Willy Trolove: Glass act with a deceptive aura of sophistication

Recently I attended Toast Martinborough - a wine festival in the Wairarapa - in my usual capacity as someone who knows nothing about wine except how to drink it.

Wine festivals are brilliant. They allow you to pretend that you are engaged in a terribly sophisticated activity (that is, tasting wine) when, in reality, all you are doing is getting drunk.

These days society scowls at drunkenness. Get drunk at a party and you are a boozer. Get drunk in a pub and you are a degenerate boozer. Get drunk at home and you are a degenerate, anti-social boozer.

But wine festivals are the exception. Get drunk at a wine festival and you are classy and stylish.

Over the years I've been to so many wine festivals that they have blended into one long, warm and hazy memory.

This memory involves a lot of amiable wandering around under sunny skies, a lot of pleasant stumbling through crowded marquees, a lot of genial tripping over haybales, and a lot of good-natured spilling of red wine on white blouses.

It also involves a significant quantity of singing on buses, regular bouts of stealing someone's hat, and repeat performances of passing out under grapevines.

But no single type or brand of wine is part of that memory. And this is how it should be, because all wine festivals are essentially the same. The quality of wine is important only to the kind of irritating people who spit their wine out after tasting it, and these are not people you would have in your home, especially if you've just replaced your carpets.

Besides, wine critics can never agree on what makes a good wine. Every wine seems to have won more medals than the New Zealand Olympic team. This means that either all wines are equally good, all wines are equally bad, or we could improve our medal tally at the next Olympics by replacing our athletes with some of our wine.

The fun starts at the gate. Wine festivals have their own currency. Real money is exchanged at a fake bank for festival money, which is designed to make you lose track of what you are spending. It looks like the stuff you get in Monopoly that's worth so little you're quite happy to mortgage yourself into bankruptcy just to get some more. The same economic principle applies at wine festivals.

Usually, the exchange rate between real money and festival money is set at some absurd ratio. This ratio has been chosen so that figuring out what anything is really worth becomes impenetrably difficult after two glasses of that cheeky little riesling.

Wine tasting starts modestly. Festival-goers scrutinise what's on offer. They assess colour, aroma, body and legs. Then they look at the wine.

The first glass of the day is carefully chosen and politely requested. "I'd like to try a little of your Reserve Pinot Noir if I may."

Lips are pursed. Brows are furrowed. The wine is swirled around the glass, examined, and delicately inhaled before sampling.

Subtle differences in flavour are noted and quietly discussed. Words like palette, aftertaste, and hints of blackberry are dropped into the conversation.

Polite debate ensues. Comments such as "I prefer the '02 Chardonnay", "It's a little harsh on the throat", and "Oh, it's very smooth" are earnestly proffered as if they are great pearls of wine-tasting wisdom.

The second glass follows. And then the third. Slowly, deliciously, the veneer of bullshit slips away. The festival-goers move on to another vineyard and another marquee, while the sun drags itself across the sky.

Soon the wine is requested more efficiently. "A glass of your Merlot please mate."

Lips are no longer pursed. Brows remain unfurrowed. The swirling and inhaling is merged into a single cursory inspection. Comments become pithier and louder: "Yeah, it's not bad" and "This is all right" and "Let's have another one of these".

More glasses are sampled. More vineyards are visited. The afternoon shadows lengthen. The fake bank closes and the festival money in everyone's pockets bulges with purpose. It must be spent before the wine runs out.

Swirling and inhaling is replaced by gulping. Comments are short, to the point, and barked. "Good" and "Bloody good" and "Yesh, really bloody good".

The remaining festival money is pooled, and the wine is selected not on appearance or quality but on how much can be bought with the residual funds.

"Givush anovver bottle of that cheap red plonk willya?"

Faces are crinkled with pleasure. Hats are stolen. Red wine is spilt on white blouses. The sun sets. The bands play. The festival-goers pass out under grapevines.

And one more wine festival soaks its way into that long, warm and hazy memory.