NICE NOSE ON THIS ONE...
There’s something I just don’t get... You could sit me down for a million years and have the eminent leading lights in the subject throw up a load of charts, talk me through the history, even do a little dance – and, no, I still just wouldn’t get it. Yep, I’m talking about wine. To me wine comes in two flavors: red, white. And these two taste exactly the same. OK, this might be because I officially have absolutely no taste buds as a result of smoking more fags a day than your average medical research facility beagle, but I think its also something inherent in my genes – I’m from the Midlands. We drink beer. If, while I was growing up, someone went to the bar and ordered a glass of wine, they’d be asked by the barman: “Would you like a flashing neon sign proclaiming: I’M A FLAMING HOMOSEXUAL, with that order, Sir?”

So, a year or so ago, when my boss demanded I attend a social junket for a load of clients for the firm, I naturally jumped at the offer – then I found out it was a tux doo. Not good. Not good at all. I’m a naturally scruffy fucker; put me in a tuxedo and I immediately look like the Penguin’s emaciated little brother on his way to a court appearence to explain the thousands of child porn images the authorities found on my PC. And then there was a clincher – it was a fucking wine tasting event. Oh sweet Satan’s sweaty ball bag...

Anyway, fast forward to the big night, I turn up at this swanky hotel reception room on the Southbank wearing a rented tux, looking like a Batman nemisis’ weak as piss pervert younger brother, feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I schmooze a bit. Talk about company formations with a load of clients and potential clients (not through choice, it doesn’t give me the horn or anything, but it does pay the bills), and then we file over to a series of long tables set out with glasses, various table topiary, and bottles of this weird substance the normals call ‘wine’.

Then we start the event properly. Some fella pours a bit of the red-flavoured variety into a nice posh crystal glass. He stops after he’s put a bit in. I look at him as if to say: “I’m a fairly large adult, mate – this is free and looks fucking expensive, keep pouring or I’ll kick you in the knackers.” So he keeps pouring. I knock it back, swallow, and my mind goes blank. They’d given us all a little report card to make comments about the various types of plonk. We were supposed to go round the table, taste, make notes on the card, and then these were going to be gathered up at the end – apparently the person who put down the wittiest comments won some of the grape juice to take home with them. But, essentially, it was just an excuse to talk a bit more about company formations with a load of rich fuckers, stroke their egos, possibly wank them off surreptitiously under a table in an effort to win the contract.

Five glasses in and I was starting to relax. My report card was looking good. I had written down such inciteful tidbits as: Good. Tastes like ribena. and Nice red colour, this one. I was obviously completely out of my depth. Then, as everyone shuffled round the table, chatting, laughing, making deals, and I started on my sixth glass, I realised something – everyone else was taking a sip, and I mean a SIP from their glass before placing it daintily on the table and returning to their report card. I, on the other hand, was downing a whole fucking glass. But the little voice of reason chimed inside my head, reminding me of something very important: It’s free booze you cunt !!!

Things got a little fuzzy after glass number nine. I recall turing to the petite, pretty girl next to me in line and saying: “Can you save my place for me? I need to go and have a slash,” thrusting an empty glass in her hand, patting her on the arse lightly, before swaying off to find the bogs. And when I returned, my comment card got a little bit Dali: This one’s got a hint of Ford Capri on fire. and If I ever get married I want this wine at my funeral. and I’m getting shoe polish notes and an infusion of burning rubber. and I DEMAND TO KNOW WHY THE AUTHORITIES DON’T ALLOW US TO SMOKE IN HERE! IT’S REDICULOUS! REMEMBER I PAY YOUR WAGES! and also This wine tastes like maddog 20/20 kiwi flavour, so I’m giving it two thumbs up, yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and finishing with: Too bolloxed to do this anymmoree.

It was messy. Very messy. But I somehow managed to keep it together, not take my pants off, and sort of blend into the background of the even. OK, I looked like a member of the living dead, shuffling about with my shoulders slumped, head down – but no one seemed to notice or mind. And I nearly got away with it. Oh, so very nearly. With the wine tasting finished (about twenty-five fucking glasses later), the organisers gathered up the report cards. They chose a winner. (Not me! CUNTS! The fucking CUNTS!!!) And the event was starting to wind down. Then one of my company’s biggest and bestest clients sauntered over, tapped me on the shoulder and with a beaming smile (I’d sorted a load of shit out for him in the past), well, he said: “Mr Hanky, you enjoying yourself? How’d the evening go for you? Oh, this is my wife, by the way,” and he indicated a tall and incredibly beautiful woman stood next to him I hadn’t even noticed before dispite being head to fucking toe in shiny sequins that glittered magically in the resplendant lighting. I had a little think how best to respond. My brain was wallowing in drinkie, so I let my mouth do the talking for me. I took a deep breath, gazed back at this client with my wonky gaze, and I said:

“I’m absholutely shitfashed, mate,” and then I walked off. Shit! How rude! Didn’t acknowledge his Mrs! So I ambled back over tugged at the clients sleeve to get his attention again, and I finished off with: “Nicsh tits, mate. Very nicsh tits...”

Suffice to say I won’t be going on any more of these free doos with work anytime soon. And also suffice to say I simply, to this day, DO NOT GET WINE...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 10:00, 8 replies)

Watch James May and Oz Clarke's Wine Adventure
Things might become a little clearer.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 10:10, closed)

I love wine.
Absolutely love it. But I grew up in that environment. However, at my first wine tasting I did much the same thing. I was 17 and didn't realise you were supposed to spit it out, and therefore got completely and totally shitfaced. Totally arseholed. Utterly... well you get the picture. Apparently I was climbing the walls looking for butterflies or something. Not a good evening.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Fri 16 Oct 2009, 10:12, closed)

I've done the same thing more than once.
I don't get invited to wine tastings anymore.

I'm just not going to spit out free booze. I can't seem to grasp the concept of spitting it out, especially if tasting what is supposed to be really good wine. If I get some of the good stuff in my mouth it isn’t voluntarily coming back out (of my mouth anyway).
(MichaelS wasn't picked again, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 13:10, closed)

Claps !
Funny stuff here ! Nice one !
(Lizard King, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 12:59, closed)

Nice story Spanky
I used to work with an intellectual type who invited me and the missus to a wine tasting party at his posh flat.

It was in the format of a competition. All the bottles had their labels covered, so we had to try each one and guess the grape, the country, and the year, etc.

Being a studious sort, but knowing feck all about wine, I took the liberty of obtaining a copy of The Bluffer's Guide To Wine that very afternoon. A quick whizz through it while I was having a pre-night out power dump, and I was good to go.

Of course my colleague had dozens of other friends who were just like him - very pretentious, arty types - who were giving it the big "oh I think this may be a Chateauneuf du pape '86" or whatever, whilst sipping tiny amounts before binning the rest.

Out of about 20 entrants, we ended up 3rd, beating most of his smart-arse chums. And we were also completely paralytic. Result all round!
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 16 Oct 2009, 13:51, closed)

it seems to me you get Wine just fine...
... its the bothering to taste it that has you confused.
(haberman is singing in the changes, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 14:17, closed)

to say you dont like wine is like saying you dont like food
might sound pompous but aside from aspects of palette, appreciation or any ideal of 'aquired taste' it comes to this...

1. yes there is some snobbery but it is being broken down at decent rate

2. you just havent found one you like yet - when you do you will gather momentum rapidly

think of it like wanking for your taste buds
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 21:41, closed)

It's black tie a dinner jacket
NEVER a tuxedo, that is what crass Americans wear to weddings.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 19 Oct 2009, 17:38, closed)