Dispatches From a Dilettante (20 page)

On one notable occasion in summer, and with the windows open, we had just launched into a vital report from the finance director. I was sitting next to Julia and we both could see out across the Grand Union canal which ran by the door, and over into the Packington housing estate. At about the same time as the lame looking quarterly figures were being given we both noticed a pair of trousers come sailing out of a third floor window. We then heard a woman using brutal builders language in what was obviously a domestic dispute of seismic proportions.

What made Julia a great Chief executive, was her ability to focus brilliantly in times of crisis. Unfortunately it was the domestic crisis rather than the impending financial one which interested her and so we both watched as further items of clothing tumbled to the ground and the verbal abuse got louder. Other colleagues became aware of the external fracas. Displaying commendable resilience the finance director ploughed on apparently forecasting imminent and quite possibly terminal danger for the organisation, although I can’t be sure as no one was listening.

Hands free systems on cars do not enable phone calls to be taken without risk, or in the case of business calls to be conducted efficiently. On many occasions I have been deep in conversation with a colleague on work related matters only to find myself two junctions further down the motorway than intended. I was once driving way over the speed limit in a forlorn attempt to avoid being overcome by the obnoxious odours from the chemical works at Runcorn when the phone went off. It was very early, I was on the way to north Wales and knew only Julia would be calling at that hour. With minimal foreplay she launched into some detailed financial matters which I would have struggled to understand even if I was behind a desk. Slowing down dramatically I spotted cones by some road works about a hundred metres ahead. I say road ‘works’ although no work was actually going on and as there was nobody in sight.

Pulling inside the cones I stopped and turned off the engine. Furiously taking notes I was just about getting an understanding of our latest financial blip when I noticed a blue light flashing immediately behind me. At the same time I felt a jolt to the rear of the car. With horror I instantly took in what was happening. The breakdown cameras had spotted me and must have assumed mechanical failure. Now the breakdown truck was about three seconds away from winching me on board. Knowing that Julia would brook no interruption I left her talking as I got out and begged the breakdown guys to release me, which they eventually did on the undertaking that I moved on pronto.

It was instantly obvious when I got back into the car that my absence had not been noticed as Julia continued to unburden herself. Moments after joining the main carriageway Julia apologised and said that she would have to go as St James’s Palace, that is to say the Prince, was on the other line.

So often in life what appears to be an insurmountable problem is that way because at the time our own perspective deems it to be thus. The finance issue was never mentioned again, which is just as well because I never quite knew what it was in the first place.

Possibly the greatest gift any senior business executive can have is a sense of humour. My chairman in Wales who was on a seven figure salary said to me ”Paul – take your work seriously but don’t take yourself seriously” and this was a maxim he stuck to even when under extreme pressure himself. We happened to be on the same train back from London where he was sitting with two grim face colleagues as I joined them. He appeared unusually angry and then said rather petulantly “I’ll just have to rewrite the whole bloody paper again then”. With that he violently snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a copy of ‘Viz’ which he read, laughing out loud, all the way to Swindon.

Julia had such a brilliant sense of humour that there was rarely a day without belly laughs. After several of us checked into a hotel in Birmingham we regrouped in the foyer. I casually asked Julia if her room was OK as she seemed to be heading back to the reception desk. “Well the second one was fine”. On further investigation she regaled us and the rest of the people in the foyer including the deeply embarrassed reception staff with the story.

She had fiddled with her pass key when reaching her room and was just about to give up when the door clicked open. Striding in with her wheelie suitcase, she flicked on the light switch and was confronted with an airline pilot energetically shagging a stewardess. She informed us, in Sherlock Holmes style, that she had deduced this because she had nearly tripped on the uniforms scattered about the floor. The story had extra piquancy because it was delivered in Julia’s plummy tones, at full volume and without a trace of embarrassment.

At a country house just outside Saffron Walden Julia and I were co-presenting a black tie awards ceremony. The opening drinks on the lawn had gone well with a string quartet playing to the four hundred distinguished guests. The meal was now nearly finished and we were due to take the stage in ten minutes. I knew all this with certainty because we were still in the car fifteen minutes from the venue. My regional director was maintaining an admirable calm as he relayed this information by phone. Even by Julia’s tardy ‘standards’ we were pushing it. There was also the small matter of getting changed into our black tie regalia which, according to the itinerary, was supposed to happen at the hotel that we were now not going to have time to check into.

None of this bothered Julia in the slightest although I was a clammy mess of nervous anticipation. Incredibly we were told on arrival that the only possible place to change was a tiny ante room inside, yes inside, the very posh ladies toilets. Julia immediately began stripping off and was all velvet and taffeta swirls as I took my trousers off. Every minute or so a bejewelled lady would appear and instantly back out apologising profusely for having got the wrong room. The third time this happened the woman reappeared and informed us that were in the ladies toilets. Her tone suggested that she was irked although she clearly presumed that we had somehow failed to spot our location. “Do carry on darling” said Julia to her charmingly, as I was doing my flies up with as much dignity as I could muster in the circumstances.

Every profession loves to have the exclusivity of its’ own language. Technology companies baffle you with invented words. Lawyers use thirty arcane sentences where three would suffice. Consultancies thrive on taking the information you have given them and then replaying it wrapped up in professional gobbledygook and a big invoice. Engineering firms produce words with four syllables that actually mean simple things like ‘stress’ or ‘load’. What they all share is the ability to put on terminally boring dinners and awards to celebrate their fabulous achievements.

Does anybody, hand on heart, ever go home at midnight on a Friday and say to his/her partner ‘You know I really enjoyed that Chamber of Commerce black tie dinner’ or ‘Doesn’t the Institute of Directors put on creative events’. Never has anyone left the Accountants Ball high on adrenalin from the kickin’ band. If you haven’t been to one of these events do not feel excluded. You are very, very lucky. Professional dinners/awards on the rubber chicken circuit in drab chain hotels are death by a thousand stale rolls.

I mention this only because ‘be creative and inspiring’ was stamped on every event planner’s forehead at BITC, which when carried out ultimately translated into new members and enthused converts to our cause as a campaigning charity. From the Albert Hall in London to a vineyard in the East Midlands and from the flight deck of an aircraft carrier to a refurbished monastery it was fun for them and for us, which surely is the point.

Luckily we now had a new chief executive who also believed this. Steve Howard had already made his name running global organisations when he took a huge hit in salary terms to join us. He was an American from Detroit and an inspired choice who managed to effortlessly make the huge downward shift from chauffeur driven limos to London buses, and from an exclusive and palatial office overlooking the Thames to a grubby shared office overlooking the canal. Only occasionally did he break down into tears when thinking of his former luxurious existence.

He was a class act who did not sweat the small stuff and thus went down very well with senior private sector executives, very few of whom had operated at his global level. Steve had a perfect mix of hauteur and humility and quietly displayed real commitment to a number of homeless charities. An invitation modestly offered to ‘go and see prisoners performing some music’ at a swish corporate headquarters in London turned out to be an unforgettable evening where forty or so ‘suits’ listened to a really tight band of ‘cons’ who had as lead guitarist Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits. He, also modestly, was the patron of Music in Prisons.

Steve’s stint as chief executive coincided with Sir Stuart Rose of Marks and Spencer becoming Chairman of Business in the Community and so it was that eight of us were invited to a working lunch at the swish new M & S offices in Paddington. Steve had told us that Sir Stuart wanted us each to speak for a maximum of two minutes on our roles and responsibilities. I think on reflection that it might have been Steve who wanted to see what we were really up to but no matter. It was a sit down lunch in the board room with the M & S staff in all black attending to our every need. After the small talk the two minute sessions began and when the second one ran over the limit it was axed by our host who, on that basis alone, I was beginning to really warm to.

A colleague to my left was wrapping up his brief summation and when finishing he passed over to me. At this point he was probably inwardly feeling relieved and hungry and he reached across me to the fruit bowl, which he contrived to knock over. M & S produce flew in all directions. Plums rolled under the table, apples rolled along the table, oranges came to rest in napkins and the concerned waiters were down on their knees picking it all up.

It was a fantastic result for me as no one could concentrate on a word I had to say. As the fruit bowl was restored to its’ former full and pristine condition I concluded. From that day on I always got a confused smile when meeting Sir Stuart at our events. I could see his brain computing that I worked for Business in the Community but then struggle to remember what I did. I have felt like that on so many occasions myself, which is why I knew what he was thinking.

At extremely short notice I was deputed to fly to Madrid to make a speech at a conference sponsored by Iberdrola the Spanish utilities giant. It was great boost to fly from grey and drab Luton in February and arrive in the sunny sparkling Madrid. My upbeat mood was only somewhat darkened by the haste with which I had prepared my speech and the fact that it would be the first time that I had delivered one with the aid of a translator. After lunch with some patrician Spanish grandees I met the man who would be making or breaking my contribution.

The translator was a chain smoking affable guy who immediately told me that he would be in a booth at the end of the conference hall. The delegates would have headphones and his translation would go directly to them as I spoke. He said that he would raise his left arm if I was going too fast and his right arm if my pace was too slow. He puffed away while smiling as he delivered this vital information, and merely shrugged when I asked him if he was comfortable in attempting to translate a couple of lame jokes I had inserted.

At this point I was called for a sound check and when I got on stage I could barely see the translator’s booth which was so far in the distance that it may as well have been located on the Portuguese border. Matters were further compounded by the fact that I would be sharing the stage with an Italian and a Frenchman who would both be giving twenty minute papers before I was introduced. Bored looking delegates trudged in after lunch like prisoners being recalled after day release.

The Italian got up and I nodded wisely when the delegates did, as I understood neither Spanish nor Italian. His twenty minute slot ran to thirty five and then the Frenchman started in animated fashion. I could understand some of his speech with my rusty French and was distraught to find that he was saying much of what I had planned to wow them with.

My turn came and I walked up to the podium to lukewarm applause from those delegates who had actually bothered to put their headsets or who were still awake. After about five minutes when I felt my confidence growing I was aware in the dim distance of a hand going up in the translator’s box. Was is his right hand or left? Was I going too fast, or slow? I slowed down and his other hand shot up so I increased pace. More delegates were putting on their headphones which I took to be a good signal. I later found out it was only because the delegates who had bothered to put the headphones on from the start of my epic oration were in fits of giggles at the chaotic changes of pace and delivery.

Both hands were raised in the translator’s booth and although I was sure that I had not received instructions on what to do if this happened I stopped. Now I was losing my thread as once more the translator’s hand went up and frustratingly, just when I had gamely started again, a further hand movement occurred. I decided to ignore them all and carry to the end, which I raced towards with reckless speed. By this stage there wasn’t any semblance of concentration from delegates, most of whom had now taken their headphones off and were drifting out.

Weak applause from the remaining few smacked of sympathy rather than approbation and I shot to the end of the hall intent in venting my spleen on the translator. He was incredibly apologetic and explained that the first few minutes had gone smoothly. There had then been a brief power surge (this at the electricity company’s conference) and he had lost the thread. In his panic he had dropped his cigarette and in the tiny smoke filled booth, and the constant spate of hand signals in the distance that I was trying unsuccessfully to adjust to, was in fact his attempt to open the top window to get some air in.

On return I naturally glossed over my abysmal contribution and waxed lyrical about the strong partnership I had forged with Spanish companies.