For some reason I seem to have a load of plane stories. Can’t think why that is but I have flown a lot in my life.

New York to Philadelphia is but a hop. Probably 40 minutes or so gate to gate. Back in the mid 1980s Delta had a ‘commuter service’ from La Guardia Airport. It was probably quicker door to door by plane but one day I found myself on the morning flight. Not sure exactly what the plane was but it had around 12 seats only. Its as very cramped and noisy. The flight down was largely uneventful although I do remember clearly that before take off we were given an in flight snack of pretzels.

• 

Having done a day of visiting clients I headed back to the airport. Bad news. The aircraft had developed ‘technical difficulties’ and the flight delayed. Most of the other passengers, who were largely my fellow morning travellers, disappeared, probably to get the train. I was left with a handful of people waiting at the gate. After about an hour an announcement. We would be leaving in about 20 minutes as a plane had been ‘found’. The Macdonnell Douglas MD 90 had seating capacity for around 190 passengers. As we showed our tickets we were told we could sit where we chose. I got on last and whilst my 4 or 5 fellow passengers turned right at the door I turned left and sat in the First Class cabin. The plane closed up and two delightful young women introduced themselves to me and told me I would be getting their undivided attention. ‘What would you like to drink when the plane has levelled out’ was the question. Out of my mouth came a phrase I had never heard myself say before or indeed since. ‘Bourbon on the rocks”. Why I cannot say. The flight to New York was short and I am afraid to admit I drank the first bourbon and two more before we landed. All very extraordinary.

I used to go to Boston a lot during my time in New York. Rather like Edinburgh in the UK Boston has some of the most sophisticated Investment Institutions in the world. Names like Fidelity will be broadly recognised. It was an awkward journey as I lived in Connecticut and the drive to New York’s airports was around an hour. Add an hour for the flight plus all the messing about and you will see what I mean.

I heard that relatively close to my home there was a small airport called White Planes and that there was a service to Boston from there. The journey up to Boston was relatively uneventful although the plane itself was hideous looking and very noisy. I was in Boston overnight and I took the lunchtime flight back to White Planes with the prospect of an early evening home attracting me.

A soon as the pane started its take off run it started to move around violently. It was windy, very windy. I had but one fellow passenger a black man who was already looking very unhappy and sweating. The plane took off and started lurching around. It was very unpleasant. The Pilot came on the intercom and reassuringly informed us that the turbulence was caused by high winds and we could expect a very bumpy trip-thanks. The black man who was sitting across the aisle from me a few rows back became very unhappy and started pushing his bell repeatedly. The hostess finally came to his aid although she had to hold on to the seats to support her. ‘Bring me wine’ he bellowed in a beautiful booming baritone voice. ‘Please bring me wine’. She tried to tell him there was no cabin service because of the weather but thought better of it and returned with a full bottle of red wine. The man started to drink from the bottle in huge gulps. After a while he seemed too calm down and he began to sing. I suppose it must have been a spititual song of some kind. I tightened my belt and held tight as I was serenaded all the way to White planes.

It is truly alarming when the pilot comes on the pa to tell you bad news.

It was Christmas Eve 1987 and we were heading from New York to Manchester to spend the holidays with my Mum and Dad. We were paying so we were sat at the back of a very busy plane. “Ladies and Gentlemen this is your pilot speaking’ “We have major engine difficulties. One of our engines has failed and we need to dump fuel before returning to New York where we will be making a fully supported emergency landing so do not be surprised if you see fire trucks ambulances and the like”

In those days you could smoke on a lane!! All cigarettes were ordered to be extinguished and the pilot gave us a runnning commentary as the fuel, tons of it, was dumped over the sea. We then headed back to NYC. As we came into land you could see all sorts of emergency vehicles racing along side the mighty plane as it landed. Tom my son thought it all good sport. I had managed to avail my self of a few of those Vodka miniatures as the trolley had been momentarily been left by my seat. Liz and I had a nip each and we decided that what ever happened we would not scream and would put a brave face on for the children.

We were put up in a hideous hotel on Long island and after about 3 hours sleep we were coached back to the airport. Our plane had had its engine ‘fixed’ we were told but there would be a final test before we took off. It was freezing cold and as I looked out from the departure lounge I saw a large black man with an Afro Haircut tucked in one of those brightly coloured tea cosy hats. He was on top of a cherry picked apparently screwing up a panel on the main central engine. This is not a racist comment but all I will say it did not inspire confidence.

It was the year of Simon and Garfunkel’s multi award winning album and I had my ‘walkman’ on with it playing in my ears. It could have been tiredness or perhaps a desire to protect my young family but I became totally terrified. I turned up my walkman to full as the plane started its take off roll. This act cause me to burst an eardrum and to this day I still have a permanent whistle in my ears to remind me of the trip.

• 

By far the most terrifying flight I have ever taken was from Aspen airport in the US. A week of skiing had ended with a large storm coming through. The airport had been closed for two days. Aspen airport is an amazing place. America has many faces but the airport serving the prime ski resort in the country is not only spectacular in its setting it also has parking for literally dozens of private jets. Super rich Americans own ranches in the area and at weekend they get in their Gulf Stream or similar and head off for the weekend.

After a week on the skis we were on our way to Dallas to visit with some friends our connecting flight gave us some privilege and despite many cancellations we were confirmed on a 5 o’cklock flight from Aspen to Denver. We boarded the plane, a BAC 146. Liz, Jo and Tom in a row in the middle of the aircraft and me in an aisle seat at the rear. The doors shut the pilot came on the intercom. She was a woman. Very rare in those days and the message she gave out did little to settle my feeling of unease.’ Ladies and Gentlemen, you will be aware of the stormy conditions. This flight which will cross over the Rocky Mountain range will be subject to extreme turbulence. There will be no cabin service and the cabin crew will be seated for the entire flight for yours and their safety’. ‘Please do remain calm all conditions are within the aircrafts tolerances”. Gulp! I pointed out to my neighbour, who had decided that getting off was a good idea, that the plane was British and all would be fine she was not impressed.

The plane took off and soon it began to lurch and shake. This lurching gave way to a roller coaster ride like no other. People were screaming. Toms base ball cap came off and I clutched on to my arm rests. The woman next to me clutched on to my arm. It was not a long flight and good ness knows how far we fell and rose but it was without any shadow of a doubt utterly terrifying. We landed in Denver shaken and quickly changed gates for our flight to Dallas. Tom did not want to get on board. We two ended up seated at the back with Liz and Jo further forward. The thought of a similar experience to the one we had just survived was not a good one. A soon as the aircraft was airborne the drinks trolley appeared and as I was at the back we had an early opportunity to get a drink. I ordered a large Bloody Mary and took a sip. I decided to visit the loo and when I returned the drink was gone. Tom had drunk it and I don’t blame him!

• 

There are surprisingly large number of dogs in New York. Most are in truth ‘compact’ by design but any morning or evening you will see the parks and streets of the City full of pooches and their owners walking around awaiting what dogs do.

There are three police forces in France. It is all routed in the Revolution but essentially there is a base level group who manage the streets in towns, the nation wide gendarmerie and in Paris the presidential guard who see themselves as an elite. They tend to be arrogant, they will readily use their power and in doing so call on water canon, truncheons and various forms of tear gas to ‘help’.

Now there is a law in Paris that if your dog decides to go ‘loo loo’ it is obligatory to clean it up. There is a ‘fine’ for the offence published on many lamp posts that back up the law. As far as I am aware no member of the Paris police force has ever given out a ticket to anyone who is guilty of contravening the law. It is quite simply ‘beneath them’. As a result the streets of Paris have a liberal supply of dog poo and most parks are a nightmare as ‘stepping in it’ is more likely than not on any outing.

Over to New York and one day I was in the back of a New York Taxi. The driver, of Eastern European roots, was regaling me with his history. I was getting bored as we approached the mid town turn to the FDR drive. As we stopped at a set of traffic lights a woman in high heels was walking along the road a pecanese dog at her heel. The dog decided to do what a dog does, sat down and deposited his or her coil on the sidewalk. The woman walked on either unaware or uncaring as to the deposit. Immediately the taxi driver wound down his window. ‘Heh Lady’ he roared ‘ your dog just shit on the sidewalk” he honked his horn and all the nearby taxis chimed in. Other windows were wound down and similar orders uttered. ‘Heh lady clean it up”another shouted. The lights changed but the taxi stayed still until the embarrassed woman cleaned up the mess and deposited it in the bin. We drove off the driver triumphant.

As a result of this phenomenon you can walk the streets of New York looking upwards. In Paris not so, watch your step!

• 

America is a wonderful place, if you are winning. At the peak of its education system are 8 colleges that are collectively known as The Ivy League. If you can get into one of these schools your future is all but assured. The problem is you cant! That, in the end, is why we left the USA as unless you are prepared to build a library or a sport hall or similar or you your self have attended the school the chances of getting your children in are around zero. Yes scholarships exist and there are postgraduate opportunities but really just forget it.

Now one thing I had learned in my early career was that sportsmen from decent universities, tend to do well in ‘client situations’. So it was that somehow I got the resumes (american for CV) of two Dartmouth College boys. Jenkins Marshall was a very self confident very handsome man. At ease in almost any situation he was a delightful man to interview. He was an ‘All American’ lacrosse player. Lacrosse is a big sport in the USA and qualification for the ‘All American team’ represented the cream of the sport in any one position. Harry Bourke was around 6 feet 6 tall and about 18 stones of muscle. He looked a bit like ‘Bluto’ in the ‘Popeye’ cartoons. He had a square jaw and not much of a neck. In truth he was not an easy interview but also an ‘All American’ he played ‘Noseguard’ in The Dartmouth College Football team. He was a bit intimidating but I later discovered that many of the US institutions we served also hired Ivy League Sportsmen and where ever Harry went he knew someone he had either played with or against. Two good blokes in the round.

One day One of our US trading team Andre Bakhos , (a man who had the most amazing wedding that has ever been-see later), announced that in the near future the New York Boxing Championships would be taking place and entries were being accepted. Two and two were added up to five and despite his vehement protests Harry Bourke was entered into the ‘Heavyweight’ division. He was soon in training and we all looked forward to fight night. Somehow I became his ‘corner man’, perhaps I pulled rank but there we are. As it turned out the whole affair was somewhat low key with the main intention being for the various Wall Street firms to support the event in order to raise money for a Boxing Club in a deprived area. There were in fact only two entries in The Heavyweight division.

UBS being what it was Harry entered the ring wearing a magnificent white silk dressing gown carrying the UBS logo. I held the rope for him and looked out on the crowd who were were well oiled and keen to see a good fight. The truth is Harry was something of a gentle giant and the man he opposed was of a similar disposition. The two of them circled the ring bobbing weaving and ducking but not punching. The referee stopped the ‘fight’ to encourage more action but the first round, of three, passed without a blow being landed. My corner job was almost laughable as I promised all sorts of retribution if my man did not lay a blow on his opponent. Harry, red faced, stared me in the eye in defiance. The second round barely better than the first. A few soft shots and the crowd now restless. Somehow in the third round Harry Connected with a powder puff shot to the body followed by a weak left jab. It was enough. The New York Heavy Weight Champion was from UBS. Harry ,”Champ” Bourke from that day on.

Jenkins Marshall liked women and they liked him. He was in great physical shape and he had a winning smile. There were many women working on trading desks in the US financial institutions who were our clients and Jenkins role was to keep in touch with these people and handle their orders to buy or sell shares in the market. His clients were almost exclusively female and he seemed to be networked around from one to another.

He had a girlfriend who was simply stunning to look at and I am sure very intelligent too but I never got the chance to know her well.

Like many organisations today all telephone conversions were recorded in our office. There were strict rules as to how these calls could be played back, the basic rule being in time of ‘dispute’. Jenkins had received an order to but x number of shares and he had fulfilled the order. The client on receiving written confirmation of the same queried the price reported on the telephone. The error was material as we were talking hundreds of thousands of shares. The ‘tapes’ need to be played and as far as I am aware this was the first time the International Securities division, which I headed up, had needed to do so.

In a special hermetically sealed room the might of UBS technology was on show. Rows of computers and various other devices. The Head of IT, The Head of Human Resources, The President of the bank in New York, Alfred (oh my god!) Baumgartner, Jenkins Marshal and me, all standing in line around a glass box with a recording machine in front of us. All were present as part of a set of legal and procedural issues in such a matter.

The tech guru established which telephone lines Jenkins used. The exact time of the trade was already known by a ‘time stamp’ so a window of five minutes of air time was lined up to ‘play back’.

‘Brring brring’. Jenkins voice- “hi Honey Bunch’ A woman’s voice “hi big boy”. Alfred Baumgartner’s face twitched violently and I tried not to laugh. The intensely personal phone call was in fact between Jenkins and his girlfriend and the exact nature of the call became somewhat embarrassing as ones intention to the other, later in the day, was described in full detail. Baumgartner looked at me as if it was my fault, the woman from Human resources hopped from one leg to another. Jenkins looked silly and I was beside myself trying not to laugh. Relief as another call came in, this time from the client and we were able to hear what was what regarding the trade.

Baumgartner sent for me and issued all sorts of stupid comments re me ‘allowing my people to make personal calls in the companies time’. My contempt for all things Swiss notched up on that day. Jenkins was somewhat abashed and apologised. He had been proved right in terms of the business side of the call and clearly he had a good evening to look forward to.

• 

This next little story is essentially a piece of life advice. Some background first. During the 1980’S I was working in New York City. The Union Bank of Switzerland had decided to buy my company Phillips and Drew and I became the first Brit to be actively employed by the Swiss giant. I had moved from the super elegant pencil thin tall glass ‘Tower 56’ where P and D had their offices to a very imposing black office block next door to The Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue. As prestigious address as there is. The offices were on a grand scale as The Swiss wanted to dominate any business they were involved in. The office furniture was all hard wood, valuable contemporary art hung on the walls and there was I in charge of ‘The International Securities Division’, God help me. I had a team of Swiss who spoke to each other in the unintelligible Swiss German, two Japanese, a whole host of Europeans and a trading team of Americans. In total around 60 people but growing all the time.

Our business was literally booming as large US institutions were staring the process of globalising their portfolios. I was often quoted in The wall Street Journal, I was interviewed on various radio shows and even appeared on main time TV in circumstances I would have neither anticipated nor welcomed when the markets crashed.

All sorts of factors came together at one time and in the October of 1987 there was a Stock Market crash. UBS were more than a little disappointed with their recent acquisition as we cost the bank tens of millions of pounds. There was chaos in the market and I was left to manage a crowd of people risking tens of millions of dollars in a situation that no-one had ever seen before. To say the least it was terrifying.

Over the weekend I had received telephone calls at home from some large US Institutions asking if we would open our office early so they could take advantage of the markets when open in London. I called around our team and at 4 Am New York time our office was manned by our best people-no Swiss! (just saying). One key man was missing Tom Fenn. A most delightful man who went on to become a University Professor Tom was not at his desk.

He suddenly appeared staggering across the floor. The markets were opening in London and our telephone lights were beginning to flash. I thought Tom must have been on ‘the lash’ but closer inspection revealed a huge gash in is forehead. He had been attacked and mugged. Someone bandaged his head and he got to work. When the Swiss President of the New York office turned up some 5 hours later he was most surprised to see our team fully active but even more so to witness a bloodstained Fenn hard at it.

The crash was horrible as it not only cost UBS a lot of money thereby speeding up its desire to control our activities but it also cause US Institutions to pause in their globalisation. A bad day all round.

Two weeks later I went for my annual medical check up. Br Bertram Newman was a heart specialist at The Mount San hospital. Like all top doctors in New York he supplemented his earnings by having a private medical practice serving large multi national clients. He was very amusing called me by my surname Elliott and was full of advice.

Somehow the subject of The Mugging came up- a not rare event by the way in NYC in the 1980s. Bertram was ready with advice. ” Always always wear a bet with a big buckle’ he said. “If you go on a flight take a base ball with you in your hand luggage. If you get mugged in the street quickly draw out your belt. Swing it around your head with the buckle end outwards and make as much noise as you can, literally scream’ I have never tried it but it make sense! ‘If you encounter a problem on an aeroplane (ahead of his time) put the baseball in your sock and swing it round and hit whoever hard on the temples’. all good stuff I think.

Having delivered this piece of advice he asked me to come and sit with him in his office. He then told me in rather graphic detail how the Aids epidemic was being spread in NYC by promiscuous gay men. He insisted I return to my office and speak to ‘my people’ regarding the risks of various sexual behaviours. God knows why but I did as he bid me. The whole of my department were summoned to a conference room and I began.

Now one of the key tips he wanted me to pass on was the need to use barriers such as condoms when indulging in various activities. ‘Because a number of your staff will likely be gay’ he told me’you will need to tell them something else.’ This I am embarrassed to relate involved the use of ‘clingfilm’ or in US seramwrap when doing various ‘things’. I was hugely embarrassed but probably not as much as my team when I told them.

Nothing else was said but from that day onward the US trading team always made a pile of their sandwich cling film wrappers every lunch time and neatly piled them on the end of the desk. I enquired as to why one day, fearing what might come back. ‘Just in case’ was the tart reply.

• 

I have taken part in many sports. On the whole I am deceptive as I ‘look’ like I can do it. I have on occasion pulled off some remarkable feats but I have also flattered to deceive.

My golfing career is a good case in point. I do not play now but I used to, a lot. I got down to around a 9 handicap at one time. I had a great golf bag and of course top of the range clubs. The thing is with golf is you need to practice. You can just turn up and maybe look the part but you won’t score well based upon a monthly outing.

When I worked for BZW golf was a unifying force amongst senior management. Monday mornings would often begin with an exchange with a fellow golfer describing a round or a trophy won. As many will know Scotland has many of the worlds greatest golf courses and the chance to play on any one of them is a something that few can resist.

I was in charge of BZW’s Scottish business and I had a two excellent golfers on my team-they were superb at their jobs and great blokes too by the way. We were a ‘big noise’ in Scotland as we made sure that we tended to the requirement of each of many large investing institutions. Keeping clients happy involved such things as ‘Golf days’ where our various clients would compete for trophies and the like.

On one such trip Richard Moulder suggested to me we should set up a ‘senior mans’ gold day at a top course. I tabled the idea to our CEO Johnathan Davey, a keen golfer, who had my arm off. We booked The Gleneagles Hotel for two days along with appropriate tee times and we invited not only senior Scots but also corporate clients and all sorts of ‘important’ others. The event got a life of its own and it was decided that ‘other halves’ would be included and a grand dinner would be staged.

As a way of entertaining clients and also making some kind of a statement it had a lot going for it. Not sure where it would stand in todays world where client entertainment is closely monitored but soon Richard Moulder had an organising committee and people were literally begging to be included.

Cut a long story short and there I was on the first tee. Not sure who I was with but I suspect one of my best clients along with two others. As many will know a round of golf around Gleneagles is expensive. The green fee God knows what but there is an extra rule, you must have a caddy. This makes sure that players (Japanese) keep up a decent pace, the course is cared for, divots replaced and the like, and advice can be given on what is a very difficult course so as lost balls and the like do not slow play.

The four cadges lined up one around 6 feet two inches tall. This man stepped forward and shook my hand. ‘Hello ” he said ” I am you caddy, they call me The Coffin on account of my size, you can call me ‘Coffin’, what should I call you?’ his hand shake was firm. ‘Dennis” I said. ‘Hello Coffin”

We announced our handicaps and at the time my official club handicap was 20 which was I think the highest of our four. The first golfer set up and the caddies watched. A reasonable shot, not to far but straight. The next man up a little further and also straight. The third man a decent blow as I think he had the lowest handicap, and some nods of approval from the caddies. My turn.

Now one thing I can say is that at the very least I look good at most sports. On a good day I can also hit a golf ball a long way. The twenty handicapper addressed the ball and ‘smoked it’. Dead straight perhaps 30 or 40 yards further than anyone else. The caddies gathered round in a small huddle and we watched them shake hands. As I strode up the first fairway The Coffin came alongside me beaming. “Nice shot son’ he said, ‘are you sure you play off 20.” I did.

My second shot took rather too much grass with it and my 3rd, 4th and 5th lacked conviction. I think I got a six in the end which did not win me the hole. The Coffin told me to relax on the way to the second tee. On the second I hooked the ball. Like a proper hook. The Coffin was not amused and his tone became a tad more assertive. ‘Concentrate son’ was his command. In truth the round went from bad to worse. The Coffin started to swear and on the sixth tee he invited one of his fellow caddies who was with another four to see if he could spot any problems with my swing. He did but his advice did not help in fact it confused me more. The tension was building something was up. For F….s sake son was a warning sign then finally on, I think the fourteenth green, after another 3 putt The Coffin took me to one side and grabbed my arm. “Son” he said ” if you were a horse I would shoot you.

You may have guessed by now that The Caddies apparently bet on their charges. On the first tee my long drive had persuaded The Coffin to go full beans and he had bet a week’s wages on me. It was serious stuff.

For the afternoon round three of the same caddies were waiting for us on the tee. One was flushed and smelled of drink. he was particularly friendly towards me. The Coffin was missing and I received a non to gracious message from one of his fellow bag carriers. Something along the lines of ‘you can carry your own bag’ A replacement caddy was found and the rest of the day was uneventful.

The dinner was excellent the event became an annual affair and was both highly popular amongst management and clients and their other halves. Whether it made commercial sense in the round I could not say. For The Coffin I am afraid the answer was a definite No!!

Most people at some time in their life think of getting a dog. If you have never owned one it can be a big step. That little ball of cuddly softness grows into a rampaging machine that eats everything it can get hold of.

Murphy was a black Labrador. He was a long sleek one as opposed to a short squat one. He had literally unlimited energy. You only needed to mention the word ‘walk’ and he was almost incandescent with joy. You could walk him for six man miles-12 dog miles at least- and yet if the opportunity arose he would repeat the process ad infinitum.

He had his own rules re behaviour. He had a delightful temperament but forget anything like ‘fetch and drop’. Just not for him. We sent him for training for a month but when he returned he might occasionally respond to whistle, but normally not. I used to ride my motor bike around the country lanes where we lived in Mackerye End with Murph following me in order to tire him out. It did not work.

He used to howl on occasion like a wolf. I never found out why but many neighbours assumed we were mistreating him in some way-we certainly were not. Then there was the disappearing acts. Maybe once a month or so he would go missing. Perhaps after a day or so a phone would ring and we would be told that “Murphy is with us” by someone who had found him taken him in and read his collar.

The thing was you could not predict this disappearing trick and none of us liked the idea of keeping this wonderful animal tied up.

He had one party trick he was the best ‘back row forward’ dog on the planet. I would kick a rugby ball to Tom. Murph would hare after it and just as Tom was preparing to kick the ball back to me Murph would take off and do all he could do block the kick. It made for hours and hours of fun and it also meant that in match situations Tom became adept at sidestepping, like a matador any onrushing forward in a match situation. Playing cricket with him around was a no no as he would never give up the ball. He would just slobber it to extinction.

One night he went walk about. The following day no calls and we began to worry. Search parties were sent out and we visited all the haunts he had been to in the past. Finally one Sunday morning Liz and I and two tearful children visited our local dog pound. A we drove in, there in an outdoor cage was a very sad looking Murphy. We ran into the office and identified the dog. The woman behind the counter gave us a lecture and suggested we might like to ‘support’ the facility by making a donation. liz gave me the check book and something in my delirium of joy caused me to write a check -for a large amount of money. I handed it over and the woman gulped. Off we all set Murphy not sure if he was in trouble or what.

Back Home I reflected on my generosity and I looked at Murph and he looked back. I loved that dog beyond words.

We were in the process of moving to the USA. I had identified a potential house for us to rent on a previous trip and I had been given time off work to show my family and generally prepare for our big move. We had flown across The Atlantic courtesy of TWA business class. Unlike today Jo, who was probably 5 years of age, was given an apron and she helped serve lunch alongside the cabin crew. She still has a menu signed by the crew to prove it. I, of course, ended up on the flight deck chatting to the Captain. I told him what I was doing and I asked him where he would suggest I take my family for a few days rest and relaxation. He told me West Palm Beach and he gave me details of the best hotels and all the places to go. Result!

Liz loved the house I had found. It was in ‘Back Greenwich’ Lake Avenue and was set in 3 acres of land. We did a bit of looking around and then booked a flight to West Palm Beach. Now Florida is Florida and we were, I think, a bit overawed by it. I rented a huge white convertible Cadillac for a laugh. We drove to the recommended hotel and found ourselves, somewhat jet lagged, overlooking the beach and the ocean. A day or so later and the news programmes became filled with dire warnings. The windows of the hotel were boarded up and we were instructed to hunker down as a hurricane was coming! In it came with all its fury pounding the beach and our hotel. It was terrifying to start with but when the eye of the storm passed we were able to go out and watch huge waves, and all sorts of exciting stuff. The only down side was the car roof leaked! It was quite an experience.

My second Hurricane was in the Dominican Republic. We had gone to one of our favourite family destination(s) a Club Med. I won’t waste time here but for those who know probably the best family holiday going! In came the hurricane. Windows boarded confined to discreet areas but because the resort was concrete built it was all relatively safe.

My third Hurricane was in Connecticut and New York. It was in the mid 80s and for about a week the media had hyped the thing to ludicrous proportion. The whole of New York City was boarded up and people were ordered to stay in doors. Now I remember this storm for different reasons. One of my colleagues, now Sir hector Sants god help us, had been head hunted by Goldman Sachs. He was very highly though of and the senior partner no less set off on Concorde to try and persuade Hector to stay with the firm. Brice Cottrill arrived in the office with tales of a bumpy landing courtesy of the winds, now really beginning to blow, and proceeded to talk Hector into a new deal I assume involving a lot of dosh.

For some reason I decided to play my hand and I asked Bryce for a chat. Now Bryce I said I know you want to keep Hector but I also hope you want to keep me and I fully expect that if you decide to reward my colleague for staying you might consider me too. Bryce did not hesitate and awarded me a $200,000 bonus on the spot. ( I might have done better I later reflected). Arriving home later that day via a largely empty train I found Riverside, where we lived, in some disarray. Trees were down there was local flooding and the like. Thank good ness our home was untouched but Liz , who had had a very worrying day, could not understand the grin on my face. When I told her she laughed and ever since that day we have managed to smile at the very mention of a hurricane.

Formal warning this is so sad so utterly horrible that it might traumatise you. It makes me cry as I write it.

In a number of previous posts I have referred to man called Chris Jones. ‘CD’ to all who knew him well. He was short in stature, perhaps 5 feet six inches tall. He wore thick black glasses and he smoked, a lot. In his teenage years he had been a superb athlete and was he gained national honours in the ‘half mile’ as well as being a fine 440 yards specialist. (no metric then). He was without detractors as he was honest and open. He loved a pint, sometimes many. He was generous.

Chris and I had attended the same primary school although I did not know him there. On my first day at Birkenhead School Chris (the only other boy to gain entry in the recent years) was waiting to welcome me and provide words of support. He became a school prefect and was the top athlete and when ever he saw me around school he would stop, enquire as to my progress and offer some words of support.-More like the best older brother in those days rather than a friend. He went to Cambridge then into the City. On my first day on the London Stock Exchange Chris was there to welcome me and offer words of support. A number of years later I worked for the same firm as him-maybe he had something to do with it but he always said it was coincidence. He was by this time a ‘senior man’ but he always encouraged and supported me. He was my ‘second’ when I walked from London to Brighton and he sang me home from his ridiculously uncomfortable collapsable bike.

Year later I moved with my family to the USA and on our first night in Connecticut the phone rang. It was Chris. He too had moved to the US and he had two daughters with his lovely wife Sue, one a very talented soccer player who had had USA trials. Chris lived on Long Island across the ‘Sound’. ‘We insist you come to us for Christmas’ Chris said. A few weeks later we went and we were made to feel most welcome and Sue and Chris coached us in all the things a Brit needs to know about the real USA. Over the next few years I would often meet with Chris and we would have beers and chew the fat. Now a firm friend I had great pleasure in introducing him to my colleagues and the like. No one could be more popular. We had a sailing boat called ‘Tenacity” (part of another tale). We would cross Long Island Sound moor up and meet with CD and family for a barbecue.

There was one building in New YorkI hated. I had a very good client who worked there and I used to beg him to meet me in the lobby rather than take the elevator to the ‘sky lobby’ before changing for the top 20 floors or so. My client worked on the 101st floor. I did not like watching the helicopters flying below the building and still less the planes on final approach to la Guardia. The building was called the World Trade Centre and another person I knew well worked there too. On the 105th floor. Chris Jones.

When the jet struck, back in the UK, I was sitting in my office in Northleigh Devon. I made my money in those days by trading fairly actively on the Stock Exchange. The events of that day caused markets to fall sharply I was alarmed. Over the next few hours I watched the whole dammed catastrophe play out and inked in my mind very very clearly is the image of those who chose to jump rather than burn to death.

It was exactly one year later that I heard the news. The first anniversary of the horrific day and the names of the dead were read out. Back in the City of London, in a large dealing room, traders watched in respectful silence. The name of CD Jones was read out and a close friend of mine was instantly alarmed and did some research. It confirmed that CD Jones was CD, he had perished. A phone call gave me the horrific news.

Apparently his wife and family were so devastated they moved away. I contacted other members of Chris’s family but they did not want to discuss the matter. It was closed.

Chris had been on the in-house intercom to his London office describing the horror unfolding. With flames licking around him he jumped. He was identified by a print taken from what was left of one of his feet.

I cannot ever begin to rationalise this event. Others will have similar experiences to digest I know. Several years later Liz and I flew to New York and visited ground zero. We looked at Chris’s name on the memorial and I sobbed. I so wish I could have some how contacted his wife but it was not meant to be.

Of all the people that were ‘there for me’ Chris was at the very top of the list. Thank you.

There are many who will not believe this tale but here goes and I did have witnesses.

Back in the

Back in the day Capital Radio provided traffic reports to its listeners in London. No ubiquitous cameras then but an aeroplane. This plane would spend the rush hours of the day skimming around the usual hot spots relaying info re hold ups accidents and the like. It also acted as a superb marketing tool for the radio station as people would spot it and point excitedly. I have no idea exactly where Hangar Lane Giratory System is but in those days it often had problems.

Any way in 1991 there was a Rugby World Cup competition in Europe. Simon Halliday played for England in the centre/wing and as he worked for me at the time I was keen to watch him play in as many matches in the competition as possible. England were playing France in Paris and Simon was in the team. 4 others of my colleagues were keen to watch the match but flights were in short supply and very expensive. Somehow I heard that it was possible to rent the ‘Flying Eye’. Enquiries were made and I think for around £1200 we booked the thing, including a taxi to the airport in Essex and a car to take us to and from the stadium in France.

We arrived bright and early at the the Essex grass aerodrome where George, who was the pilot was based. We said hello and he escorted us into an old corrugated iron nissan hut. In there was a canteen where we had a magnificent ‘fry up’ the full works. On to the plane, four at the back with a picnic hamper to share’ and me in the co pilot seat. We were given the choice of ‘low level visual’, and more bumps, or the higher ‘airlane’ option. We went for the bumps.

The flight was so exciting and we were all laughing and joking all the way. George gave us a running commentary. We landed in an airport on the edge of Paris, cleared local passport control and off to the stadium. The game was something of a side show but enjoyable never the less.

As soon as the match was over we left the stadium found our car and less than two hours later we were back in the UK. I popped into my local that evening and met up with some friends. ‘Did you see the match’ one of my mates asked. ‘Err yes I did’. ‘The atmosphere seemed really good in the stadium’ he observed. ‘It was’ I said- curious looks in my direction!

That as not the end of it. Later in the season or maybe the next year we did an Edinburgh trip where we got into trouble for some anomaly by George on ‘final approach’.

Best of all however was my decision to recognise Liz’s 40th birthday in a ‘special way’. My boss at work,George Gray, had a vintage Bentley which is a story in its own right. He sent the car, chauffeur and all, to get Liz, Jo,Tom and I and take us to Essex. It was a complete surprise. I had told Liz we were going somewhere local and everyone was dressed up but apart from that nothing.

Tom sat in the co pilots seat and off we went. We arrived over Paris and George gave us a tour. Yes we went around the city observing the sights. We actually flew around the Eiffel Tower. Yes I know you would be shot down today but then it was allowed or at least George decided to do it. The car in Paris this time took us to Mon Martre where we had lunch and we bought a picture we still have. It was a wonderful day out. George was a lovely chap, the breakfasts amazing and The Flying Eye a truly special experience.

In the mid 1980s I played rugby for Manhattan Les Vieux. The ‘veterans’ team of a rugby club that played its matches on Rikers Island. In the middle of New Yorks East River.

The Island itself is home to one of the largest prisons in the world and an establishment for the criminally insane. The one good thing about the venue is it has amazing views of Manhattan.

The rugby club had 4 teams I seem to remember but one ‘field’ (american for pitch). Matches were played in a two part season with the coldest months providing a break. There are several Rugby Clubs in New York but despite the huge distances we and they ‘travelled’ to matches. Philadelphia, Boston and on one occasion Canada.

Matches were played one after another. The pitch was often littered with debris. Two manholes were covered with fake grass too. (I was not convinced about the safety of that at all). After each game the players would get around a bucket of cold beers, watch the next match and meet their opposition. The referees were just appalling and some of the American players were down right dangerous.

Our team was full of players who had ‘played a bit’ in their youth. A former Oxford Blue and Welsh Trialist. A prop who had played for one of the top Scottish Clubs and an Australian who actually claimed he had played for the Australian National team. He was very god but no-one really believed him. Least of all me who has had a life long compulsion to take the pee out of every Australian I have ever met. They love it and always give back as good as they get. I am still being rude to an Australian I played cricket with 20 years ago. We use Facebook as thank God he has gone back home. He gives as good as he gets.

One man’s history was never questioned, a Fijian called Seru Seru. He had of course played for the National team no-one ever doubted it. His knees had ‘gone’ as he was approaching 40 and years of playing on hard pitches had had their tole. Over 25 yards he was unstoppable. Six feet four probably 16 stones of muscle. When within range of the try line he would be given the ball and a collective ‘Go Seru” would ring out. Nothing and I mean nothing would stop him from that range. No matter how many jumped on his back or tried to slow him he would always score. Each time to huge adulation repaid with the biggest grin you would ever see. Over 25 yards it was a different story because somehow as he reached his ‘limit’ he would suddenly appear to be running in sand, he would slow down and be felled like a wounded wildebeest caught by a pride of lions. I used to bet him ‘a case of beer’ he could not score a try from the half way line. He would laugh and always take me on. ‘Yes I take that’ he would say a huge paw grabbing my hand. The thing was he never did and in spite of his willingness to take on the bet he never paid up. He did not seem to know how the system worked. It was very funny.

Playing on Rikers Island was quite surreal I remember once getting banged on the head and suffering from concussion induced confusion. I could not work out where the hell I was. Playing Rugby yes but what the hell are all those sky scrapers?!

When I met Liz I was on holiday with a man called Martin. As I have mentioned in the past we had a difficult relationship over time. He had come to our school in the sixth form after moving to the area. Being the new boy must have been tough but Martin was always trying to prove that somehow he was better than me. The truth is I cant think of anything he was notably better than me in so his efforts to ‘impress’ simply aggravated me.

I had not seen Martin for a number of years and one day I got phone call. ‘I will be in New York at the weekend I have conference to attend next week, could I come and see you and stay over was the request?’ I met him in the City and we had a few beers in a Mexican bar. Cant think why I remember that fact. We got home and I showed him his room. I had told Martin on the phone that Saturday Morning would see me playing Rugby. He put his case on the bed and opened it. There on top of the case was his rugby kit! ‘I have not played for years he said” he was actually not very good. “I was in Ireland last weekend and I went for a run on the beach so I thought I would bring my kit” err oh that makes sense!!

We were playing Old Blue our fiercest local rivals. They had been on a winning streak and I think we had an unbeaten season record to uphold. What I do know is everyone was being serious on the day of the match.

The aforementioned Scot, John Tait, our captain, was moving amongst us uttering oaths and generally winding up the tension. We all arrived changed at the ground as there were no changing rooms. The temperature was probably a spring 60 something. We played the match in a corner of Central Park. I think the posts were taken down after each match, it does not matter. In the same corner of the park on that day were a lot of young women as it was the Metropolitan New York Cross Country Championships. The start and finish line was about 50 yards from our pitch. Not only a lot of young women probably 16 and up (i really hope this was the case)but their Mums too. ‘All American Mum’s” yelling and being well “American Mums’.

As the game got closer alarm in the ranks. No Seru Seru. Tatie asked the ref for a delay but he was told ‘no chance’. The game will start at eleven, as would the race. At five minutes to still no Seru and Tatie asked me if my mate would play. I looked across to where martin was standing and I saw for the first time that on his back was a kit bag. “Have you got your boots” I asked. ‘Of course” he said and proceeded to get them out. Mr Tate was pleased but immediately started growling at Martin “hurry up man”!

Tricky bit here so hold tight. The fact is, having discussed this with many Americans after a beer or two the average American Students attitude to sex can be described as ‘liberal’. I will say no more other than to say for some reason Americans are generally so horrified by nudity it is amazing. Go to any American Beach and just dare let a toddler run round naked. Arrest is likely. Any European woman who wants to bare and tan her breasts will be verbally assaulted by all around.

With this as a back ground what happened next was truly shocking. Martin asked where the changing rooms where but when he was told there were none and he would have to change pitch side he did. Not in a subtle way involving towels or perhaps the tail of a shirt. he took of his tee shirt and then his pants and stood there for one agonising moment stark naked. “where is my shirt’ he requested. Truth Is Martin is a ‘fine figure of man’. The girls on the start line of the cross country obviously thought so as they just gawped, in silence. Their Mums gawped too Martin looked at me with a silly grin on his face and mumbled something stupid. OK I will tell you what he said, ‘what are they looking at I know its like a dick only smaller’- it wasn’t. Tatie was horrified too as he must have feared arrest as an accomplice and he ran to Martin shirt in hand and stuffed it at his loins, ‘For Gods sake man’ or similar was the cry.

We lined up for the start fo the match as the Cross Country race got under way. Martin was supposedly hidden on the right wing. Seru seru’s position. I was at full back. From the first line out of the match Old Blue went on the attack. The ball passed down the line and into the left wingers hands. He set off for the try line. I was covering across but no need. Martin flung himself at the man and brought of the most perfect ankle level tackle. The man hit the ground spilling the ball. Tatie was jubilant. He looked across at me and grinned’ Your man can play’ he announced I sort of nodded enjoying reflected glory I suppose.

There was a scrum from the knock on and the scrum half hoisted a high ball that came down where Martin was standing. He leapt up as if to meet it but as he landed someone tackled him and he hit the deck. He stood up looking pathetically in my direction and pointing at his wrist. “I have hurt my wrist ‘ he said. Less than five minutes gone.

At that moment confusion on the sidelines and a big commotion. It was Seru Seru. He ran on the pitch uninvited ran straight up to Martin and ripped off his rugby shirt mumbling something about bad traffic. Tatie was delighted to see the great man. The opposition did not think to argue or were afraid to say anything that we were subbing someone with a man mountain. The game went on and the topless Martin moved to the touchline holding his arm obviously in some pain. The match was going on but Martin kept giving me health bulletins. ‘It bloody hurts” ‘Oh its agony’ he went on. At abreak in play I indicated the beer bucket which, filled with ice, was cooling the beers for after the game. ‘Put your arm in the bucket’ I said. He did and it seemed to help. Curiously several of the Mums went over to see the injured man they seemed keen to look after him!

We won the game and Seru Seru scored a blinder from about 20 yards out. I drove Martin to the local hospital where he discovered he had ‘split a bone in his arm” not sure I have ever heard that before but the doctor said he would likely need an operation. He was given cast but also a sort of metal splint that kept the wrist elevated. They used to feature all the time in MASH if that is your vintage.

The following morning Martin’s US trip was cut short as I took him to the airport for a plane home and further medical attention.

We did not receive any complaints from the authorities thank goodness. I do however a few weeks later John Tait, obviously oblivious to the facts, asking me if my mate was available for the following weekend as we were short.I don’t think Martin ever played Rugby again.