The bogan does not like wine. Wine does not come in a ready to drink can, it does not require the addition of fruit, grape varieties have foreign sounding names and wine glasses are terrible for glassing folk. Unless the bogan has ascended to Carey-esque heights of boganity. There is, however, one exception to this rule…wine tours. On a wine tour, the bogan is instantly transformed into a knowledgeable and enthusiastic wine buff, a connoisseur of all things viticultural, a regular James Halliday.
The tour starts early, departing from a shopping centre car park at 8:00am. Hungover and cranky from the night before (despite explicit instructions to stay off the grog for a night), the busload of bogans stop at maccas for a sausage and egg mcmuffin to line their respective stomachs for the day ahead. Three Beam and Colas/Vodka Cruisers and a few choruses from Sex on Fire later, the group arrives at the first winery on a tour of the six wineries in Australia they have heard of.
After a quick tour of the winery itself – in which they quickly become bored and start asking “when do we get to drink wine?” – the restless horde of bogans descend on the tasting room like one-legged seagulls on a burnt chip. Greedily scanning the tasting notes, the males in the group immediately demand to taste the winery’s reserve $100 2001 shiraz (the one with ‘NOT FOR TASTING’ written after it), while the females ask the exasperated winemaker if he makes any Marlborough Sav Blanc.
Angrily settling for wines actually available to taste, the male bogans then try to outdo each other, carefully examining their glasses, sticking their noses ineffectually into their glass and repeatedly swirling their wine until most of it ends up on their designer jeans and searching their limited lexicons for adjectives in which to describe the wine. Having managed to come up with adjectives ranging from “fruity” to “white” and “red,” the bogan sneaks a glance at the back of the bottle before loudly commenting on its “young body” “minerally nose” and “hint of cinnamon.”
While this argument takes place, the female bogans chuckle conspiratorially with each other as they speak of how awful chardonnay is, in the belief that this confers the requisite level of wine snobbery onto them. This continues until the sommelier points out that the last three glasses they each gleefully put away were the winery’s three most recent vintages of chardonnay.
After sampling the winery’s entire range twice, the bogan refuses to purchase any wine. When politely told he’s had enough, the bogan becomes angry and unsuccessfully tries to glass the sales staff. The bogan is not adept at brandishing a fluted glass in anger, preferring the predictable squatness of the pint. Remembering that he thinks wine is shit anyway, the bogan retreats to the safety of the bus and the more familiar taste of pre mixed drinks and soothing tones of Caleb Followill.