Wine lectures I

Posted on | September 4, 2008

Thursday: there was another meeting of the wine club which I co-founded and whose purpose is the laudable enquiry into wine, literature, art and anything else. Hedonism constrained by enquiry might be an appropriate description of our activities. The club is known as the Kensington Amateur Wine Club (or, KAWC, for short). The choice of name may seem odd but we decided to use a name which could not, in any way, be considered pretentious - there is so much pretentiousness in wine. Wine is such a refined product that it often attracts wine bores and snobs. We wish to appeal to a broad section of the public. The acronym seemed appropriate.

I was to address the society this day on the ‘Epigrams of Lord Henry Wootton, from the novel ‘the Picture of Dorian Gray’, and their relationship to wine’ and below is an account of the evening…

‘Good evening gentlemen - ahem, Madame - and gentlemen.’ I peered over my reading glasses at a large rectangular form topped by a substantial blue rinse hairdo encased in a broad hat which appeared to offer a variety of border plants which had been harvested at their post optimum maturity.

‘Welcome…’ I smiled benignly at our new member, the depth of my benignity constrained only by the lack of a reciprocal response. I turned back to my text.

‘Permit me to introduce my subject this evening, of which you have received due notification, with the following: ‘…there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about.’

I think I detected some stifled guffaws (or was it shuffling feet?).

‘I think that we could apply this to any wine and it makes a good introduction to the evening.’

‘Let me first admit that my interpretation of the famous novel, The picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde, is somewhat different to the mainstream thought on this subject. I do not believe that the allegory is so obvious as it appears. On the contrary it is as subtle as the ‘Immaculate Conception’. One might even say, it was the ‘Immaculate Deception’. The portrait of Dorian Gray expresses the protagonist’s mental corruption and mendacity rather than his deeds. He veils (an anagram of evils) his actions. To give an example, it is not when he kills his portraitist Basil that the painting takes on an even more evil and sinister aspect but rather that he lies about it and corrupts a friend to dispose of the body. Gray’s evil lies in his ability to hide his motives and thoughts rather than his actions. Much like the concept of the Immaculate Conception which is not the subject of the painting but the concept of it which gives it its name - something which few people appear to comprehend. So, an allegory, but rather for the unfortunate life of Oscar Wilde himself and, I believe, it is the writer who writes of himself. A self-portrait indeed with the scoffing Lord Henry Wootton an alter ego.”

I gazed around the room at this juncture and feeling that I had somehow outlined an appealing but abstruse post-structuralist proposition decided I would revert to the more prosaic matters of some membership business so that the assembled company might have time to digest my theory which was crucial to my exposition concerning the epigrams of Henry Wootton whilst considering his proposition that ‘every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity.’

‘By the way, before we really get started I’ve been asked to mention a few of our upcoming fascinating lectures. Next Friday Pierre Martin will tell us about his exciting expedition and ‘The wines I drank on Aconcagua’ .

A hand shot up in the audience.

“Sorry Hugh, but Pierre won’t be able to deliver the lecture as planned”.

I had trouble disguising my disappointment. “Oh dear. Well, perhaps we could reschedule it?”

“That won’t be possible”. Kevin was a young serious individual and had attended all our meetings. I had given him the role of Club Secretary. I was charmed by his youth and naivety. He made me think of the line ‘because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having.’ Favouritism tinctured by nostalgia I grant you.

“Kevin. How many questions will it take to drag out the information we need on this?”

“Sorry, Hugh. Unfortunately, Pierre is dead. He fell off K2 last week. Apparently they had cleared the Abruzzi Spur just above the Godwin Austen Glacier and were on the Bottleneck when one of his climbing partners yelled that he could see the top. Pierre lifted up his head and the weight of the bottles he was carrying pulled him off the mountain.’

‘Bottles? You mean oxygen?’, I replied.

‘No not at all. I gather he was planning a vertical of Chateau Latour on the summit.’

‘I see. Presumably all the bottles were lost?’ Perhaps my concern was a little hasty.

‘I believe so’ replied Kevin in a voice which led me to believe he, at least, had not understood the underlying motivation behind my enquiry although I had detected a faint gasp of disapproval emanating from the flower box in front of me.

‘But I thought all climbers roped up?’. Was I pushing the possibility of saving this fabulous wine too far?

‘They are, but his climbing partner cut the rope immediately, believing he couldn’t support the weight and anyway the word is he was always more of a Merlot man.’ Another of Wilde’s quotes entered my head ‘death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away,’ realising that I was using up the store of eloquence I had prepared for the evening.

‘Well, we’ll just have to bring forward Heinz’s ‘The hidden cellars of president Higinio Morinigo Martinez of Paraguay’

Kevin’s hand appeared again, only this time it barely reached the height of his ear lobe expressing a diffidence predicated on the reception of the latest bombshell he was about to impart. ‘Sorry… Hugh….’

‘Yes, Kevin?’, I replied curtly although to be fair to the young man it wasn’t exactly his fault but I’d somehow embarked on a public execration of our entire year’s programme and I was feeling embarrassed.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone it. Heinz can’t make it.’

‘Well, that’s infuriating of him. He’d better have a good excuse?’

‘He’s in prison,’ said Kevin. ‘He was arrested last week in his cellar with a substantial collection of phoney bottles purporting to come from South America including some large format First Growths with Paraguayan customs’ stamps on the labels. Some of the bottles even had swastikas on them. Didn’t you buy some wine off him, Hugh?’

‘Well, that was a long time ago’ I spluttered, ‘before he became obsessed with South American dictators. Anyway, I sold all of them at auction. I never actually consumed any of them.’

I refrained from asking when Heinz might be available to appear sensing a sudden lack of enthusiasm for the subject. I was feeling tired now and had no wish to deliver my own lecture which conveniently everyone had seemed to have forgotten about. I had noticed Felix sitting near the back row, his beret askew, as always. I looked at him hard. He smiled back, a lingering, reassuring and friendly smile. I felt emboldened.

‘Well, at least we have the fascinating ‘Prime numbers and Hungarian vintages’ talk from Felix Kerekes’.

Felix beamed back and I felt a rush of affection for Hungarian wines.

Hugh Stanley

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