Patricia Hocksworth, my ever-jolly departmental head, was over the moon, giving me a hearty hug when I revealed we were to be the exclusive British stockist of wines crafted by the great Wikus van Blerk. “Well done Felix! They will go down very well at December’s media tasting!”
The Head of Margin gave me his own special brand of support as he stormed past later that day, on his way to kick some poor buyer’s arse inside out. “One swallow does not a fucking spring make, smart arse,” he spat, jabbing his finger at me.
Praise indeed.
The remainder of the team were green with envy. Joan, at least, raised her eyebrows and said “Very impressive Felix. How many people did you sleep with to land that one?”
Timmy Durange squirmed and grimaced in his seat as Patricia congratulated me. “Trisha! Trisha! I think the journalists will like my new Burgundies too, don’t you?”
“Of course they will Timmy,” she said, ruffling his greasy hair. He hated her doing that.
The former buyer of South African wines, George Bolus, was unable to look me in the face. Mind you, it may not have helped that I left a bottle of van Blerk’s wine on his desk with a little note stuck to the neck saying, ‘This is how to buy wine, George. Enjoy!’ When he saw my gift, he went purple and made a noise like the village idiot with a cattle prod up his jacksie.
A fortnight later it was time for the Gatesave Christmas Media Event. The supermarket held this every year in the Executive Boardroom on the tenth floor of their Head Office. The venue was superb – the Boardroom took up half of an entire floor and was luxuriously appointed with thick-pile carpet and expensive art on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the room with natural light and presented eye-popping views of the River Thames.
Only the premier league of wine journalists were invited – those who had a weekly column in the broadsheets, those who had written popular books about wine, and a handful of broadcasters and TV celebrities who had the power to recommended wines to millions of viewers.
One hundred wines were lined up along the vast boardroom table, the mahogany protected by a plastic sheet and layers of linen, given the tendency of journalists to spill, throw and vomit wine, particularly toward the end of a tasting. Along the wall was a huge buffet, with every delicacy the Gatesave executive kitchen could conjure, from lobster and caviar to tiramisu and crème brûlée. Adjoining the Boardroom was a ‘productivity space’ for members of the media overwhelmed by excessive consumption, equipped with a fully manned espresso bar, a doctor and a team of masseurs.
The wine buyers hovered around the room ready to respond to any question, from a wine’s level of residual sugar to complaints about the absence of anchovy paste in the journalist’s local branch of Gatesave. A small army of PR helpers were also on hand to charm the older male members of the Fourth Estate, supply fresh glasses and mop up any sick – which also tended to emanate from the older male members of the Fourth Estate.
The purpose of the tasting, of course, was to dazzle the assembled journalists with the quality of our wines, and to inspire them to write glowing reviews in their publications. When the good people of Britain read their papers or listened to their radios they would be inspired to flock through the doors of Gatesave and fill their trolleys with our fine wines, rather than buying plonk from Merryfield Superstores or any other bastard competitor.
It only really worked, of course, if you had some wines that were worth talking about.
The tasting was due to start at two p.m. and, bang on time, the Chief Drinks Correspondent of The Telegraph entered the room. “Afternoon folks! Got any good wines this year or just the normal swill you corporate drones churn out?”
“Simon!” squeaked Trisha, bounding over and kissing him on each cheek. “We’ve got loads of fabulous wines for you to taste. I just know you’re going to love our selection this year!” She made a face like a deranged wet nurse and the journalist rolled his eyes.
“Right. Just leave me alone. If I have any questions, I’ll ask.” He began his journey through the wines, pouring, swirling, sniffing, tasting and spitting into the huge spittoons dotted around. We tried to encourage the journalists to spit, but some insisted on swallowing, hence the discrete presence of an industrial-strength steam cleaner, and a doctor.
At least Simon was a pro, unlike the next attendee, a famous broadcaster and self-styled wine-authority-at-large. He was definitely a swallower. “Hello girls!” he said to the room, as he sashayed in. The crack team of PR women simpered and smiled, reserving their rolling eyes for when his back was turned. He headed to the buffet and started tearing apart a lobster. He wouldn’t be bothering the wines until he’d had a good feed.
Then the Wine and Travel Editor of The Times entered the room. He was seven foot tall with a nose like an anteater. It had a disconcerting habit of entering a wine glass a few moments before the rest of his face arrived, and it could wipe itself around the inside of the glass in a perfectly obscene manner. He was a fairly benign chap so long as nobody said anything stupid.
He was closely followed by the Wine Correspondent of the Mail on Sunday. This chap was incredibly sensitive to noise and insisted on decamping to the ‘productivity space’ if anyone was using cutlery near him. He was obsessed with the sulphur content of wine and would regularly sneeze, then hold up a bottle and squeak, “I’m sorry, over-sulphured. Over-sulphured!”
More journalists arrived. The very large Lifestyle Editor of a major magazine was a Minstrel of Wine with a spectacular pair of chest anchors, not to mention a dirty look in her eye, so she was all right by me. She got stuck straight into the wines too, gurgling and spitting like a real expert, hitting the spittoons dead centre from a good yard away.
Next in was Jez Newman, the pugnacious author of a best-selling series of wine books. He was arguably the most important media personality in the room. Lean and shaven-headed – he tended to make his opinions known, loudly, with an air of menace. He was also a legendary piss artist. The jewel in his literary crown was Neck it! 100 wines you’d better drink NOW!, the annual Christmas round-up of his top tipples of the year. Inclusion guaranteed runaway sales for the lucky winery and stockist, so he was treated like a god.
“I wonder if I’ll find anything worth getting my tongue round today?” he declared, spreading his arms wide and winking at the large lady journalist.
“You couldn’t afford me, Jez,” she sniffed, giving him a wink back.
“I fucking well could!”
The room was filling up fast. The Wine Editor of a well-known restaurant guide drifted in. After a few glasses he tended to lose control of his anal sphincter so we had christened him ‘Le Mistral’, after the vicious wind that blows through the Rhone. A thin, pale female journalist from a Saturday paper crept in. She was a rather fussy, high-maintenance type, forever complaining her wine glass was unclean and demanding a replacement. I kept well clear of the pair of them.
I wandered around the room, nodding and smiling to the attendees, who were generally too busy swilling wine and writing notes to respond. Rose, the generously proportioned Lifestyle Editor, was an exception.
“Hello Felix, so you’re the new addition to the Gatesave wine department, I believe? I think we should organise a little interview, don’t you? ‘Gatesave’s Young Buck Buyer’. How does that sound?”
“Sounds fine, Rose. Don’t misspell the headline, will you?”
She winked and pursed her lips.
“Boring boring!” declared the man from The Telegraph. “When are you chaps going to put something interesting in front of me?”
My colleague Timmy Durange greased up to him. “I think you’ll find my new Burgundies very interesting,” he simpered. “May I show them to you?”
“Tried them. Not bad but… where’s the va va vroom? Eh? Where’s the kerpow?” He made a little jab in the air with his fist. Durange flinched and squirmed, his mouth opening and closing silently like an oily goldfish. “Oh, never mind. Just leave me alone.”
“Yes, I have to agree. All very boring so far,” called Jez Newman. “I’ve tried more than half your wines and none of them are close to making it to my top 100.”
Trisha’s face had fallen and the PR team were hurrying around, offering clean glasses and plates of canapés.
“Everything is just, rather… jejune!” declared the Wine and Travel Editor of The Times in a bored drawl.
“What the fuck does jejune mean, you posh twat?” shouted Jez, his lips already stained red.
“It means naïve and predictable, Jez. Just like you.”
“Oh piss off. What’s the circulation of your paper again?”
“Yes, we all know you sell millions of books, Jez, there’s no need to be so full of yourself,” said the fellow from the Mail on Sunday.
“Oh no! The broadsheets are ganging up on me! Help everyone! Help!”
“Be quiet Jez, I’m trying to taste,” complained the lady from the Saturday Guardian.
“I wouldn’t bother love. No-one reads your column anyway.”
“Yes they do, actually.”
“Your paper’s just launched an on-line edition, I hear,” said Jez spitefully. “I don’t think it’s got a wine section, has it? Do you know what that means?”
“Leave her alone Jez,” ordered the Mail on Sunday man.
“It means you’re fucked, love. Nobody’s interested. They don’t want to read your prissy tasting notes!”
“Don’t be such a bastard, Jez. At least I can write.”
“Oh, cutting! Up yours love!”
The tasting was clearly careering off at a sub-optimal tangent. It was time for someone to take control. I cleared my throat. “Before anyone leaves, I do recommend you try Wikus van Blerk’s wines. We have an exclusive agreement to sell six of his finest blends.”
There was a short silence, then Jez piped up. “The genius South African guy? How the hell did Gatesave manage to get hold of his wines?”
“Mr van Blerk is indeed a passionate man,” I said. “I had to work with him for… some time… to gain his trust.”
“I’ve never tasted them before, his wines rarely leave the country.” The man from The Mail on Sunday walked over to my South African selection and peered at the bottles. “Bloody hell, you’ve got some of his Shiraz!” He poured a short glass, swirled and sipped, then rolled his eyes. “That. Is. Absolutely. Divine.”
“Let me try,” said the man from The Telegraph, striding over. He poured himself a glass and inhaled deeply, then took a slurp. “Fuck me. Have you tried this stuff? It’s like Côte-Rôtie with a stiffie!”
“Let me taste.” The man from The Times approached, his nose leading his long, purple face into the glass. “Oh goodness! I may have to cry. Exquisite! Simply exquisite!”
“Out of my way, you bunch of wankers,” drawled Jez. He muscled through the scrum of tasters and grabbed the bottle of van Blerk’s Swartberg Shiraz. He poured a half glass and downed a gulp. For a second, all eyes were on Jez’s face. What would the sage of Neck it! have to say about this extraordinary wine? I held my breath.
“Holy. Fucking. Mary. That wine is classier than a wank in the Sistine Chapel!”
I exhaled in relief. “Mr van Blerk will be so pleased to hear that.”
Jez held his finger up. He clearly hadn’t finished. “That’s not just good – it’s great! In fact,” he looked around, “that might just be a top 10 wine!”
Trisha gave a little shriek of excitement. Jez took another swill. “Actually, I think it might be number one. Number fucking one!”
Trisha squealed again and the PR team started to jump up and down. Suzy, head of the Gatesave PR team, threw her arms around me and gave me a long kiss on the cheek, then another, even longer, on the mouth, to which I happily submitted.
“I’m calling my publisher now. We go to print in two days but I’m going to make a change. That wine,” he pointed to the bottle, then at me, “is fucking gold. Gold!”
He pulled out a phone and dialled a number. “How many stores is the wine in?”
“Er, about thirty,” I replied.
“Wrong! It’s in every fucking store. When I make a wine number one in Neck It! I expect my readers to be able to get hold of it. Understand?”
“Got it. Every store.”
“You’re going to sell out in about two fucking hours once my book hits the shelves.”
Bless you Jez, you arrogant spunk rag. This made being mauled, burnt, shot at and transexualised all worthwhile. I had just landed the number one wine in the country’s biggest-selling Christmas stocking filler.
And that made me a buying god.
4.1
Harvest Day
“Well, that’s all very entertaining Felix, but you’re not really giving us what we need, are you?” The woman placed her pen on the table and sighed.
“I’m getting to it, officers. This is important context. The slightly more, shall we say… edgy… episodes won’t make sense otherwise.”
“If you’re bullshitting us, you’ll regret it,” declared the man, with an intimidating stare.
I shuddered slightly. I didn’t doubt it. But the Madame Joubert’s had emboldened me and I felt the whole story had to be told. Then they would all see what a terrible misunderstanding the whole thing had been, and I could get back to doing what I do best – gallivanting around the world drinking fine wine and generally indulging in nature’s bounty.
“I need a drink before I continue.”
“You know where the sink is,” growled the man, tipping his head back.
“No, a proper drink.”
“The pubs are closed, smart arse. And you’re going nowhere.”
I leant down and unzipped my laptop bag, withdrawing a rather fabulous Southern French number that I’d intended to share with Wodin, Fistule and Mercedes that evening.
“You have to be joking. You’re not drinking that.”
“I bloody well am,” I declared, “otherwise you can whistle for your information!” Reckless talk, perhaps, given the power these coppers had over me. But I sensed I had the upper hand, for the moment. They wanted to hear my story and I was willing to tell it, but on my terms. Which meant it would be accompanied by an extremely pleasant Minervois La Livinière, one of the Languedoc’s finest reds.
I always carry a corkscrew and a robust plastic wine goblet in my laptop case, so within a minute the cork was out and I was inhaling the heavenly scent of the French countryside. “I’ve only got one bottle so I won’t be sharing,” I explained.
“We don’t drink on duty, Felix,” said the woman, with a thin smile.
Well perhaps you should, I thought. Might stop you taking everything so bloody seriously. I took a deep gulp and gave a gentle sigh of pleasure before clearing my throat.
***
And so, with the triumph of the Christmas Media Event still ringing in my ears, I attended the final lecture of the year at the Worshipful Institute of the Minstrels of Wine, a fifty-wine comparison of French versus South American Malbec.
I sat next to Valentina, the gorgeous Argentinian winemaker with whom I’d been flirting all year, whose wine-stained pout and Spanish-infused theatrical wine descriptions made me weak at the knees. Fourteen other students from our initial class of sixty had made it this far. At the end of the lecture we spilled outside, christened ourselves ‘Les Quinze’, and had a joyous group hug outside the side entrance to the Institute. Valentina hugged me particularly gratuitously and gave me a long, Malbec-flavoured kiss on the lips, so no complaints there.
Heads spinning with success and red wine, we tumbled down Chancery Lane and into the Gaucho Grill, gorging ourselves on fillet steak and ravaging their fine wine list. Valentina made it perfectly clear I was accompanying her back to her apartment and, given the amount of snogging in the restaurant that night, I don’t think many of us woke up alone the next morning.
Truly, the spirit of Dionysus was among us.
***
A
week before Christmas an impressively thick card dropped through my Little Chalfont letterbox, inviting me to the Great Hall of the Worshipful Institute of the Minstrels of Wine at four o’clock on the afternoon of the fourth of January. This, it explained, was the eve of the twelfth day of Dionysus and thus an auspicious day for all who worship wine. The invitation was illustrated with pictures of horse-headed men with large erections and wild-looking dancing women with snakes wrapped around their heads. It looked like a right royal knees-up – just my cup of wine. It was clear this Dionysus chap was a party animal par excellence.
I was required to inform the chief examiner of my chosen recital piece and my required accompaniment. I would have at my disposal a full orchestra or any other ensemble of musicians, so long as they were part of the classical tradition. My recital piece must not have been performed by any other successful Minstrel, and must be recognised as having been composed between 1600 and 1910. The exam would take place over a period of eight hours.
Absolute lunacy, I thought. An eight-hour exam in the middle of the night? How many wines would be involved? It didn’t say. The rumours ranged from one hundred to one thousand. Some said an essay had to be written on each wine, others that your tasting notes must be arranged as a sonnet and sung. Other, darker rumours talked of animal sacrifice and bestial orgies. Not so keen on the dead animals, I mused, but a good orgy might be fun. The truth was that nobody knew what the hell to expect. The omertà di vino was watertight and we Minstrel-wannabes were as clueless as a November turkey.
Christmas came and went. Despite an invitation from Tariq to a week-long party in his absent father’s mansion, I spent the festive period alone. My Little Chalfont housemates had returned to their home towns for Christmas, so I had the place to myself for a precious interlude of quiet study. I read and re-read my accumulated wine tasting notes, and opened a few unusual bottles for practice.
You may think me dull but, you see, I was an elite athlete at the top of my game. I could no longer risk nights on the lash, filled with whisky-scented hashish and a dozen pints of ale, before falling into bed as the sun rose. My palate and nose were finely honed precision instruments, as vital as a tennis player’s wrist or a ballet dancer’s ankle. They had to be protected.
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