The Wine Adventurer's blog
Francis Gimblett
24 December 2009 - The Burgundy Bailout
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry we have to be doing this at our offices today, but as you know we can’t really enjoy ourselves until we’ve paid back what the bank’s borrowed from the government.”
This is not what I’d expected as an introduction to my last gig of the year, held in an auditorium that would have had some of the East End residents that we overlooked from our twentieth storey dining room thinking they’d entered the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. In this case someone had felt that the Second Wonder of the World lacked something and thought a multi million pound art collection might jazz it up a bit.
"So let’s look forward to next Christmas, but in the meantime I’d like you to welcome Francis Gimblett from Taste of the Vine to entertain us.”
If you are a senior director of a company introducing someone onto stage, there are better ways to engender a positive vibe. I was now a little off balance and couldn’t help thinking that the man’s motivational style might be partly responsible for the bank having lost quite so much money. The figures were announced to the public only after the amount had spiralled to a level that would financially cripple some continents. As for the PR department I was about to entertain - a group that looked about as happy to see me as Guantanamo detainees welcoming George Bush - I wondered whether they might have communicated their difficulties better before the situation got so out of hand. Why is it that things are only brought to the public’s attention when it’s the sort of sums that will bring the country to its knees if something isn’t done to help? Maybe it’s only when something has to be done to help, that the figures are mentioned?
On that basis I’m going to re-write a new Taste of the Vine business plan. Firstly, I’ll buy more pot plants. Next, there’s a guy who’s a bit handy with a brush in Haslemere; he can deck the office out with a few paintings that will look as if he got bored with the commission half way through and drafted in his children and pet gerbil to finish them. Next, devise a bonus structure that would draw in the sort of talent I need. That’s where the whole thing breaks down. I’d find it hard to have to work with the type of materially needy, morally suspect people that I sometimes encounter at such events. (Thankfully I only have to stand in front of them and inform them and make them laugh for a while. The events teams, with whom I have most of my dealings, are lovely - genuinely, that's not just me covering my backside after writing the above.)
Anyway, as I made my way to the stage, apathy, rather than wild enthusiasm, seemed to be the primary emotion from my audience, who I’d been warned would like to finish early, since it was Christmas. The only way to act in such situations is to think it’s your last gig and not give a monkeys (which apparently refers to a 500 rupee note, which had a monkey on it - even more reason for not giving one, as at the current exchange rate is about six quid). So I didn’t. I realised that the Burgundy talk I had planned might last only two minutes before I had a Monet thrown at me, so I decided to play a game with them. Games are more fun than talks. Ask any mother. If you have a group of kids in front of you, for a birthday or otherwise, don’t talk at them, they’ll rip you apart mentally, leaving you thinking that you’re not cut out for such gigs. Give them a game and they’ll bow before you like some divine supernatural being. Ask Timmy Mallet. He’s now residing on his own Caribbean Island, with underground water cave and evil henchmen.
Whilst I tried to think of something to engage them for the two hours I’d been booked for, instead of mentioning limestone soils and risk being stabbed with cacti, I barked at them offering points for who could come up with the best heckle. I was probably a little too much on the offensive but they responded well, so I then asked them who could come up with the best game. Their suggestion showed a level of self-abasement that suggested I might have misjudged them.
I’m not sure, however, how often I’ll be blithe enough to propose ‘The Bankers’ Wine Challenge’ to similar groups, whereby teams have to work out a wine’s value, and mock-trade between themselves for the best return in order to pay the government back. Thankfully for the government (who received an IOU), on this occasion no real money was traded.
18 December 2009 -
The scene in the rear view mirror was strongly juxtaposed with the burnt orange wisps of cloud and cerulean skies ahead. Having broken through the angry grey curtain of snow that would later leave thousands stranded in their cars on the M4, I continued towards Chepstow under a clear winter sun for my final book signing of the year.
The radio had warned not to make unnecessary trips but I could not be swayed from my purpose. Despite fear of not making it back I could not let my audience down, and this was a special audience indeed - one that had paid to attend! I had been billed as the Grand Finale to the Chepstow Bookshop's year of events; one that had included Sir Richard Attenborough and Sir Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall (well it's only a matter of time), and their events had been free. Mine had a price tag of £3.00.
This proved some consolation as I handed over my £10.90 to enter Wales, albeit by just five miles and for only a couple of hours, Anyway, I considered that £10.90 is actually good value when you think that most nightclubs charge more, and you're getting a whole country when you cross the Severn bridge.
The reason for my popularity became apparent to me only as I glanced at the shop window before I entered. My poster, pleasingly the same size as Sir David's, announced 'a festive tasting of fine wines to assist you with your selection for the Christmas period'. Thinking that my one Moroccan wine, unavailable outside of Casablanca, might not be considered as fulfilment of obligation, I decided to defer entry in favour of finding a few more wines. Unfortunately I found that the demise of Wine Rack had left Chepstow bereft of any vinous outlet and my closest option was back across the bridge.
I was surprised to learn that England as a country gives greater value, being free to enter, and as I returned to Wales I thought to mention that a stamp on the back of your hand might be a good idea for those needing to nip out, but sensed the attendant, who looked uncannily like a bouncer, would not be easily swayed.
However the folk of Monmouthshire were welcoming and enthusiastic and any thoughts of cash and status in the book world were quickly dispelled. It was a fun evening and an alternative route home even made sure I would be back in time for tomorrow's tasting gig in London.
15 December 2009 - 3am
Up at silly hours to craft a deliciously irresistible (here’s hoping) proposal for a tour of lesser known wine and beer locations throughout Europe – all places which have yet to fall under the Gimblett boot, so childishly excited. Ten gigs, each with a day in the area to explore and prepare material for the evening’s tasting show for an audience of IT professionals who, among business sectors, are one of the most joyous to entertain. I like to consider them among the sharpest and insightful of collectives, as they laugh at pretty much anything I say. Funnily enough only funeral directors are easier to please – they’re lovely. The next time you encounter one, crack a joke and you’ll be left feeling like a comedy genius; unless of course they’re working at the time – then it doesn’t tend to elicit the same response.
11 December 2009 - Beer and burnt rubber
Beer gig at the old Whitbread Brewery with Peter, TOTV's beer guru.
To start with, not the usual adrenalin pumping comedy and ale fest combo we're used to, but a studious group of car tyre journos (it's a big world) who, unexpectedly, approached the tasting as earnestly as students on finals day. I suppose it was only lunchtime.
However, by the ninth beer they'd shed all reserve like a fast delaminating Michelin and were heading nicely for the rails, those of the bar that is.
5 December 2009 - Book 'n Roll
I stepped across the threshold, hesitating, as the last time I’d done so I was a younger, greener man in a London that had just witnessed the downfall of Thatcher. Back then I’d bounded in, sought a copy of the latest Paul Theroux book, paid, and rushed out in time to remonstrate, successfully, with the traffic warden who had already applied his ticket to my car: a different age indeed.
Now I was back at Stanfords, the world’s leading travel bookshop. But this time I was there for a book signing, and the book was mine! A young shop assistant, busily offloading books from his trolley to a shelf, noticed me and asked if he might lead me to where I could change. I was expected! A lift took us to a room where the faces of intrepid explorers - some beaming, others studiedly distant, but most rugged - stared down from the promo posters for their own signing sessions: Fiennes the week before, Palin due some time soon. Hallowed ground and revered company - how could I compete? This was akin to headlining at Wembley stadium in between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.
Having changed into my burgundy suit and rather a loud shirt, I exited the lift and strode onto the shop floor, musing that the lift should have been filled with dry ice for a more impressive entrance. Copies of my book sat on a central plinth, next to which I would no doubt be spending the next two hours in danger of getting RSI as I penned my name on the diminishing stack. The store was busy, glasses of wine and the lure of a festive 20% off attracting a promising crowd, one that parted reverently as I made my way to the stage. A short queue formed as I took my place.
A pleasingly eager-looking elderly couple were first in line. I readied my pen.
“We’re looking for a guide to Corfu, where could we find one.” Not the question I had expected, but having passed the Greek Islands section on the way in I dutifully aided them in their quest.
“Do you have anything on Kenya?” an angular maiden enquired, peering over half-moon spectacles. (Her state of matrimony I became aware of during her reminiscences of Nairobi.) Although trying not to look over her shoulder, I could see the line thinning behind her. She eventually left empty handed after I had explained who I was. Next came a short olive-skinned man clutching a copy of the book, no doubt already a fan. He looked at me earnestly. “Are you the author?” he enquired. My affirmative response, instead of relaxing his features, caused them to further tighten as he enquired as to my motives for promoting alcohol from Muslim countries. Undeterred, I seized this moment as an opportunity to explain the book to those remaining in line, which served only to disperse them, presumably now realising that I was not a shop assistant. The man, a local Imam, proved more open to debate than I had feared and was on his way, minus the book, in no more than ten minutes.
After a while of wondering how to forcefully engage with shoppers whisking past on their missions to procure a map or guide for their holiday destination, I was spared the effort by a jolly looking man who strode over to praise the book. Ruddy cheeked, and with an unsteady eye that I put down to some ailment or other, he was forthright in his admiration, complimenting me on my writing style and the way I had tackled my subject. This was heartening. I offered him a glass of wine, which he had been eyeing, but was thwarted by the store manager who led him away and out of the shop. On his return the manager explained that the man came in and used the same line every time someone was giving away wine. I thought to warn Michael Palin not to bring any.
Despite an unpromising start, the evening did improve and they even asked me back. Maybe next time I’ll ask for a poster however.
2 December 2009 -
More beards and hair than Stonhenge on Solstice last night as I joined Simon and Tim at The Big Green bookshop in Wood Green (not visit to the barbers in two years between us). Their passion for a glass of wine almost matched that for books, which joyfully helped extend my hour slot late into the night.
www.biggreenbookshop.com Plenty of very well chosen stuff; not all big, and every colour of the rainbow.
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