Corkscrew extract: The press arrive

3.5 Meet the Press: It is November and Gatesave, the UK’s most fanatically commercial supermarket chain, is hosting its Christmas press tasting. Felix Hart, our hero, and the rest of the Gatesave wine buying team await the arrival of the wine media’s finest…

One hundred bottles lined 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 lay a huge buffet displaying 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 discreet presence of a doctor and an industrial-strength steam cleaner.

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 Rhône. 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.

Peter Stafford-Bow is a former top wine executive with decades of experience in the head offices of retailers and wine producers but he writes under a pseudonym. Corkscrew is his first novel and any disgraceful behaviour exhibited by the characters is almost entirely fictional. 

Corkscrew is available at Amazon and in independent bookshops with an RRP of £9.99 for a paperback and £4.99 for the e-book.