Chapter 2

Tuesday 7th October

Attend a Burgundy/German tasting courtesy of Howard Ripley , one of those dependable, trustworthy wine-merchants with a well-chosen selection. There are just a few journalists milling about when I arrive and I spot HRH Jancis Robinson nosing some Germans in the other room (wine that is, not the countrymen.) As usual she is immaculately dressed as if she has just stepped out of a Parisian boutique in the Latin Quarter. Regretfully I have never mustered enough courage to engage her in conversation and that refrain "a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask" is applicable once again. Perhaps I am intimidated by her formidable knowledge and wit? Once again I miss another opportunity to converse with the voice of wine and Nescafé.

Thursday 9th October

Napa Valley tasting today in the wonderful setting of the Tower of London. Walking towards Tower Bridge I spot a silhoetted David Blaine suspended high above the Embankment in his fishtank. He appears well, standing up and waving to his congregation below. However I am disturbed when a friend tells me how he performs his ablutions and shudder at the thought. No doubt the goatee-bearded illusionist is inflicting a torture that countless citizens suffered in Medieval times, except their punishment did not contain a live web-cam feed.

I battle my way through a herd of Spanish school-children to the tasting. Again HRH Jancis Robinson is in attendance looking as chic as she did on Tuesday and we end up tasting together at the Ehlers Estate table. Again my mouth seizes up and I simply continue to taste without muttering a word whilst she asks an erudite, insightful question that I could never dream of. It seems less busy than last year, although it is pleasing to see that Henry VIII imbibes the New World rather just his own Chateau Hampton Court (whose vine needed some serious double-Guyot pruning last time I saw it.) He has obviously sought refuge from guiding 300 hundred riotous school-children around the keep and nipped in for a "quick one" with Anne Bowleyn and Cardinal Wolsey.

Tonight is spent packing my suitcase (5 minutes) and figuring out just how I am going to take 10 bottles of expensive wine up to Scotland (2 hours). Tomorrow marks the start of SuperBOWL weekend in Glasgow where I'll be conducting my Bordeaux 1997 seminar. At midnight I am still trying to memorise the encepagement for Ducru-Beaucaillou as I anticipate a barrage of technical questions from a wine-anorak who has the minutae of every chateau tattooed onto his brain. I opt for the "if in doubt, put C" stategy and will reply 45 for any question I don't know.
Percentage of Merlot in the final blend? 45.
Average yield for this chateau? 45. Average age of vine? 45.
Number of hair follicles per square inch on the cellar-master's head? 45.

45. The answer to life, the universe and everything.

Friday 10th October

08:00 - Wake up in my usual comatose state and drowsily make breakfast whilst attempting to recite the precise encepagement of Ducru-Beaucaillou.

08:03 - Frantically leaf through the Saint Julien section of Robert Parker's Bordeaux Guide looking for Ducru Beaucaillou.

08:10- Repack my bag which is crammed full of underwear, a roll of tin foil and a bottle of Chateau Montrose 1961. In fact there are four bottles precariously cocooned amongst my clothes with another six-bottles that I am counting on Easyjet allowing as hand luggage. No doubt Michael Broadbent employs a team of lackeys to transport samples from one place to another whilst I must endure the number 322 bus to Brixton tube station.

08:30 - Leave house and catch the bus. A woman struggling with her untamed three-year old son dumps her pushchair on the case of samples but it is too crowded to see whether anything is broken. I search for rivulets of Cos d'Estournel trickling towards the back of the bus.

08:45 - No ominous bouquet of Cabernet Sauvignon pervading the number 322.

08:50 - Arrive at Brixton station: nothing is broken. Enter the station, which is thronging with commuters and dealers offering soft drugs to go with your cornflakes. I decline their kind offer.

09:45 - Finally pull in at Stanstead Airport and manage to persuade the check-in staff to allow me two items of hand luggage. We rendezvous with fellow attendees Nick and David Pearce, all destined for the SuperBOWL: a weekend of vinous decadence where wine-enthusiasts can attend seminars, exchange tasting experiences and indulge in unfettered wine-appreciation. (Click here to visit event organiser Tom Cannavan's website). Nick is a knowledgeable taster cursed with an acute sensitivity to brettomyces and volatile acidity whilst David is an Australian expert whose first book The Wines of Australia was published this year and whose photos will grace the next part of the SuperBOWL diary. Even before the plane has taxied to the end of the runway we are absorbed in a debate about wine.

11:25 - My head is glued to the window admiring the beautiful Scottish Highlands. I am fascinated by mountainous terrain, having grown up in Essex, a county of gaudy oil-seed rape fields like some kind of Fauvist nightmare, interspersed with pockets of mock Tudor housing and Ford Mondeos. Its most attractive feature is the phosphorescent glow of the Shell Haven oil refinery at night.

12:30 - Arrive at the City Inn hotel feeling peckish so we check out the Chinese/Japanese restaurant over the road. Unfortunately it breaks two fundamental rules of dining out: never choose a place that combines two or more areas of cuisine and never eat Japanese food prepared by a non-Japanese.

14:00 - We eat back at the fine City Inn restaurant. Topic of conversation: wine, brett and TCA.

16:00 - Chill out in the hotel room.

18:30 - Go down to hotel reception to meet fellow diners in this evening's re-enactment of La Grande Bouffe (without the hookers of course.) Among them is Tom Cannavan, Nick and David, Bill Nanson whose Burgundy site is highly recommended and Toby Bailey, author of finewinediary.com which should be bookmarked by any fine wine enthusiasts. As usual Tomoko is the only representative of the fairer sex. The journey takes 30 minutes and already there is an intense debate in the rear of the mini-bus about Stelvin closures.

19:00 - The Michelin starred restaurant Braidwoods is located in a desolate cow field in the middle of nowhere; auguring well for the meal since only top-quality restaurants could exist in such a remote location. The restaurant has that cosy, homely feel that is impossible to capture in the city. I should have brought my slippers.

19:30 - I notice that Toby Bailey is wearing a tie emblazoned with labels of Bordeaux Cru Classe labels.

20:00 - Braidwoods is serving one splendid course after another; in fact it is so good that it detracts from the fine wines. The food is so fresh I am sure the lamb is still bleeting on my plate.

21:00 - Drinking Richebourg 1990 from DRC which is not living up to its billing. Am I missing something? I put the glass to one side to see if it develops.

22:30 - It's war. All hell breaks loose, not over the Allied occupation of Iraq or the legitimacy of gay archbishops, but the level of brett in the Haut-Brion 1983: a subject known to divide nations in the past. I decline to enter the foray. Tempers fray and a physical resolution seems inevitable.

23:00 - I return to the Richebourg. Hmmm...it still tastes does not taste as good as I expected.

23:30 - Our mini-bus picks us up and returns us to the City Inn. Although the hour is late a debate about cork-taint is in progress towards the back of the bus. Tomoko falls asleep on my lap. Some elect to spend the evening drinking cognacs until early morning but I head up the hill.

Saturday 11th October

09:00 - Go down for breakfast and greet David who is nursing a slight hangover. Tomoko goes for the Scottish salmon but I am sucker for the mixed grill, despite the black pudding that anyone north of Watford seems to inflict on you. Breakfast comes replete with a team of feisty young girls, probably a netball team or something, who catch the wandering eyes of husbands let off the leash for the weekend. However the girls seem more interested in antipodean waiter who is flirting outrageously whilst serving the sausages.

13:00 - Commence preparations for my seminar that is scheduled to kick-off proceedings this afternoon. There is a crescendo of voices out in reception. Tomoko and I wrap all the bottles in tin foil and I notice that Bill Nanson has prepared a neat pile of glossy coloured fact sheets for his seminar focussing on the Burgundy lieu-dit of Griottes-Chambertin. He has even stapled the pages together. What have I got for my pupils? Bugger all.

14:15 - A photo is taken of the ninety or so attendees. I am sure that I am wearing the same clothes as last year.

14:30 - My audience of forty expectant tasters enter the room. They are probably wondering who the hell this "Neal Martin" is and what gives him credence to deliver a sermon on this most holy of wines.

14:32 - The mantra "speak slowly, speak slowly" runs through my brain. I manage to maintain a coherent pace of speech and the tasting goes well despite one corked bottle of Cheval Blanc. Nobody asks any complex questions, in fact they seem so absorbed in the wines that I could vacate the room and nobody would notice. I mentally implore someone to enquire about the encepagement of Ducru-Beaucaillou 1997. Nobody does. I have a tight schedule so to the chagrin of many, I rush through the tasting at a frantic pace and sympathise with those First Growth virgins, reluctant to empty their glasses for the next flight.

15:10 - Tasting finishes and I receive an appreciative applause. Job done.

15:15 - Bill Nanson's seminar is informative and well presented - he is far more gesticulatory and seems a dab hand at this seminar malarky, far more natural and animated than I. He even has a joke at the end. I had no punchline to round off my seminar, but I cannot think of many witty remarks concerning the Bordeaux 1997 vintage.

16:00 - Tomoko and I attend the grand tasting of one hundred of so wines in the main tasting room. A couple of people approach me about the seminar, thankfully without castigation or comments such as "What a load of bollocks", though I catch one disgruntled malcontent muttering sotto voce about the superiority South African wine. I avoid confrontation: there are too many interesting wines to taste. He is obviously misguided.

17:30 - Retire back to our room for a rest before dinner tonight. Watch the first half of the England v Turkey match and erupt with indignation when Lord Becks is maliciously poked in the face at half-time. I vow to boycott any Turkish wine at dinner tonight.

19:30 - Manage to sit at a table with some good drinking friends and I spy some interesting bottles on the table. There is a boisterous, almost celebratory atmosphere not only because the event has been brilliantly managed by Tom, but also due to amount of alcohol that has already been consumed. There will be casualties tonight.

21:00 - We are sitting opposite an innocent young couple from Edinburgh. Like Janet and Brad stumbling into house full of transvestites from Transylvania, they unexpectedly find themselves amidst a cacophony of vinous debate, interspersed with solar-flares of ferocious uproar on touchpaper subject such as TCA, volatile acidity, tannins and of course the ubiquitous brettomyces. As someone had forewarned me, this weekend represents the conjunction of two strains of "anorak": the wine-geek and the computer-geek. I ask what they make of it all? "Don't people just enjoy the wine?" they reply with bemusement. She has a valid point: you can analyse something too much and forget the true purpose of wine which is enjoyment. They have brought a lovely bottle of Grand Puy Lacoste and they seem wary of it being dissected rather than savoured. Nonetheless what marijuana and a fine wine have in common is a desire to be shared with friends and the dinner epitomises what is great about wine: its ability to bring an immense amount of enjoyment to a large number of people.

22:00 - This unsettling photograph was taken at 10:00pm and is a stark warning to all those wine-makers about brettomyces. This is Nick Alabaster and the effects of high exposure to brett is plain to see: that thousand-yard stare of a man accustomed to Grand Cru's reduced to drinking Blue Nun.

That reminds me: I was privileged to witness the relaunch of Blue Nun a couple of years ago at Vinexpo. I was walking down the 300 mile exhibition hall when I was suddenly confronted by three virtually naked men painted from head to toe in gold paint. To a background of Orff's "Carmina Burana" they re-enacted some bizarre ritual whereupon a golden chalice was presented to the blue nun.
That's right...she actually exists.
However these poor drama students were unable to sustain any degree of solemnity as the climax of this bizarre publicity stunt descended into infectious giggles as the vestal virgin sipped the mellifluous golden elixir found for £3.99 at your local supermarket. The incredulous audience dispersed believing such a shambles symbolised the end of a brand way past its sell-by date.

Number of bottles sold in 2002: 5 million.

23:00 - Starting to exhaust the supplies of wine. Tomoko is giving shoulder massages to friends on our table (evidence on the left for her concerned mother.) A complete stranger inquires about her services, he probably thinks she is part of an undisclosed service offered by the hotel.

24:00 - Nicely inebriated although wine reserves now depleted. People are now scavenging vainly amongst empty bottles trying to find one last drop. Time for bed.