pronounce your appellation correctly.”

“That would be a miracle,” Ribera snorted.

But Bordeaux was not convinced. “My cousins score well on Vivino in the UK,” he said. “People do seem to like us.”

“Oh, he’s one of those,” Pinot sighed. “Another bottle who thinks he understands the market.”

“It helps to know your audience,” Bordeaux said defensively.

The warehouse door creaked.

All the bottles froze.

From the shadows rolled a dusty bottle, ancient and slightly crooked, like he had seen more Decembers than the rest combined. The room fell silent.

“Is that…” whispered Champagne.

“It can’t be…” said Tuscany.

The bottle wheezed as he approached. “Evening. You can relax. I’m not here for the allocation. I came from the private reserve.”

Gasps all around.

“What’s it like up there?” Ribera asked.

The old bottle shrugged. “Dark. Cold. Someone misplaced me twenty years ago. Turns out I’m not a unicorn. I’m a supermarket special from 1998 that got mixed into a fine wine order. Honest mistake apparently.”

The warehouse stared at him.

“So what are you doing here?” Bordeaux asked.

The old bottle smiled. “Thought I’d offer a bit of wisdom since you’re all about to lose your corks tomorrow morning.”

He settled himself against a crate. “You lot worry too much about where you are going. The restaurant. The collector. The influencer who will take twenty seven photos before pulling your cork. None of that is the point.”

Champagne frowned. “What is the point then?”

“The point,” he said, “is who opens you. If the right person pulls your cork, even a modest wine can sing. If the wrong person does, even the most celebrated bottle can feel wasted.”

Nobody spoke. For once even the union-forming New World wines paused.

The old bottle nodded. “Tomorrow you will all go somewhere. You don’t get to choose the destination. But you can hope you land with someone who sees you properly.”

Bordeaux felt something warm move through his glass.

Morning came with the usual chaos of humans storming in, clattering about and loudly comparing hangovers.

Cases were opened. Bottles were inspected. Decisions were made.

One by one, wines were chosen and whisked away to glamorous futures or questionable ones. Eventually a hand reached into Bordeaux’s crate.

“This one,” said the merchant. “Perfect for that chap who always gives honest reviews. Likes a story with his wine. Seems to appreciate what he’s opening.”

Bordeaux’s heart soared. Not a Michelin star restaurant. Not a collector’s cellar. But someone who would genuinely enjoy him. Someone who understood that wine isn’t just tasted. It’s experienced.

As he was placed carefully into a festive box, Bordeaux turned to face the warehouse one last time.

“May all your corks be popped by the right people,” he said.

The old bottle winked.

And with that, Bordeaux began his journey to a Christmas table where he would finally shine.

It was Christmas Eve in the warehouse and the staff had finally gone home, leaving behind the usual mix of half-empty mugs, a stray packing slip, and a radio that insisted on playing Wham! twice an hour. The lights clicked off. The door slammed. Silence.

Then, as it did every year when the clock struck midnight, the wines woke up.

Not in a Disney way. Nobody burst into song or performed acrobatics. They simply blinked themselves into consciousness, much like tired CEOs do at conferences they pretend to enjoy. A low murmur filled the warehouse as wooden cases stretched their joints and bottles rolled slightly to get comfortable.

Right at the centre of the room sat a freshly arrived 2019 Bordeaux, still in his delivery crate. He was handsome enough in that classic, slightly smug way Bordeaux bottles often are, but he carried the insecurity of someone who had been told he was special one too many times. He cleared his throat.

“Evening,” he said.

A group of Tuscan bottles looked over at him. One of them winked. “New kid. Aren’t you lucky. Right before allocation day.”

Bordeaux swallowed. He knew about allocation day. Every bottle did. In the morning, the merchant would choose which wines were going to Michelin star restaurants, collectors, corporate gifting programmes and the occasional influencer who had learned the subtle art of swirling while holding a camera at chest height.

The rest were destined for the January discount bin, a fate widely considered worse than being turned into mulled wine.

A Ribera del Duero bottle rolled closer. “Relax. They will love you. Bordeaux is always in fashion.”

“Until it isn’t,” muttered a Pinot Noir in the corner.

The room erupted into its usual late-night blend of bragging and gentle existential panic. The Champagnes were debating dosage again. The New World wines were trying to form a union. The Barolos were explaining for the fourth time that they were not grumpy, they just had depth.

Bordeaux took a deep breath. “Do you think I have a chance?”

“Well,” said a Tuscan bottle, “your label is respectable. Your vintage was good. Your tannins will soften nicely. You will probably get a decent human. Maybe even someone who can pronounce your appellation correctly.”

“That would be a miracle,” Ribera snorted.

But Bordeaux was not convinced. “My cousins score well on Vivino in the UK,” he said. “People do seem to like us.”

“Oh, he’s one of those,” Pinot sighed. “Another bottle who thinks he understands the market.”

“It helps to know your audience,” Bordeaux said defensively.

The warehouse door creaked.

All the bottles froze.

From the shadows rolled a dusty bottle, ancient and slightly crooked, like he had seen more Decembers than the rest combined. The room fell silent.

“Is that…” whispered Champagne.

“It can’t be…” said Tuscany.

The bottle wheezed as he approached. “Evening. You can relax. I’m not here for the allocation. I came from the private reserve.”

Gasps all around.

“What’s it like up there?” Ribera asked.

The old bottle shrugged. “Dark. Cold. Someone misplaced me twenty years ago. Turns out I’m not a unicorn. I’m a supermarket special from 1998 that got mixed into a fine wine order. Honest mistake apparently.”

The warehouse stared at him.

“So what are you doing here?” Bordeaux asked.

The old bottle smiled. “Thought I’d offer a bit of wisdom since you’re all about to lose your corks tomorrow morning.”

He settled himself against a crate. “You lot worry too much about where you are going. The restaurant. The collector. The influencer who will take twenty seven photos before pulling your cork. None of that is the point.”

Champagne frowned. “What is the point then?”

“The point,” he said, “is who opens you. If the right person pulls your cork, even a modest wine can sing. If the wrong person does, even the most celebrated bottle can feel wasted.”

Nobody spoke. For once even the union-forming New World wines paused.

The old bottle nodded. “Tomorrow you will all go somewhere. You don’t get to choose the destination. But you can hope you land with someone who sees you properly.”

Bordeaux felt something warm move through his glass.

Morning came with the usual chaos of humans storming in, clattering about and loudly comparing hangovers.

Cases were opened. Bottles were inspected. Decisions were made.

One by one, wines were chosen and whisked away to glamorous futures or questionable ones. Eventually a hand reached into Bordeaux’s crate.

“This one,” said the merchant. “Perfect for that chap who always gives honest reviews. Likes a story with his wine. Seems to appreciate what he’s opening.”

Bordeaux’s heart soared. Not a Michelin star restaurant. Not a collector’s cellar. But someone who would genuinely enjoy him. Someone who understood that wine isn’t just tasted. It’s experienced.

As he was placed carefully into a festive box, Bordeaux turned to face the warehouse one last time.

“May all your corks be popped by the right people,” he said.

The old bottle winked.

And with that, Bordeaux began his journey to a Christmas table where he would finally shine.