The line to enter the Johnny Walker stand literally went around the block. Well, I say block: it was a few square metres long. But still, it had the biggest waiting line by a quite a measure. There were dozens of stalls to choose from, and yet the upper crust of Johannesburg’s upwardly mobile chose to line up for shots of Johnny Walker Blue.

It was the same story, though to a lesser degree, outside the J&B stall, the Singleton stall and the Jack Daniel’s stall.

Who goes to the FNB Whisky Live Festival to drink Johnny Walker Blue? It is R900 a shot (give or take a zero) at ZAR, or Latinova, or any other usual haunt of the recently-moneyed, previously-disadvantaged citizen of Johannesburg.

This would be like going to the Frankfurt Motor Show to gawk at a BMW M5.

I suppose there is a lesson in there somewhere about how pretentious Johannesburg is, and how people don’t care about finesse, only about price. Bling bling, baby! You’re expecting me to lecture the City of Gold about the putrid stench of consumerism, aren’t you?

Well, yes. Maybe. Whisky Live certainly enjoyed the patronage of the largest collection of Ralph Lauren wearing douchebags outside of Hooters in Fourways. There was also the massive pack of businessmen who had descended upon Sandton Convention Centre from their spreadsheets just a few blocks away. And a surprising number of Jews. I never thought whisky was a huge hit in that special interest group…

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked.

The point is: who cares who drinks what whisky? I think it is sad that people would waste an opportunity to sample new and strange whiskys by lining up for Johnny Walker Blue. Surely the point of the R190 at the door is the chance to experience new drink?

That was my mission, at any rate.

Let’s get straight to it: ye gods, the Ardberg is vile. The owners claim that it is the peatiest whisky of Islay. I can attest to the nasal kick of its pungent fumes, and its sharp, thin taste upon the palate. It is almost completely undrinkable. Yet I’m told many people like it. Sorry, no. (You’re invited to tell me why I’m wrong, of course.)

Let’s walk right past the peaty whisky, to the good stuff.

Which is the offerings of the Bunnahabhain distillery. Now that was fine whisky. It may perhaps be a little mild for some, but it is perfect for me. The Scotsman in the skirt who spoke to us about the Bunnahabhain whiskys told us how it isn’t chill-filtered, making it a very fragrant and oily whisky. It is too. The 25-year old changes noses as it sits. It went from a fruity, nutty smell to a coffee smell in the minute or so that I had it out in the open. The skirt man said he didn’t know what fragrances it would give out over time – he cannot bring himself to waste his good whisky in that way. And neither could we.

I went again the next day to Whisky Live.

This time I came across a Welsh whisky. It is called Penderyn, and it is so kind to the tongue, so sweet and delicious, it tastes like someone had dashed it with a little something. I think it is the perfect beginner’s whisky, without necessarily being off-putting for seasoned drinkers.

In a sea of Scottish, Irish and American whisky (whiskey – I know the goddamn difference), there was this little Welsh whisky. The two ladies who were showing it off stuck a sticker onto my glass to show that I had drunk Penderyn. I was supposed to go up to the other stalls and issue forth a boisterous “Iechyd Da!” (how the Welsh say cheers) every time I was served.

That is fucking fantastic. That’s the sort of thing that made going to Whisky Live worthwhile. The bonhomie. The friendship. The experience of things.

Lechyd da, indeed.