Jack beamed, took the money and headed towards the stock market. At the door of the exchange he was stopped by an Armani-suited stranger who greeted him cheerfully. "Hi, just call me Lucky." It was none other than the son of a captain of industry who, starting at the bottom, had made all his millions by shrewdly inheriting them. "Anything I can help you with – like getting rich suddenly?" said he to Jack. Jack introduced himself and showed Lucky his mum's super policy. Lucky said, "Jack, no pun intended, but this is your lucky day I've got one word to say to you: Grapevines!"

"That's two words but." replied Jack. "Not the way I say it." argued Lucky, "I leave out the hyphen, and join the words together... But I digress. I just happen to have about my person a genetically engineered pinot noir vine known as clone R2D2, grafted on to the finest Roundup™ resistant American rootstock. It contains fluorescent jelly fish genes that allow its grapes to glow in the dark thus enabling hand-picking, even on the blackest of unmoonlit nights.

"Unfortunately trial wines we've made using these GM vines don't taste very nice - according to the few taste challenged focus groups we've served them to so far. However, we reckon a strategic marketing campaign aimed at key demographics will overcome that little problem soon enough."

"How much for this miracle vine?" enquired Jack. "How much is your poor widowed mother's policy worth?" countered Lucky. "What a coincidence! Just sign it over to me, hand over any cash you happen to have in your pockets and we'll call it quits."

When Jack got home and saw the wilting vine in his bag he became very depressed, downed a triple brandy, went straight to his bedroom, opened the window and tossed the vine into the backyard. Fortuitously it landed in a depression in the compost heap next to the vegetable garden, the one where his mother Tess grubbed turnips with her bare hands to eke out her pathetic income.

Up bright and early the next morning Jack looked out at the noonday sun and to his surprise saw that the vine had rocketed, space-shuttle like, into the upper stratosphere – or was it the ionosphere? Jack didn't really much care. He told his careworn mother that he would get to the bottom (he really meant the top) of this strange event and would henceforth set off to explore this monstrous vine.

So Tess packed his backpack with a Nebuchadnezzar of wine, and a thermos of his favourite gruel, flavoured with rutabaga peelings. She handed him his dusty mountaineering equipment, set his baseball cap lovingly backwards on his head "To protect your neck from UVA. And to make sure you come home boy." and gave him a leg up at the base of the gnarly rootstock.

As she brushed a few silver strands from her forehead (the hair transplant hadn't taken properly) and a tear from the one eye that had survived unsatisfactory laser correction surgery, she wondered deep in her fibrillating heart if she could sue both the hair and the laser clinic and whether Jack would ever come back. Even deeper in her heart she hypocritically (for no-one is that pure) rather hoped he wouldn't. But just in case she rang her agent and asked him to sound out producers about a pilot infotainment feature combining viticulture, wine, investment, tax evasion (she of course meant avoidance) and upwardly mobile travel.

After many hours of sweat and the straining of long unused muscles (well actually some of them never previously used) Jack reached the clouds (strato-nimbus). Imagine his surprise when he saw a massive gravity-defying castle that had been cleverly and stylishly re-modelled by an avant-garde (is there any other?) architect to look like a Bordeaux chateau, but curiously devoid of any identifiably French bits.

Passing by just then was an itinerant grape picker who had nothing better to do than offer advice to red-faced vine-climbers. He told Jack that the chateau was the home of a nasty trans-global Giant who liked chewing up Australian wine companies, spitting out their proprietors and sacking all their loyal workers whilst transferring their profits to tax havens in Switzerland and other suitable yet more tropical climes.

Nothing daunted, Jack walked boldly up to the immense front doors of the castle and banged on them with his ice pick. ("That door's going to need a good sanding and a touch of varnish" said the grape-picker who, uninvited, followed him – rather like the smell of a washed rind cheese that would have been better left unwashed.) The doors opened ponderously and there in front of him was a Giantess, who, as it turned out, was the live-in companion of the Giant.

"Come in." she said in a kind yet ear-splitting roar. "I've just made a batch of brioche." (So there were a few French touches in the faux chateau after all.) "We'll have coffee and you can give me all the goss from Down There." She listened sympathetically while Jack told her all his troubles but started suddenly when the sound of thunderous footsteps reached their ears. "Quick Jacques!" (Seems she was in fact quite a Francophile.) "Hide in this Troncais medium toasted oak hogshead or my husband will find you and there'll be 'ell to pay." (They were not actually married... but she thought ...some day...)

In came the Giant, who without further adieu (sorry, ado) sniffed the air – for, coincidentally, he was a wine professional, and said, "Hmmm, Let me see... I smell brioche, made from free-range eggs and organic wholemeal flour. Blue Mountain Arabica coffee, a whiff of off-cheese or, alternatively, itinerant grape picker. And if I'm not much mistaken, and I'm not, the definitive bouquet of ..." And with this he burst into (basso profundo, naturally) song.

"Fee, Fie, Fo, Fum! I smell the blood of an Orstralee-un, Say he Oui! or say he Non! I'll crush his grapes for my sauvignon, Be he alive or be he dyin' / I'll squeeze his berries to make my wi-i-i-ne."

"Now, now, dear." said the Giantess, "Just calm down, have your dinner and wash it down with this lovely sixteen per cent alcohol South East Australian shiraz from your beloved Riedel Bordeaux Sommelier Bouquet*" (For she had found Jack's wine whilst rifling surreptitiously through his backpack.) In no time at all the Giant was asleep. (Happens to everyone who sculls this style of wine.) *Pronounced bucket.

Jack crept out of the barrel and while the Giantess was washing the dishes (things were ever thus) stole the Giant's stylish leather manbag. (NB: (i) To Jack it was the size of a Louis Vuitton suitcase – but as he had never seen one the comparison was quite meaningless. (ii) Sensitive New Age Giants do carry manbags.) Jack tippy-toed out of the chateau, rappelled rapidly down the grapevine and while relating his adventures to his mum they emptied the Giant's purloined bag.

Lo and Behold! It contained many documents, including a strategy for the Giant's foreign connections to purchase a controlling interest in one of Australia's largest wine companies with a radical proposal to turn said company into a profit making venture whilst at the same time paying its senior executives generous yet performance-based incomes. And even Loer and Beholder! there also in the bag were enough share certificates and negotiable bearer bonds to raise the finance for the success of this dastardly scheme.

"It never would have worked." said Jack. "Australians may cop foreign ownership but they'll never stand for moderating senior executive salaries based on performance goals!" With that he popped down to the stock market, sold the bonds and shares and invested the proceeds (much to his mother's delight) into the growth industries of aloe vera plantations, poker machines, old growth forest woodchipping, and a chainsaw. With the chainsaw he cut down the enormous pinot vine that had caused him so much unexpected wealth.

Jack and his mum lived happily ever after. Wine companies went on their merry way. The Giantess enrolled in a wine marketing course and runs a B & B at the Chateau - now known as Le Pie dans le Sky. Unfortunately the Giant was killed when Jack cut down the vine – he was chasing Jack at the time, still intent on crushing his grapes. (Jack sold the Giant's carcass to a nearby pet food and glue factory. Said the factory manager, "Makes a nice change from all these bloomin' bow-legged broken down nags that couldn't cut the mustard at the local races.")

The End.

Tastings

Tigress. Bay of Fires Pinot Noir / Chardonnay NV. Around $20. Bronze
Tasmania. Pale straw, medium bead. Subtle yeast lees and fruitiness on nose. Off-dry palate, well balanced with a lemony edge to the fruit and a clean finish.

Pol Roger. Brut NV. About $55. Silver
Pale persistent, tiny bead. One third each of chardonnay, pinot noir, pinot meunier. Nose of brioche, lime blossoms. Light and clean palate, biscuits and green apples. Tangy finish. PS. We tried this at The Botanical Hotel. with a delicious entrée. Picture a warm, perfectly poached egg sitting in a bed of truffled soft polenta. On top of the egg is a slice of Perigord black truffle covered with shavings of Reggiano. Sensational.

Redbank. Sunday Morning King Valley Pinot Gris 2003. Around $20. Silver
Water pale, bright. Floral and citrus perfume. Delicate grassy palate, hints of barrel ferment, softish finish.

Woodstock. Limestone Coast Verdelho 2003 $14. Silver
Light gold. Ever so fruity and fresh on the nose. Stacked with generous ripe fruit leading to a pleasing aftertaste. Great value summer drinking.

Tarrawarra. Pinot Noir 2001. Around $48. Silver
Yarra Valley. Dark cherry hues. Strawberries and smoky oak on the nose. Very dry style with assertive tannins, summer berries and upfront oak. Firm finish demands food accompaniment.