Coping again

I'll stick with a mullet thanks.


A few weeks a go my friend mentioned that he was going to see a Matisse exhibition in Denmark. I like Matisse and after a little chat about various things including the fact that, earlier this year, I had visited the chapel he decorated in Vence and after my friend mentioned that his daughter didn’t want to go (and so there was a spare ticket) he suggested I went; so I did, last Thursday.

We arrived at the very handsome airport (unlike the Crawley Arndale Centre which we had set off from) just before lunch and made our way by foot to the hotel. We were working on instinct and so headed off in the wrong direction. Eventually we were given directions by a police man by which time we were a both a bit peckish and ready to sit down. As we came by the train station again, I was walking slightly ahead of my companion, when I heard his bag hit the ground behind me. I turned in time to see him hit the ground very soon after. He then rolled off the pavement into a puddle at the edge of the road; he is epileptic by the way. We weren’t looking very expensive when we eventually entered the Grand Hotel. I don’t think my friend had fully recovered from his episode as he got quite angry about the lighting arrangements in his room. He complained, got dried off and we went for lunch.

This meant retracing our steps yet again, passing the interesting looking Tivoli Gardens, earth’s oldest theme park, which was closed for the application of Christmas decorations. In due course we got to the more interesting part of town. By the station, as is often the way, the City is a bit bleak but you don’t have to walk far to find an attractive, buzzing centre with plenty of cafes and happy looking people. We found a restaurant down a side street which we liked because of its lack of touristiness. It was quite dark inside, pictures of kings and queens on the wall. It was busy with locals, many of the tables had large platters on them which looked good. When ours arrived it had two pork chops, two breaded haddock, portions of other fish and various salads as well as a tasty thing that we decided to call ham and mushroom surprise. We ate the lot; very good it was too at 15 krona per head, about £14.

Afterwards we felt we deserved a rest and retired to the hotel for a couple of hours before retracing our steps again, headed for a bar or two. Bar number one was quite uninteresting. Bar number two; Oscar, looked inviting. My sidekick found a table whilst I went to get a round of drinks. It was much friendlier in here. I placed the drinks on our table and as I sat down, mentioned that there was a very large jar of free condoms on the bar. This didn’t seem to register with my friend; I said, “it must be because it’s a gay bar”. “Is it?” he looked round. “There are some girls over there”, he countered.

In a short while a couple of lasses sat down at the table next to us. They were lovely. The girl opposite me had a kind of tight skinned alien quality, the girl next to me was less feminine. We chatted and bought each other drinks for an hour or two before leaving about elevenish. The women walked with us towards our hotel (they were getting a train home) and pointed out where they had been married two years ago at the town hall, Beautiful Alien proudly showed me her wedding ring.

To be continued………

Tales from a past life - baptism of fire

Before I worked for Big American Company, I worked for Smaller American Company. I was the sales office junior. The company was doing very well and some people were earning lots of money. I moved from Yorkshire to start work there in the autumn of 86, I think. Initially I stayed in a bed and breakfast before sharing a house for a while in Chiswick and then a flat in Ealing. The office building was brand new and quite imposing, situated by Langley Station near Slough. I spent about two and a half years there. It was a bit of an eye opener.

At the first Christmas party (in a local restaurant), I was surprised that most people were dressed as though they were going to do some gardening, I was looking quite smart, at least to start with; by the end of the evening I was soaked and covered in all sorts of stuff. Moments after arriving at our table, it was on fire and I don’t mean a singed napkin, I am talking kitchen staff running into the restaurant armed with fire extinguishers, and using them. I was shocked not so much at the pyrotechnics but at how funny everyone in my group thought it was. Not long after that the bosses were on the table with trousers down and there was food flying in all directions. I got into the spirit of things a bit better than the people from the company who had booked the other half of the restaurant.

The next few years of what you could laughing call my career, were punctuated by a number of similar meals, for which it has to be said, I was better prepared. One of my favourites was at a sales conference at a hotel in Bristol. The evening had started with flying food etc but by three in the morning in the bar, many people having left through fatigue and after the barman had got the hang of not falling for being distracted, whilst people stole booze, there was a quiet little cadre, giggling the night away. That was until a particularly naughty member of our team (who has gone on to be an important person in the industry ), despatched someone into the dining room (adjacent to the bar) on some pretext or other. There were no lights on in there but the tables were set for breakfast. Once his friend was in there fumbling about, our hero launched a salvo of large silver trays into the darkness; moments of silence were followed by very loud crashes and prostestions. Needless to say everyone sobered up quite quickly and a couple of people grabbed the protagonist and we all headed into the foyer. I ran ahead to call the lift but was overtaken by a large plant in a pot which smashed against the wall by the lift button. I can remember the way the mud stuck to the hessian. Things degenerated from there. The next day a number of us were summoned to the Sales Director’s office for a bollocking. To his credit, the nutter tried to take the blame. I will always remember the director’s response, “ Your attitude is creditable, but I have spoken with the hotel manager an there is no way that one person could have caused that much damage, at least you have the balls to own up; unlike your colleagues here”. I wish I had had the temerity to protest “no really; it was all him”, as it was I was singled out as I had not been drinking.

Later at Big American Company there was a Christmas lunch which took place at a restaurant called Borscht’n Tears in Beauchamp Place; chosen because it advertised itself as a “dancing on the tables” kind of place. Again we were one of two companies who had the whole restaurant to ourselves. The first hour or so was quite quiet. Amusingly, one of us would occasionally lob a piece of turkey or the like on a high trajectory (so as to make the source harder to trace) into the other company’s area. This typically caused a minor skirmish to break out amongst them. As the afternoon went on the tension was increasing and there must have been those in the other company group who suspected what was going on; but felt unable to act without proof. Eventually we were too careless and a gravyed potato was seen leaving our section of the restaurant, destination carnage. The escalation of hostilities was immediate, it was all out war. Within a few seconds (the guitarist having fled) our table was on its side so that we could shelter behind it taking turns to stand up and throw two or three handfuls of anything you could before dropping behind it again to regroup, like Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

Very soon the restaurateur was dancing about, apoplectic, trying to restore order. My favourite memory of that occasion was, through the mayhem, observing the crowd of people outside on the pavement peering in through the windows (before the police arrived).

Another phone shot

Broken Flowers ***

This is a film that has been quite hyped. I like Bill Murray and Jim Jarmusch (I thought Lost in Translation was delicious and Night on Earth is one of my favourites) but this is not the work of the director at his best. It had a similar style to Lost in Translation except that it over-did things on the laid back front, enjoyable nevertheless with some amusing moments.

George Best

In 1994, one Saturday luchtime, I wandered into a restaurant called Pucci in the King's Road for a pizza. I didn't normally go in there, despite it being quite a reasonable place, my favourites were Picasso's or Mona Lisa. There was only one other customer, sitting a couple of tables away, quietly studying the TV mounted on the wall; Italy were playing some other country in a World Cup match. The waiters were all bouncing about the bar screaming their passion at their team. Meanwhile, one of the most uniquely qualified men in the world was not to be found in front of a microphone, elightening the fans. Instead he was sitting in silence, three thousand miles from the action and his peers, alone with a capuccino.

The Golden Pig

Whilst sifting through memories of trips to Brussels, I came across a particularly fond one. At the previously mentioned two week training trip, one of the students was a dapper little Parisian guy, in his late forties. We had chatted a little although he didn’t tend to mix with us yobs. I asked if he would like to join us for dinner one night. He agreed and at the appointed hour we set off for (I think) Rick’s American Café on Avenue Louise. There were probably fifteen of us, I was near the back of the group as we approached the restaurant. Going through the door I felt a tug on my sleeve; Pierre was not happy about our choice. He had a young technical chap with him from the Paris office and he suggested that I should pick one of my mates and the four of us would go somewhere he thought would be better.

So we got into his 205 and headed across town. (Waiting at a traffic light, a Belgian in lycra crossed the road pushing a state of the art racing bike with only a rear wheel; Pierre chuckled “ah les Belges”). After twenty or so minutes we parked up in what appeared to be a residential part of town, walked across a square and up a few steps into an unprepossessing establishment called the Cochon D’or. It had only four or five tables. Immediately Pierre got into quite a serious chat with the Maitre D’. We stood around helplessly. After a few minutes Pierre asked us to wait and he and the main man disappeared into the kitchen. Another ten minutes later Pierre emerged saying that everything was ok. We sat down, I was never offered a menu. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.

Tales from a past life - still at Big American Company

The year ended with my boss being moved sideways and replaced by Jenny. He explained that he didn’t like me and would make it one of his goals for the year to get rid of me. I pointed out that I just had one deal that I wanted to close, before I would be very happy indeed to leave, (it would take over a year for both things to happen).

Jenny was the man who had interrupted a conversation he was having with someone one morning to turn to me and say:
”Hey, you’ll know the answer to this. Last night I was having dinner with some people and we got into an argument about what QED stands for. Some of us thought it was ‘question easily done’, others reckoned it was ‘quite easily done’”.
“It stands for quad erat demonstrandum”.
“No, but in English, does that mean quite easily done or question easily done”?

Of course, once I had closed the deal (the biggest in the history of the UK division), they sacked me without paying me the commission. It was quite easily annoying as it had been the only reason that I had stayed but I suppose I had had a good year. When I had asked the HR bloke how they could sack me, he cockily announced that they would “make something up”. The same thing happened to my friend only he got an excellent termination package, after revealing to Mr HR, (who had said the same thing to him), that he had recorded the conversation.

Meanwhile back in the previous year, the company was still riding along on that wave of 80’s optimism. My boss at that time was a bit of a loose canon, he was the first to admit that he was a bit wild. But looking back, I liked him and he supported me better than I him. He used to say that if we couldn’t do our jobs in three days a week, we were in the wrong job. He seemed to manage to do his in even fewer. Consequently he was often fully engaged with arranging extra curricular activities, like trips to the States.

We used to fly business and often Mike (my boss) would have managed to get quite a posse together, so those flights were quite good fun. I didn’t drink in those days (but more than one senior person approached me on the quiet and warned me about the dangers of abusing illegal substances), the truth is that I didn’t take anything except one sugar in my coffee. So we were flying to Boston, to meet with members of one of my customers. Much alcohol was consumed aboard the 747 and as usual I had the job of driving the hire car at the other end. There was quite a bit of snow. Have you ever tried handbrake turns with those American cars with hand brakes for your foot?

The following morning, after a big night, we all met at the office. Twenty minutes into the first day of three days of meetings with this customer, an American revealed that he had not done what he had previously said he had and so the raison d’etre for the trip no longer existed. I was quite a new boy and was fully expecting that that would mean an early flight home (and maybe even some kind of bollocking) but three days of shopping and partying followed. Another time we were meeting one of the big four banks at the same office. The president of our company had his own dining room on the top floor, there must have been ten or so of us (including members of the customer’s company) who all traipsed up there at midday to meet Mr Big. The main bank man was quite a scary bloke and it turned out that the president of my company was not. He spent the whole time shaking so badly that his cutlery rattled and much of the food that left his plate never made it to his mouth.

At the sales conference in Lisbon, I ended up in a taxi full of prostitutes. Some Americans had asked if anyone could speak French; I liked to think I could and stepped forward. “Can you translate for us?” “Bon soir”, I had offered. “You fucky fucky?” one of them had asked. (Don’t worry mum, fortunately I didn’t know as much French as I thought).

Twenty or so of us from the UK offices, as well as a number of others from around the world, went for two weeks training in Brussels. The attendance at the classes dropped off quite quickly; who knows if the tutor was still turning up by the end. The amenities that the town had to offer were indeed enticing when compared with listening to a chap with poor English and an apparent lack of desire to be there himself, talking about IT hardware. There were big, unofficial dinners to attend every night. During the day there was the fabulous swimming pool and cinema complex near Heisel Stadium to enjoy. I was particularly proud of my performance in a local snooker tournament (being the only non-Belgian to win a frame).

Trike caption?

Beijing traffic.

Caption Sensible?

A couple of monks outside their temple in Xian.

View from my phone

Tales from a past life (I)

I worked for a big American Company, I was based in the centre of London in a small office. Amongst others, there was a big fat bloke (who we said had a ball park figure), there was a guy whose middle name was Belgrove, so he became known as Belnob. There was a bloke who always found excuses to hang out in the head office in Wallington instead of doing any proper work, he was called Wallnob and there was a man whose surname was Wheeler; Wheelnob. Sometimes a bloke from head office would visit (later he would sack me) called Taylor, a friend of mine referred to him as Jenny, Jenny Taylor. You get the drift. Most days we would all go out and have a big lunch in one of a number of restaurants, our boss would decide which customer we had entertained and sign it off as an expense.

One day I walked into the (open plan) office and sat down as a phone call arrived for me. I wasn't happy with the person on the other end of the line and gave them a bit of a hard time, so much so that the rest of the office went quiet. When I replaced the receiver someone asked me if I was alright. I replied that I wasn't because only several minutes before, crossing Clerkenwell road, I had been run over. This illicited quite a big laugh; less so when I showed them my ripped trousers and cut hands; certain people were still chuckling though.

In order to keep happy, we would go wet biking in the docklands or go-karting. I had a customer in Milton Keynes. Periodically I would drive up there to try to convince them of the merits of doing more business with Big American Company. Afterwards I would visit the James Hunt Racing Centre, an outdoor circuit with larger than usual karts. I would still be in my suit as I sped round the track. I enjoyed a particulary big spin on one occasion, throwing dirt up in a big plume. I sat in cloud of dust for a few seconds before emerging to carry on. Back in the office I was talking to a group of people when I dropped my pen on to the floor, bending over to retrieve it, a small pile of gravel fell out of my shirt pocket.

Wallnob tried to punch me once in the kitchen but I moved out of his way. George and I blew the cylinder head gasquet on Belnob's Cavalier whilst reversing quite fast in a big carpark.

Next time, trips taken whilst working for Big American Company.

Selected Top TV Characters

Bender....................Futurama
Woody.....................Cheers
Hong Kong Fuey............Hong Kong Fuey
Moira Stewart.............Breakfast with Frost
Dr Cox....................Scrubs
Sam.......................Cheers
Barry Grant...............Brookside
Dougal....................Magic Roundabout
Gordon Honeycombe.........News at Ten
Tony Soprano..............The Sopranos
Zap Brannigan.............Futurama