A democratic wine auction

A wine auction is as good a place as any to observe democracy in action. To me it represents the very pinnacle of the western market economy, and therefore demands certain forms of behaviour which I usually reserve for social media debates and visits by oak salespeople. First of all there's a good deal of lying amongst the parties. The vendor at an auction lies about the description of the goods, the auctioneer always initially over-estimates the value of the lot, and the seasoned bidder spends most of the time of the auction sitting firmly on his or her hands, pretending for all the world that they have very little money to contribute to the preacher's plate should it come their way. It's a Grown-Ups game of bluff.

There are the usual large persons in expensive silver suits and calculating hair pieces circumnavigating each lot as it comes up, giving the impression, unlike we poor suckers, that the place doesn't own them. They seem to barely move when nodding a wink the auctioneers way, and have the impressive ability to conduct an intensive bidding session against Joe Public without Joe ever being aware as to who or where the other party actually is. It's only after Joe has lost his nerve, that he realises the successful bidder for the impossibly rare and desirable'51 Penfolds Grange Hermitage Bin 1 Shiraz was Flash Jim. James, of course, is the tailored overweight cove with the thoroughly underweight mobile phone seamlessly sewn into the ear hole at the far end of his plastic smile who happens to be standing right next to him. By then it's all too late. The next bargain is up for examination so Joe reconciles himself to an all out attack on the even more extraordinary'48 Grange in lot 61.

The auctioneer is usually a fairly straightforward style of a chap with little to distinguish him, (and it's always a him) from the attentive congregation except the growth in his throat which moves with impressive speed at ever increasing pitch as each anointed lot reaches its bidding crescendo. A note here for the uninitiated. You can always tell when a parcel of booze is having difficulty reaching its unreasonable reserve. The auctioneer will halt in full flight, pause, and in collusion with his flanking spotters, carry out a manoeuvre designed to ease the extra dollar from the reluctant pockets of the average punter. The spotter on his left with the loud iridescent pink baseball cap will throw both hands into the air, and in passable harmony with the colleagues, utter the following magical phrase. In an underlined and boldfaced tribal chant they will demonstratively recite 'It's for sale!!!" Now this may seem a pretty clumsy statement of the bleedin' obvious, but it never fails to get the case of Chateau ordinare 1973 Marsanne (perfectly cellared in an air-conditioned brick veneer room in Dubbo since 1993) across the line.

And what of the token public servants (haven't you noticed they always travel in pairs) who represent The Department on the sales platform during the liquidation of the former Prime Ministers collection of Japanese Rose and Mexican Pinot Noir? At the commencement of the auction they are reverentially introduced to the assembled congregation, and make quite a picture in their striped pink shirts, grey ties and matching Departmental suit coats. They remove and clean their designer glasses and after the mandatory tug of the designer stubble on their shallow chins, they're away, shouting 'yo' and flailing sweaty armpits just like real spotters. The fact that they are usually slightly out to lunch at the business end of each bidding frenzy, and invariably point to Joe, when everyone else knows it's the suited gentleman with the grafted mobile who really won the bidding, is of little consequence. They are both on a mission from god and provide a colourful addition to the auction pageant, spending as they do, enormous sums on 'refreshments' during the course of the day. This necessary intake of fluids over the course of the humid and stressful stretch of overtime, usually results in them performing the Departmentally approved striptease, reaching as they do by afternoons end, the rolled up shirt sleeves and open necked casual collar look so beloved by the real working classes. And so it goes. There's the odd bargain which slips through, and the intensity of bidding on the very rare '48 Grange undoes a whole pew of Joes, but on the whole, everyone gets what they deserve. The suited gentleman removes his mobile phone implant, collects his '51 Grange and changes banks; the auctioneer collects his 5% from the vendor of the Dubbo Marsanne while every Joe and flash Jim leaves with what they bargained for. Surely that's what true democracy is all about!.