The discussion has apparently run its course, and here’s what our world’s-most-odious wine consultant looks like:
He’s Belgian but pretends he’s French, because if he admitted he were from Belgium he wouldn’t be as loathsome – and his psychology is that he wants the rest of us to hate him as much as he hates himself. He has three names, with two hyphenated. We haven’t nailed this down yet but we’re aiming at something like Michel-Louis and then a last name that means something in English but sounds French, like…well, we’re working on it.
He looks older than he is, slicks his hair back, and has a DeGaullian nose that seldom points anywhere but up.
He learned the wine business in Bordeaux, but left after having an affair with the winery owner’s overweight 15-year old daughter. He was next seen in Umbria, consulting with unfortunate wineries that hired him to increase their scores with wine critics. His shouts of “more brix!” and “micro-oxygenate now!” could be heard echoing over the Umbrian hills, at least until he succeeded both in screwing up a half-dozen family wineries and getting caught in another, even more embarrassing sexual escapade — this time with the morbidly obese wife of the local wine board chairman, if there is such a thing. Whatever: the wife of a smalltime bigshot who plays like an Italian version of Mayberry’s mayor.
He knocks around the world’s wine regions like that until meeting our previously established evil genius, Foster Constellation-Diageo III, in ridiculous circumstances which are still to be established.
The relationship with FCDIII is mutually abusive. The consultant abuses FCDIII by squandering his money and making him look like a fool in front of the wine community, and FCDIII abuses the consultant by treating him like a pet and referring to him as his “collaborator,” a reference to the consultant’s father, who collaborated with the Nazis during World War II.
Still, FCDIII is our consultant’s Holy Grail, and he spends his time both feeding the Big Guy’s ego and mooching off the gold diggers who flock to the billionaire like he was poo and they were flies — which, respectively, he is and they are, too. The gold diggers are glad to add a bottle of Premier Cru to their bar tab (which they’re not paying anyway) if it means the dissipated
Frenchman Belgian will just go away. Which he does, leveraging his big-name bottle and oily accent into a succession of humiliating and regrettable encounters with middle-aged fat women played, in a multi-role tour de force, by Kirstie Alley.
I think this has a lot going for it. I’m working out the structure of a collaborative project that I think, in all modesty, will revolutionize the creative process for Great Literature.
I’ll keep you posted, but everyone might want to keep September open.