FESTOPHOBIA by Marcin Miller—Editor, Whisky Magazine (cowering, lower right) Initially, when I first got tangled up in the unchillfiltered world of whisky enthusiasts, I thought it was all about a civilised, contemplative appreciation of the distiller’s art. Single malt whisky, a mood drink. I’ll just commune with the spirit of the ancients. Aaah. Just goes to show how naïve one can be. No, to be a true whisky enthusiast you have to spend a day wandering around a Whisky Festival, weighed down with logo-bearing carrier bags stuffed with bits of paper you are never going to read about products you never intend to buy. Oh, and a couple of golf tees. You have to wear a badge or a sticker. If you are a genuine zealot you will wear your tasting glass around your neck. You may catch the occasional glimpse of someone you really would like to talk to, like Jim McEwan or Alistair Robertson or Stuart Thompson but, by the time you have fought your way through to the relevant stand, they are no longer around and you are poured too large a measure by a vapid girl in a tartan miniskirt who can’t remember her shoe size let alone the size of the stills at wherever. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to WhiskInferno. Yes, I am aware of my guilt. Mea culpa. I have nothing against the whisky exhibition per se. That’s why I set up Whisky Live. But I try to make a virtue of its, ahem, exclusivity. We only get around 900 people or so along to our London event and we just break through the 1,000 barrier in Tokyo. That way, the visitor has time to enjoy the experience and has time to speak with the blenders and distillers. For the exhibitor, it is of greater interest as they can have a dialogue with you, the customer. Whisky companies are genuinely interested in the views and opinions of readers of the Scotch Whisky Review and of Whisky Magazine. Of course they are. They would rather take the time to hold a proper conversation with you, to learn about your likes and dislikes, to find something unusual for you to taste. Ultimately, even to sell you something! But they are wasting their time at the bun-fights. I’ve seen it. Thousands of ill-mannered lunatics crammed into a cheesy hotel for a tasting frenzy: “Pour me your best whisky!” they roar, eight deep at the trestle table laughingly referred to as a stand, as they thrust an empty glass into the face of the unassuming Distillery Manager. These are the sort of people for whom appreciation of whisky is being able to relate to their friends that they tasted a 60 year-old Mortlach the night before–if they remember. You know the type: they know the price of everything and the value of nothing. You talk to the organisers: it was a great night. We had 3,000 people through the turnstiles. The quality of the audience is seldom assessed. Only quantity. I mused on this as I attempted to avoid the vomit on my way out. You know it has been a great whisky festival when the gents is out of commission midway through the event. The trouble is, I’m supposed to attend ALL these bloody things. Of course, I’m not one to moan and I’d like to be everywhere all the time but as every High Street in the world is having a whisky festival in November it is not feasible. And, naturally, when you don’t visit The Norwich and Norfolk Ultimate Single Malt Extravaganza they always take it personally. I get snotty e-mails from Danes saying “we had 30 whisky løvers at our fair and you didn’t dedicate a 12-page supplement to it”. Hey ho. Perhaps December will be quieter…