After a number of months at Phillips and Drew I became involved with US clients. At this stage in the early eighties US institutions were not Internationally invested. However, as I related in a previous post, they were beginning to start and soon my family would move to America and I would be servicing US institutions locally.

Any way for now one evening I was in wine bar in the City of London. Liz was there and we were meeting with my old friend Ian ‘Thomson” Thomas. He had a red line down his eyeball to mark the damage I had done to him in that fateful match . Rugby was for him in the past but we were still good mates.

His wife, Lynn, worked for Trans World Airlines (TWA) and she was an air hostess, as they were then called. Very pretty she had returned from somewhere hot and was still wearing her uniform. In those days being a member of an airline cabin crew was a very glamorous occupation. Maybe because working conditions were different such that long haul journeys included a 4 or 5 day stop over as normal for the crew!

Anyway I was probably very boring as I started asking Lynn all about her day to day life. She chose to give me some advice that was just gold. If you are checking in for a flight (there were no self check ins in those days) -remember that the check in clark has discretion to upgrade passengers. The basic info was obvious be smart etc. Lynn’s key advice was when you approach the desk first eye contact, accompanied by your best smile. Next ask the person how they are and if they have had a busy day and wait for the response. Then and only then produce your ticket and say something like ‘I am hoping to get to New York tonight am I in the right place?’ When you get on board befriend the aircrew. Don’t be the man who never smiles. Be friendly you will be surprised what happens. I parked the info.

I had told Lynn that the following week I was flying to New York in fact. I had just started a regular habit of visiting New York or Boston, later further afield, seeking out new clients. Lynn suggested I fly TWA and she asked me to let Ian know my flight number. I thought no more of it but the following week, having booked with TWA, I called Ian and let him know.

It was a Monday lunch time when I walked up to the check in desk armed with my new ‘charm offensive’. I followed instructions and the young lady beamed at me and asked me if I would like to fly First Class. Lynn had of course set the whole thing up but she had also shown me ‘the way’ for the future. The TWA Lockheed L1011 First Class cabin had one other person in it. It was a Monday afternoon. I was asked by one of the 3 cabin crew what I would like to be called. Dennis is fine I said. I sat back in a huge seat and the mighty jet began to taxi to the take off area. As we turned on to the runway I remember, as if it was now, the Captain coming on the PA. ‘Heh we are rolling’ cool!

The plane barely taken off I was served my second glass of champagne, still drinking champagne then, the first glass had been on the ground as various goodies were delivered to us, like a proper toilet bag, fully equipped and slippers! Next I had caviar on little biscuits with some chilled Vodka. The main course was a whole Chateaubriand steak with a creamy sauce. The meat was put on a table in the middle of the cabin and carved,I promise. I was asked for my choice of ‘cook’ and some fine red wine was repeatedly poured into my glass as I probably ‘took advantage of the facilities’. Next was a magnificent cheese board washed down with port. OMG time for a snooze. I awoke on final approach to New York feeling a bit ordinary in truth but I had had a taste of the front of the plane and I liked it , I liked it a lot.

Now whilst this is the end of this particular tale I had learned something. My subsequent upgrade record was very good and I may have improved the mood of more than one cabin crew member in my day, which is good. I have tons of flying stories but even to this day I make it my business to be extra friendly to cabin crew and even on Easy Jet it has had its payback.

Before I leave this section on TWA I would like to relate an experience that has stuck with me. The experience caused me to become a big fan of a certain musician and I have enjoyed his music ever since.

I was upstairs in Business class flying back to London on a TWA 747. Smoking was allowed in those days. There were only two or three other passengers in the cabin but as I had two seats to myself I did not give them too much notice at first. A man opposite lit up as soon as the plane was airborne. I could not see him properly unless I turned round which would have been rude. Any way we had our meal and I noticed or heard an American voice decline just about everything he was offered. He did however keep smoking. In the middle of the night I needed a pee and I stood up to in the darkened cabin. The man opposite was smoking of course but with his overhead light illuminating a familiar face. Dark Black glasses a teddy boy brill creamed haircut. I identified him at once Roy Orbison. I woke again several times in the night and there was Roy, awake and smoking. At Heathrow I took my carry on bag (which my son Tom Still uses) and I followed Roy who had all his worldly goods in a single black with white edging ‘duffel bag’. Black polo necked sweater black jacket. I followed expecting a welcoming committee for the great man. But no one was there to meet him. He climbed into the Black cab in front of mine on the rank and lit up. Only the lonely!! I went into the record store in Central London and bought Roy’s greatest Hits album. A very good decision.

People say they don’t get drunk on champagne-they do. People say they don’t get a hangover on champagne-if you drink enough you do. People say I never get that drunk that I do something stupid. They do.

Two and half bottles with a good mate. Check in at mass market hotel. Go to sleep but wake up at 3 am wanting a pee. Open door to loo, go in, let door close behind you. Wrong Door! In the corridor nothing on no way back in. Pictures screwed to wall ,fire extinguisher way to heavy to lift and alarm fitted to it anyway.

Down to reception covering ones modesty, forget room number. Desparate!

I can tick all of above-only once though-and that is why if you offer me some champers I will likely say no simply because-one thing can lead to another! I am told however on good authority that such an occurrence happens more than you might think- so beware.

I am well and truly out of sequence now which I have decided is good as I can write things down as they come to mind. Perhaps catalysed by a previous blog.

In the late 90s I worked for a company called BZW, The Investment banking arm of Barclays bank. It was there that somehow I landed the most incredible job I could ever have dreamed of. I had moved to BZW from UBS and my role was to manage a sales team originally servicing clients in Scotland. This was in fact something of a smokescreen as the management, who hired me, had bigger plans for me. They did not want to upset too many people who were progressively and sensitively pushed aside.

The Scottish Sales team were amongst the best people I had ever worked with. Richard Moulder who now lives in Australia and is a really big hitter in the finical world. Graham Jinks who though not as successful as Richard in the longterm himself was ‘top drawer’ Finally a man called Chris Carpmael who I hired on Richards advice. What a hiring. Chris had been an officer in the Royal Marines and won the Sword of Honour in training. He was an incredible human being. I will write about him and other marines I have met in a later post.

After time my remit in BZW changed to encompass ‘The Rest Of The World’ excluding the UK and US. I had responsibility for certain UK Market operations in our offices in Paris, Frankfurt, Amsterdam and Madrid. All other European financial centres in Europe were completely up to me. At the time BZW was working hard to win government mandates to manage ‘privatisations’. The potential fees were huge and there were one or two offerings on the horizon. My job was to make sure we knew all the key players in the various institutions.We would look to help them with their general UK investments of course but prepare the ground so when we needed to ‘build a book’ we would know who to go. I had a team of people working for me directly from various nationalities and I would accompany them on trips to meet their clients. My role was to be ‘the senior man’ shake hands offer warm words and then go to lunch or dinner in an expensive restaurant. When I was away my ‘office’ was run by a woman called Vanessa Braddock. She was my assistant ‘i am not his secretary’ she would insist -way ahead of her time. She was six foot tall and kept everyone in order and when i was away she watched over proceedings. She had a degree in desk top publishing which was, as I will relate some time later, a game breaker for me.

Anyway the Head of the Corporate Finance division was a man called Simon De Zoete. An Old Etonian he had a reputation for many things. I had a colourful relationship with him. I will definitely write some incidents up. I think the one quality all will agree he was ‘podium quality’ at was ‘arrogance’.

Anyway Simon suggested I spread my wings and visit the middle east. This was just great as I discovered one of my colleague had spent his youth in Oman – his father was a surgeon. He by the way was a serious economist. Andrew could speak reasonable Arabic and educated me as to the do’s and dont’s of how to behave in Arabic company. I went everywhere met some amazing people including a number of sheiks-most had been to Harrow!

Visiting the Middle east was fine but bigger fish were identified which led to a wholly unusual week which I later repeated, in the same format, on two further occasions.

I was playing for Harpenden on a Saturday. It was the end of the season and as a result I was on the first team pitch on The Common. I imagine it was playing for a ‘Harpenden eleven’. I had already told the captain that I would have to leave at 6 30 come what may.

I did a lot of travelling at this time and I had found a delightful local man called Martin Pavitt who was a former Police Motor Cyclist. Now retired he drove businessmen to the airport in his immaculate Mercedes. He and I became friends and he often took me for rides on my motorbike-more on that one too- improving my skills. Martins particular thing was punctuality. Six thirty meant just that to the very second the car would roll up. For most clients he wore a chauffeurs hat-but on my insistence not for me. His charges were the equivalent of the local taxi firms so everyone was winning.

At six thirty on the dot Martin’s car crept up to the pavilion. I was already showered. I think we bowled first and I had batted early as no-one seemed concerned when I left. Martin drove me to Heathrow where I got the 9 pm flight to Singapore. I had pushed my luck with Simon De Zoeete as I had insisted on ‘First Class if I am going that far’. He testily agreed. Singapore Airlines First Class is awesome and I sat back put on a movie and drifted off. I arrived in Singapore on Sunday night- local. Had some nosh and stayed in the utterly fabulous Four Seasons Hotel. The following morning I met with The Singapore Investment Authoritie’s top man. One of the largest financial Institutions in the world he was a charming mixed race gentleman. Some of his colleagues joined for coffee and I was struck by the quality of all attending-how did I get there? One more meeting then on to The Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong. I stayed in a fabulous hotel overlooking the harbour had two meetings and then lunch in an amazing place. Now I know this sounds all sounds stupid but the people I was meeting had great influence. I potentially had something they all needed being access to a major UK privatisations.

Next it was off to Sidney. I remember that BZW, who in fact had a Sidney Office, had had a major row with a client. The Bankers Trust of Australia. Somehow it was staged for me to make a formal apology on behalf of ‘Head Office’. We went to the equivalent of the post office tower for lunch and I had a pee in what I was told was the highest bog in the world. It had windows in front of the urinals and the views were fantastic. It was made out I had flown from London in order to apologise in person on behalf of the CEO. I apparently say sorry well as the feed back of my visit was excellent and the rift healed. The next day I did a ‘Melbourne and back in a day’ before a dinner in a restaurant/bar on Bondi beach with some of the BZW locals. I remember it well because I had committed to a dry month previous to my visit but this was the day when I was off the leach. As I walked into Sidney airport the following morning I was licking my lips, Singapore First Class one stop in Singapore, bring it on.

Now I may have lost time here but I swear some how the itinerary worked. My plane touched down On Friday morning, all due to the circulation of the earth. I got to my desk at about 10 am. I felt utterly terrible but I put on a brave face. One of my senior colleagues passed my desk and paused. ‘I have not seen you for couple days’ he said, ‘have you been in Scotland?’ I nodded.

Back in the late 199o’s there was a travel agent at the entrance to Luton Airport. The now defunct Monarch Airlines was one of the leading carriers from the airport. The Shop was run by a husband and wife team. They were exceptionally good, I was told, although I never used them myself. I assume they put a lot of business in Monarch’s direction. Jim Courtney was in middle age and a member of the cricket club. Not particularly athletic it is fair to say.

Cricket teams often tour. Many go to the West Country. I know this because when I moved to Devon I would fill many Wednesday afternoons playing against a variety of visiting touring sides from all over the UK for either Seaton or ‘The Devon Dumplings’ (don’t ask!)

Some clubs will tour further afield with South Africa a popular destination and best of all The West Indies. I was a little surprised to see a notice posted on the Harpenden CC information board. ‘Indication of interest for preseason tour destination-wait for it -Benidorm” !!

I needed to let off steam and just get away for a few days so I signed up along with around 15 others including several first team players amongst whom was skipper Simon Caunce. As I mentioned in a previous post Simon was a hugely popular leader. He counts amongst his good friends that cricket legend Shane Warne. As a young man Shane had visited a top Bristol Club, where Simon played, in order to develop his cricketing knowledge. Simon and his lovely wife Judy took the young man under their wings. They are still great mates and on occasion Shane would turn up at Harpenden CC for a drink. I met him once with Simon at The Worcester County ground where Australia were playing a warm up match on a tour. Shane signed an Ozzie cap for my son. You should have seen the look on Tom’s face when the highly personalised item was given to him. I digress.

I really could not work out why we were going to Benidorm but we boarded the Monarch plane in good spirits. Jim, the travel agent, had arranged for the main match to be sponsored by Monarch Airlines and there was to be a trophy, ‘The Monarch Cup’ no less. Where was the cup we wondered.

As the plane circled Benidorm the aerial view confirmed my consternation. A beautiful sea yes but fringed by a mass of hideous grey tower blocks. It was horrible. A casual look at our fellow passengers confirmed that those who visit Benidorm, how to put this, are probably not as discerning in their taste of holiday destination as the average Harpenden CC member.

Having landed we got on a coach and we headed to our hotel. It was ‘basic’. At the front of the hotel in a sort of yard/cage was a huge dog. Part Doberman part something else it went mad if you even approached the cage. One of the first team players-another top man called Mike Cooper- proclaimed he was a ‘dog whisperer’. ” Before I leave this place’ he said “I will tame this dog and I will get in the cage with him”. People scoffed and the odd bet made. To those who have themselves ‘toured’ it will come as no surprise that due to the miracle that occurs when ‘on tour’ Mike was as good as his boast and won the money.

When we got to the cricket ground itself we were amazed. It was golf driving range with many golfers mindlessly hitting balls. A local cricket club player arrived however and the pieces began falling into place. A lot of the holiday makers in Benidorm came from the North of England and the bar owners who satisfied their need for alcohol from The North too. Yorkshire and Lancashire especially – many of them played cricket. Indeed all the local players bar owners we met, and there were a few, were English. They were good lads and some were talented cricketers.

Middle Class Spanish families consider that in order to progress in life, particularly in business, it is necessary to speak English. As a result they send their children to England for their summer holidays. The destination of choice is of course what they call the ‘Home Counties’. Those aspirant parents who have financial constraints send their children elsewhere. Manuel had been sent to Merthyr Tydfil. His accent, Welsh with a Spanish twist, was both horrible but very funny. We were advised by one of the ‘Yorkies’ that Manuel could be ‘excitable’ but he worked for the Mayor and the use of the ground was in the gift of the local council. We needed to treat Manuel with care in case he gave a bad report to those in high places at the town hall or what ever the Spanish equivalent is called. Around 3 pm a whistle blew, the golfers stopped hitting balls, and three tractors with scoops on the back appeared. The whole area cleared of balls, well almost, and the concrete strip in the middle covered with matting. The ground was transformed from golf to cricket and it all began to make sense.

On the first evening we went out to, how to put this, ‘a special bar’. These ‘special bars’ are legal in Spain and offer a variety of ‘services’ I gather. The staff of this particular enterprise comprised a lot of very heavily made up Russian women. The drinks were very expensive. I cannot remember exactly what happened and as you all know ‘what happens on tour ….’ What I do remember is £8 for a half pint caused me and most of my fellow tourists to seek an early exit especially as the extra services were not required. One man, I will call him Alan David for convenience, made a proposal to one of the women. It was not the sort of proposal that I imagine these ‘special bar women’ usually receive. He was probably ‘confused’ by the large amount of ‘Amaretto on the rocks’ we had drunk earlier in the evening as he proposed ‘marriage’ to a woman called Ludmilla. Ludmilla seeing a ‘way out’ I imagine, said ‘Yes’. I can report that the young lady came to watch a game later in the week and her ‘uniform’ of short skirt, very high heels and a lot of makeup proved somewhat embarrassing for us all. Alan dutifully introduced us all personally to his ‘fiancé’ but the bright sunlight was not favourable to this woman overall countenance and the romance foundered. The other learning point about visiting one of these ‘special bars’ is it is probably not a good idea to take a credit card into the premises as ‘apparently’ there are special rooms that they unlock!. Enough said.

Anyway to the big match against local Benidorm Club ‘Sporting Alfaz’. The pitch was ready the English boys and the ‘token Spaniard’ lined up and Jim, who had arrived late, had placed the ‘Monarch Cup’ he had brought with him on a table. The cup itself was interesting. From a distance of about 10 yards it was impressive but, I have to be honest here, close up it was probably not the most expensive trophy on the market- no matter. This was an ‘International’.

The Las Alfaz team batted well amassing perhaps a hundred and seventy runs. The score itself does not matter. I think it was a ‘forty over’ each side match but again that is not the point of the tale. What I do remember was Manual, who was batting at number 10 was given out for a clear catch or may be he was run out. He ‘lost it’. In machine gun Spanish he challenged the umpire threw his arms in the air before stomping off. He did not stop at the pitch side but, still wearing his pads and carrying his bat, he flounced off down the road. We were all naturally alarmed lest his report to The Mayor would compromise the future of cricket in the future in Benidorm. I am happy to report the answer was no and the club would still appear to be flourishing.

It was our turn to bat and the locals proved to have a decent attack. Wickets fell on a regular basis. Our first team members struggled, which was disturbing for us lower order batsmen but at around thirty something for three our mighty Captain strode to the wicket. A casual onlooker would have noticed a handsome athletic man with a confident gait. They would probably also have noticed a pallor to his skin. I remember this confused me at the time as Simon Caunce was normally a man who tanned well and, although not baking hot, the temperature was in the high seventies. I later learned that Simon was short on holiday leave and had apparently used a few days ‘visiting some clients in the North of England’ as his way of being ‘missing from the office’. The pallor was a result of sun factor 50 sunscreen so as to avoid any awkward questions on his return.

Now not only was Simon very competitive he was proud of his Club and his office in it and he got his head down. He accumulated runs with great style. Unfortunately he lost some more partners and my turn to bat came closer. I think I was number 9. The relevance of my last post will now become clear. I took myself away from the others and sat down at the side of the field and started to meditate. MMMM MMMM MMMM. Five minutes, another appeal another wicket. Another 10 minutes and a shout. ‘Den your in’. I was very nervous yet calm at the same time. We still had about 50 runs to get. Simon approached me with clear orders. “I will get the runs’ He said. ‘You just block if you have to face”. “When I say run, run and don’t get run out”. I watched from the other end as Simon got closer and closer to the target. I dared to dream. The opening bowlers were brought back on and disaster struck. The wicket was not the best it has to be said and one flew from short of length. It may have glanced Simon’s glove but I doubt it- a roar of OWZAT went up and the local umpire triumphantly raised a finger. Simon had scored a brilliant 95 but we were still about 9 runs short of our target. There were two overs and two balls left. As Simon passed me he offered me encouragement. He looked me in the eye. ‘Do it for the boys’! he said or similar. Our club Chairman Martin Wade walked to the wicket. A charming man. I hope he won’t mind me saying somewhat portly. He was not a regular cricketer but a mainstay of the club. I gave him the ‘Simon Caunce speech’. ‘Leave it to me I will get the runs’ I said but he had to face the next ball. ‘Block it’ I mouthed from the other end he nodded in agreement. In the event he took no notice at all took a mighty hook but mercifully missed the ball and the ball missed everything else. I hurried down the pitch and repeated my advice. He apologised, “lost my head’ he said. Except the next ball saw him repeat the exercise -he was out! Jim Courtney limped to the wicket. He had pulled a muscle fielding and as he passed me he mouthed the words I already knew. ‘Its up to you”!

I somehow managed to scramble 3 runs in the penultimate over and found myself facing the last over ‘on strike’. 5 for a draw six for the ‘cup’. My team mates were all now standing on the boundary edge forming a sort of semicircle around the table where the cup stood. The sun shone on its highly polished ‘err’ plastic. The first three deliveries were good ones. I perhaps could have taken a single but my partner did not inspire confidence. The fourth ball I played to mid off. Jim could take it no longer and set off yelling “run”. ‘No No I shouted get back’ he managed a lurch forward, his torn hamstring hampering his movement, grimacing he turned He got in-just. As the fast bowler turned on his mark for the fifth ball in my head my mantra started MMMM MMMM MMMM the world slowed down my eyes focussed on the ball in the bowlers hand. As he completed his delivery stride he let loose a quick delivery but my targeting system had ‘locked on’. It was a ‘hoik’ in truth but what a ‘hoik’. The ball climbed heavenward heading in the direction of long on where the ‘pavilion’ (golfers ‘refreshment shack’ its day job) was positioned. I screamed ” Yes, run!” but Jim was not moving he stood watching. The ball kept on going over my team mates who were mobbing onto the field over the Monarch Trophy. A six! We had won. Simon Caunce got to the crease first he the ‘hero of the match’ but mine the ‘glory.’ We hugged we all hugged. Delirium.

We spent a wonderful evening in one of the Yorkshiremen’s ‘proper bars’. We sang songs and relived the day. It had just been wonderful. I don’t like to ‘rank’ my sporting experiences as it is difficult to compare like with like but oh my goodness this one was special.

The following day we sang and danced the conga along the airbridge on to the Monarch jet carrying our trophy. The aircrew gave the cup its own seat and we free drinks. I remember looking back at my tanned friends sitting happily on the plane but it was the one with the palest face who returned the warmest smile. Simon thanks for a very special memory!

This is truly, for me anyway, an extraordinary tale. The post after this one is about a wonderful sporting memory in which I personally did not star but the contribution I made was not trivial. This post sets the context for that experience and is therefore worth reading first.

Towards the end of the last century (that sounds weird) I started my last ‘formal’ job. I was Head Of The Institutional business for a company called Invesco. Based in Atlanta Georgia this company was one of the giants of the Investment world. For a series of particular reasons which I will not bore you with here it was quoted on the UK Stock Market. It was, at one time, the 12th largest company in the UK. It had offices all over the world.

Whilst a ‘corporate’ it had an internal ‘Partnership’ structure. At the top of the partnership hierarchy were a number of ‘Global Partners’. I was one of those and my responsibility was to grow the Pension Funds we managed for third party companies. The funds we had under management and therefore I had responsibility for were measured in billions not millions and the fees we charged generated the part of the revenue of the company. Along side my division in London was the ‘Retail Division’ that was run by a man called John Watson.

Most of you will have ISA’s or probably back in the day you had PEPS. Most retail investors have a limited grasp of what they are actually investing in and most IFA’s are not very good. Invesco was a good example of the sort of organisation I used to advise on the ‘other side of the fence’. It had a staff of highly paid very intelligent fund money managers, the sort of people I used to be in daily contact with. I was offered the job as Institutional Head, for reasons I can understand and I was paid, in truth , a shed load of money.

All back ground stuff to date I know and boring but here is where, I hope, it gets interesting. I found the job hugely stressful. First of all I had hundreds of people reporting to me. I was constantly on call. ‘The Firm”, probably because we were paid so much money, was everything to most of the partners-I was not so sure. I was involved in making huge decisions involving such things as IT spend, new branch office developments in cities in the non US world. This came about as I was a member of the Global Management team. I was actually in charge of ‘corporate culture’ no less. Maybe I will explain what that meant later.

I had little experience of presenting in depth ‘papers’ to boards but I had to do it. I did get on well with the group CEO, Charlie Brady who, an Irish American, lived in Atlanta and would spend his weekends in Aspen Colorado in his ranch there. He would get to it on Friday evenings courtesy of his own or one of his friend’s ‘corporate jets’. Atlanta boasts a sort of corporate club of great corporations their CEO’s forming a very exclusive membership and friendships. Atlanta is a strange place-for another time.

Back to the stress. John Watson’s role amongst other things was to grow the ‘retail funds under management’. Invesco charged around 1.5% of funds under management for its services in the retail space. The division had its own marketing division and in that division was a ‘small of stature’ Scotsman who I will call Steve, because I cannot recall his name. Now Steve was a complex character. A heavy drinker and smoker he was very good at his job which essentially was producing the various brochures and advertising material to promote the business. He had had a chequered career because of his ‘weaknesses’ but John had given him his job. Their relationship was odd. John sort of bullied Steve in a fatherly way but Steve seemed to enjoy the behaviour, maybe it gave him security. All this is leading somewhere amazing so keep reading.

Any way Steve was allowed to spend up to £10,000 on advertising, without referral, and one day he did. Out of the blue an old drinking buddy in an advertising agency got in touch and told Steve The ECB, (English Cricket Board) no less, had been let down by a corporate client and that the advertising space on the ‘sight screens’ and ‘bowlers run up areas’ at the various cricket grounds in the country for the upcoming Test series had become available, but he must be quick!. (Don’t know who the series was against but it is of no matter). Steve signed up and told John. John blew a fuse and accused Steve of ‘wasting money’.!

‘Invesco-Your Global Investment Partner’, it said every time the TV cameras pointed at the adverts. Which was by the way was pretty much constantly during the matches. In the advertising world much is subliminal, there is a metric called ‘opportunity to view’. The demographic of retail investment aligns perfectly with cricket followers and any way the main news bulletins were doing their bit by subliminally implanting the Invesco name into non sports fans by way of the sports sections at the end of the news before the ‘weather’ came on. (no one turns off)

I don’t remember if there was a budget change encouraging savings or whether the stock market was rising but money started to come in. One day £10 million pounds the next £15 million on and on it went. John changed his tune towards Steve and feeling guilty started trying to reward him first it was a ‘good lunch’ then a ‘special bonus’ but guess what- it did not work. Steve actually did not want to be ‘promoted’ or be given extra money. He was happy living in Streatham with his four kids. The extra money would ‘spoil’ things he had decided and he feared his drinking might get out of hand again. Steve became very distressed and indeed began drinking! John realised his error and instantly reassured Steve he would keep his achievements ‘quiet’. Steve actually resigned at one point I remember because he just wanted things ‘to return to normal’.

As a result John had to ‘take the credit’. You might think this to be incredible but what was to happen was more incredible. The flow of money became a torrent, then a flood. The Invesco name became the ‘go to’ place for IFAs and as these things can a fashion-think of how so many people got involved with Woodford.

Just so as you understand £100 million of funds (the amount attracted in a single week on one occasion) contributed 15 million pound to the bottom line of the organisation. As news of the ongoing success of the UK retail division was released to the ‘market place’ the value of the corporation was increased because the shares went up, in time a lot!.

So there was John who had done nothing but ‘bully’ Steve in the first place. Despite all his genuine efforts to downplay his personal contribution to the phenomenon John was a ‘hero’. The CEO would praise him in the annual Report and Accounts and over time everyone in the company was in awe of John’s ability to attract money to the company.- Only I knew the truth.- and Steve of course. Being a US company John was showered with even more financial reward, share options were the favourite way of paying. Up went the shares up went John’s wealth and up went his guilt-to stratospheric proportions.

One day he arrived in my rather grand glass office. We were good mates. ‘I cant stand any more of this’ he said. ‘The people from Lords have been round and you will never guess what”, ‘They have asked us to pay more for the advertising next year if we want to renew.” They have upped the charge by 50% to £15,000. ‘Of course I said yes’ he said ‘but I also actually heard myself claiming it was a hell of a rise for us to digest”!!! ‘What has become of me”? he moaned head in his hands.

If the ECB had known the truth they would have asked for and got hundreds of thousands I suspect for the deal. Any way John was at his wits end and he delivered a bombshell. ‘We’ he stated’ ‘are off to a meditation course. A Transcendental meditation course as designed by the Maharishi. It will do you good as I am told it is fantastic for stress It is my only hope and I need company” -I laughed but agreed to go.

Two weeks later I entered a smart terraced house somewhere in Chelsea and met a very kindly man called Johnathan who was to be my ‘guru’. John was a ‘no show”!

I went to see Johnathan every night for two weeks and undertook a fascinating course. As I may later relay I am an Advanced Clinical Hypnotherapist in fact and affairs of the mind fascinate me. The course was expensive but it really did help me relax and gain perspective. Best of all it showed me how to refresh my ‘self’ before any important event and in doing so free my mind from ‘chatter’ in order to ‘focus’ on the task in hand. The final evening when ‘I qualified’ rice was thrown , flowers exchanged and incense burned. All weird. My mantra was, I was told, my own and I should never reveal it to anyone- I have not. For the sake of my writings though let us assume it was ‘MMMM MMMM MMMM’.

Back at work twice a day I would take myself off to somewhere quiet in order to meditate. A church in the city was a favourite but all sorts of other places too. I felt calmer than for a very long time and I seemed able to deal with stress. John on the other hand had developed a blotchy face although in the end, encouraged by me, he did actually take himself off to an Ashram in India. The impact of which was incredible. I must just say here that John was in an impossible position he made a huge amount of money. He was in charge of the division that made a shed load of money which in truth his own contribution was marginal at best. He really did try to downplay his own importance. No one would listen. He now lives in the Channel Islands and is very very wealthy.

With all this as a back ground it is time to read about a cricket tour a truly wonderful one, it forms my next post.

Why oh why are so many Scots so chippy? Why do they sing that dreadful durge ‘Flower of Scotland’? I love a lot of Scots I have had many Scottish friends but I have also met a load of others who need to have a chat with them selves. Take that dreadful leader of the SNP in Westminster. His CV is full of ‘exaggerations’ for a start. Who does the fool think he is kidding.? I nearly punched him once when we worked for the same firm. I wish I had I might have spared us all his desperate rantings.

Any way enough of that. My first experience when it ‘all slipped out’, so to speak, was at The Stock Exchange Sports. For some reason our Team Captain, my ‘walking second’ and former school mate, CD Jones had put me in the high hurdles. I protested but he was having none of it. ‘There is no-one else’ he said ‘remember what Birrell told you.’ !

At school I had ‘supposedly’ been taught chemistry by a man called Bob Birrell. He came sixth in the final of the high hurdles in the Tokyo Olympic games in 1960. I am told the man had wonderful personal qualities but he hated me and I him. ‘I wake up in the middle of the night’ he would say and ‘it is like wallowing in a great big barrel of treacle and all I can see is Green (a good friend of mine) and Elliott laughing”. “They will laugh their way to a grade ‘F’ F for fool”. His grade prediction at least was reliable I am forced to admit.

Of course most of the school idolised him and he would pass on his knowledge to all who were forced to listen. Leading leg trailing leg -yawn! Any way CD Jones put me in the hurdles.

As I approached the final flight the tightness of my now undersized school athletic shorts proved an issue. I was not winning but well placed and I made a final effort. Unfortunately I sort of snagged the final flight of hurdles catching my shorts. Something ‘popped out’ which was unfortunate as Lady ‘Whatshername’ who was there to award the prizes was at the finishing line. My failure to successfully return ‘the goods’ to their rightful place attracted her attention to my plight. I decided not to apologise to her directly as it might have made a difficult situation worse.

Our wonderful semi detached house in High Barnet had magnificent views but it also had a leaking roof. Two gulleys to the rear of the property had been badly repaired in the past. My trusty ‘Readers Digest’ manual suggested pouring tar down the length of the failed structure. Having received a number of ‘stupid estimates’ from professionals I decided to DIY or DIM in this case. One hot summer day I managed to get on to the rear roof of the house via a balcony. I will always remember what I wore. A pair of New Balance running shoes maroon in colour with very worn soles. They had carried me many miles including The London Marathon but now they were work shoes. I had a pair of those shiny running shorts on too. Brief, as was the fashion, two sort of slits up the side, Crucially the material was satin like, some new man made material-they were as I was to find out very slippery.

The view from the back roof was spectacular. I could see all the way to central London. I climbed on to the ridge of the house to se the view from the front. I hoped I might be able to see over the houses opposite (the rear view was uninterrupted). The roof surface was polished slate, we had cast iron gutters that were painted dark green. I sat on the ridge looking out. I was a bit uncomfortable with the height but I scanned the horizon looking out-not much to see in fact. I must have sort of raised myself up because slowly ever so slowly I started to slide down the roof. I felt panic rising. I pushed my smooth soled trainers down but no good. I squeezed my buttocks but this seemed to speed things up. No friction you see. I attempted to turn and catch the ridge but this made me jerk down faster. At what was probably a snails pace I approached the gutter. Would it hold my weight. I pressed down with everything my shorts rode up and ‘Things’ popped out. It was most undignified especially as my rear with its now thong like apparel was feeling the heat from the roof tiles. At the edge of the roof my feet hit the gutter and thankfully it held but I was stuck there and given my predicament returning my ‘goods’ was not an option. A woman passing by shouted up. ‘I am at 24 could you give me an estimate for some roof work I need doing’ she said. I gained comfort from this as I assumed my ‘dilemma’ was not apparent from below. My father was staying at the time helping me decorate. Thank fully he came out. He asked me what i was doing up there which prompted a sarcastic response. He got a ladder and I returned to earth safely.

The Braemar games is a well known Scottish annual event. Th Royals attend and have their own special pavilion along with 15000 plus cheering visitors/specators. I was on a golf tour with three mates. I have forgotten who the 4th one was but Bill Smith, A Yorkshire man, and Sambo Lewis, a very handsome Texan, who were work colleagues, were on the trip. We had played some of the great Scottish courses, badly! Bill had introduced me and others to ‘Fell racing’, earlier on in the year. I will report on that event later but suffice it to say we had not ‘learned our lesson’. Later in the year we three and others had signed up to run The New York marathon so the announcement by Bill that he had entered us all in The Braemar Games Fell Race was somehow approved.

We arrived at the arena. The mass band of Scottish pipers and drummers entered the auditorium. The Drum Major (from one who knows these things) looked absolutely magnificent. Six foot plus tall himself on his head he wore a huge busby. The pipes wailed the drums beat. Just awesome. Don’t be chippy Scots be proud of all the magnificent things you have and have achieved.

We went to the appropriate tent to enter. Around twenty prospective runners were in a line including one woman, who had magnificent huge thighs. She got to the front of the queue but was refused entrance to the race. ‘You can’t enter this race’ the organiser said. A pompous man with an Edinburgh accent. ‘This is not a race for the ladies’ he said. She was outraged. ‘I am a shepherdess’ she said, ‘I make a living herding sheep in the Yorkshire Dales I insist on running’ Other took interest. Sambo was furious and being a tall self confident man he joined in on the dispute his Texan drawl giving him credibility it seemed. ‘This is a joke” he said ‘ ‘give us all (cleverly calling in supporters I reflected) one good reason why this woman cannot run.” The response was shocking if on reflection very amusing its effect was to almost start a revolution. ” she cant run in the race’ he said ‘ because she has no bollocks’!!!

Outcry. Sambo by this time was speaking for everyone. Or so he made out. ‘If this woman does not run none of us do’ he asserted and moved along side the shepherdess in a show of unity. The organisers formed a gaggle, much discussion, a decision. The woman will be ‘unofficial’ he said ‘she will have no number’ he said ‘but she will run’. Sambo saw it as a complete victory and was triumphant and instantly bet me £50 she would beat me-I took the bet.

On my wrist I had a running watch connected to an early heart monitor. I had set an alarm that I hoped would help me balance my efforts as the going got steeper. The start and finish line was about 25 yards from the Royal pavilion in which was seated The Queen, Charles and some others. One lap of the 440 yards (old money) track up and back down the hill then a final lap of flat running. The field of runners was read out via the tannoy. I lived at the time outside Harpenden in a place called Mackerye End. Mackerye was pronounced Mackeree. The announcer, thinking I was Scottish I presume, decide Mac=ire was the correct pronunciation and dropped the ‘End’. The last runner was referred to as ‘unattached’ no details no number.

Bang went the gun we were off. We had been drinking a few beers in the previous days and as we got about half way round the circuit the speed I was struggling to match set my heart alarm off. Beep beep beep it went. We left the arena and up we went. the shepherdess was just behind me then just in front, we were both to the rear of the field. As we turned the cairn at the top I was perhaps 10 yards in front i was hopeful. Down we came and I was a surprised to hear my uphill efforts, as demonstrated by my heart monitor, had not lessened. Beep beep beep it went. Just out side the arena a final elevated car park was crossed. The shepherdess moved easily by me and entered the cheering arena ahead of me. The ‘unattached runner, has entered the ring the announcer said and now the man for Macire. I tried desperately to catch her but no good. In a sea of lactic acid I crossed the finishing line. Sambo was supporting the shepherdess which attracted my attention equally with that of the incongruous sight of Her Majesty applauding my efforts not 25 yards away. I clearly did not look my best as Sambo abandoned the shepherdess and nearly picked me up. He carried/dragged me off as clearly my facial parlour had indicated what was about to happen. I was violently sick.

I payed up my 50. The woman should have got medal, Sambo tried to find her because he thought she might ‘like a pint’ but he could not. this was in fact my last Fell race and best of all I did not have to apologise for offending Her majesty by being sick in front of her.

Personally, in the round, I think cricket is the greatest of all games. Like life itself it has the capacity to knock you down when you think you have it cracked. When all looks bleak it demonstrates that if you get your head down, be determined and work hard things can change. At its heart, evidence suggests, that he or she who is committed to dedicated practice has the better chance to succeed.

I stopped playing rugby aged 43. I might write about my later years in rugby later but for now that is it. I was in truth lost on Saturday afternoons. The weekends came and went without drama. My son Tom was approaching his teens and he was a very good cricketer. He played for Hertfordshire under 12s after a dramatic performance at the trials where he was the star player. In our back garden I had laid out a cricket net where Tom would practice for hours. I was the bowling machine.

(Cricket nets have a net around 3 sides and often they do have a mechanical device that sends balls down at the batsman. Literally Bowling machines.Our net was, heavily used.)

I loved bowling at Tom. In fact as time went on I could not wait to leave work and come home and charge in at him. It was great fun.

Understanding my appetite for competition Liz, bless her, rang the local cricket club and spoke to the third team captain somehow. ‘Hello’ she said ‘my husband is desperate to play cricket but he is in his mid forties and has not played in a match since he was around 12. It might seem strange but if ever you have a ‘cry off’ he would happily fill in.” Two days later my phone rang and on the Saturday I was a ‘cricketer’. I bought some kit from a store in the city and took it home and rubbed soil in the pants and shirt before asking Liz to wash them on a low heat cycle so the stains would be obvious. I got very very nervous but I should not have worried. Half the team was pretty useless and in time, happily over the years, as my confidence grew, so did my involvement and contribution. I started taking wickets, lots of them.

Anyway I love the technical side of all sports. I can’t pole vault properly but I can tell you exactly how to place the pole and how the mechanics of the event are perfected, as an example. Close to Harpenden were some indoor cricket nets. The area has a lot of good cricket clubs and schools who play the game, it is a high quality facility. Tom trained there with the county squad. I called up and booked some batting lessons with the head coach. He was, at first, surprised to see someone of my vintage appearing for a lesson and even more so when he discovered my batting experience was strictly limited. I spent hours in the nets over the next few years. I was never a good batsman but I got a lot better and became an all rounder, in my own eyes at least.

The point of the story is not my cricket tuition however. Simon Caunce is one of the most delightful people I have ever met. A very good looking man he is charming, funny, fair in his out look but at the same time a steely competitor. I experienced one of my greatest ever sporting experiences with Simon but that is stuff of another tale.

Simon was the top man in the cricket club. The first team captain. He was an all rounder who batted in the mid order and was a more than handy pace bowler. I am pleased to say we got on well. He was very supportive to Tom and whilst I was not in the same cricket league as him (I in the third team he captain of the first) he invited me to ‘club nets’ at the indoor facility. One of the coaches had mentioned my name, not for my talent but because I was unusual.

I turned up excited to face the fast bowlers of the first team. I got the ‘last slot’ in the net and by this time the atmosphere was light hearted as the prospect of the regular beer in the bar was on the horizon.

I faced a few balls and jumped around a bit. The experienced eyes of the first teamers saw a fault and after a sort of huddle, in which a plot was being developed I assumed, I took my guard. In came the first bowler and aimed the ball right at my feet. A yorker if you know the game. I jumped but got my bat down. The second bowler Rushton Scranage by name, what a name , (he was a wholesale greengrocer I seem to remember). Again right at my feet. Again a hop and the ball stopped. Got this I thought. Simon Caunce was a whole yard in pace faster than the others. I hardly saw the bloody ball he delivered. Suddenly searing pain, he had hit my left instep on the full. Despite the protection of my cricket boot the pace of the ball had cracked a bone in my foot. I yelped and fell to the ground. The immediate hilarity of the ‘bullseye’ and the cackles of wild laughter gave way to real concern. Simon ran down the wicket sot of cradled me in his arms and apologised over and over again. I was in real pain but I managed a grin and I hope I managed to see the funny side of it. I was carried into the bar and weirdly I think my status in the club was elevated as I was part of a ‘war story.’

At the hospital there was not much they could do and they put a light strapping around my foot. The next morning agony as I tried to put on a shoe and go to work. I hobbled around for the day cursing. It was a friday. The following day I was driving along Harpenden High Street and a sign outside The Methodist Church Hall caught my eye. Shoe Sale!. I parked up and hopped in-literally. “Can I help you sir”?

‘I want a pair of black toecap shoes in a size 16 please’ (my usual size is 9). The assistant half asked a question but thought better of it and returned with a pair of boats. I put the left one on and ‘bliss’. I could mange a gentle walk without the shoe pressuring my foot. ‘I will take it’ I said. ‘I will wrap them up for you’ said the young woman who served me. No thanks I said just the left one. She was clearly mystified. I paid around £30, it was a sale, and headed off, a much happier person.

On the Monday morning I stood in my customary spot on Harpenden railway Station platform, where the second carriage door would stop, in a line of perhaps a dozen fellow commuters. We seldom spoke as it took a late train or perhaps really inclement weather to provoke communication. One of the others was looking down at my feet. On my right foot a trim well polished Churches City shoe, on my left a ‘clowns foot’ protruding literally inches beyond the other. He thought about asking a question I discerned, though better of it, but his obvious curiosity provoked interest in others and for the next number of weeks I would hear giggles as I walked down the platform in the mornings one foot in front of the other, literally.

There is message in this tale, a very important one, so pay attention. A few years later on Harpenden Common on a Sunday I was had the pleasure of playing for the Sunday eleven with my son. It is part of another tale but for now the important bit of information is I was bowling and the batsmen hit the ball back at me, very hard. Instinctively I threw out my foot, my right one, and stopped the ball. Agony, another broken foot.

Back at home I went to the cupboard looking for ‘the shoe’. I found it but immediately realised a massive mistake. Wrong foot! So next time you break a foot and buy an oversize shoe to accommodate it do not be a fool take what you have paid for. Get the pair!

Ok then but I will not take long on this because its too painful. In my previous post I mentioned an architect who wasn’t. Well someone in the practice where the “Irishman” worked was an architect of sort so the corporate blurb, at a stretch was true but there are lots of people out there who ‘design properties’ who have no effective grip at all on the likely cost of the building they are designing. ‘Project managers’ in building speak generally ‘aren’t’ and any back of the envelope calculation will be wrong in every way by a huge amount-that is fact!

Our lawyer at the time represented a major firm in the area. She was a partner and we liked her a lot. We told her of our various issues with ‘architects’ and builders and their willingness to misinform us re costs etc. She confessed to us that in a recent similar project she personally had ‘gone wrong too’. She recommended an ‘expert’ who she said she too was going to engage to take legal proceedings. We were told the man was at the top of his game and seldom if ever lost a case.

The chap wore a three piece suit, was portly and a strange mix of self confidence, and arrogance. Ring a bell?have you met any lawyers like that? We engaged him. He took the ‘project manager and his business to court and yes he won. The chap was fined a small amount of money as he steadfastly blamed the ‘architect for misleading him’. We were awarded damages -‘to be agreed’ I was not in court but I heard the judge or whoever had taken little time to deliberate -they sort of all got together-job done. Except it wasn’t. The project manager went bankrupt only to reappear via his website the following week with a marginally different name. We got no damages and the only course we were offered to get any was to go after the individual personally which, we were told, ‘might be difficult” !

What we did get was a large bill from the lawyer which our sense of acting ‘properly’ meant we paid.

0-1.

The ‘architect’ whose fees we had not paid, as he was the root of all the troubles now came after us. Disappointed with the first lawyer we sought council from another. Thankfully, looking back, this one advised us to ‘move on’ which we did. We had to pay the Irishman in full plus a bit!

o-2.

I suppose to be fair we now have a fantastic house but my good ness were some lessons learned. Sad to say it was not the first time the law ‘let us down’.

We lived in a fantastic Old Rectory in small Devon Village. It was in truth The Trophy House. We loved it and we did our best to be good neighbours to all in the community.

Ralph and Dianna were an odd couple. He was stick thin with strange spectacles. He looked like a spooky scout master. Dianna was a bore. Desparate to spend more than 5 minutes with. A paddock on our property bordered on to a lane that led to their house. It had a basic wire farm fence along its length. As part of our property improvement we decided to post and rail the field completely not only to look a lot better but also to insure it could be used by Jo’s horses. For a reason I cannot now fathom we asked R and D around for dinner, told them of our plans and we then asked them to choose some trees that we would provide and we hoped would make an enhancement to the overall look of their drive. They appeared pleased in what was possibly the most boring evening of my life, but I did behave. We had the fence installed and we even moved the border over so as to leave room for the tree painting which was also completed. All seemed well.

Around six months later I looked out from my house and saw Diana kneeling on a mat digging plants into her side of the fence making a border to the drive. I thought no more about it only to record that it might have been nice of her to ask first, particularly as the land was technically ours. No matter!

A week or so later on a Sunday Ralph knocked on the door. He looked angry which to be honest was quite funny although I did not let him see my amusement. He started a tirade. Your horse is leaning over the fence eating Dianas plants he squealed. He then started pointing at me before finally poking me in the chest. As he did this he actually threatened to ‘kill’ one of our horses.!

I paused feeling the rage rising. I looked at Ralph and moved a step closer to him. ‘Run’ I whispered, quietly at first but soon again but this time in a roar. He turned and stated to run I gave chase. ‘If I ever see you on my property again’ I shouted as he scuttled down the long drive, Liz was watching from the window and she said in retrospect that watching me chasing “The Scoutmaster” down the drive was one of then funniest things she had ever seen.

Not the end of the tale. We contacted a lawyer, this time a barrister. He claimed to be the leading man in the field of equine boundary disputes and a whole lot more. I was fully committed. He rang me back soon after my email enquiry. ‘I have just come out of the High Court in Cardiff where I have had rather good day’ he told me.-This man must be good I naively thought. He listened to my story. He tutted, appeared genuinely enthusiastic regarding his ability to make sure everything was sorted. There was an upfront fee with the proviso that he would write for us his ‘Findings” These findings would establish exactly where we stood and best of all it would allow us to approach Pinky and Perky with a document of substance in order to make sure they realised exactly what was what.

We paid the fee and 3 weeks later another call. ‘The Findings’ would soon be available but it was ‘normal’ to pay up front. We did a total of around £2500 in total.

By recorded delivery they arrived in an envelope that had a piece of string around a sealing mechanism. We expectantly opened it and guess what. His opinion was we were in the wrong!. We should restrain our horse and the only suitable solution was a second fence line! We put one in. It looked stupid and became a topic of conversation every-time anyone visited us.

0-3 or possibly 0-4

The lessons in all this? Well make your own mind up.

For those of you who watch those programmes where unqualified people suddenly decide to build a house that they design themselves out of old paint tins. They then manage the project claiming it will be built on schedule in 10 days or similar, (Grand Designs?) I am sure you have realised there is a subplot. This subplot is that most people who make these moves end up loosing their shirt-the show presenter (Mcleod?) did it recently himself. Any way that is not the point.

A number of years ago now for a series of reasons I cannot now justify, on any level, I employed an Irish architect, who it turned out not to be one. Well my request to him to help us remodel an existing property resulted in the development of a plan that would have been at home in Cape Canaveral- or where ever it is they make space rockets. It is now my family home and yes I love it but there are days when the pain of the process of its construction come to my mind and I shudder. The aforementioned ‘architect’, before I sacked him along with awful threats that I could not believe I was saying at the time, led us to believe that our ‘spaceship’ could be constructed for a given figure. It was all worked out, cost per square metre, percentage contingent fund, optional extras, the lot. Ha the numbers were rubbish!

The day I arrived at our house to see no roof, no windows, loads of half demolished walls and a gang of young labourers working away caused me to consult exactly where we were up to. I felt very uneasy . I sacked the project manager and his team on the spot-see later- and I sacked the ‘Irishman’ too, he wasn’t an architect as you now know now.

Calculations were done and the very bad news was that with all the on costs left in the demolition of the existing shell we had already passed our budget for the ‘whole project’. I will not explain just how we picked the Irishman but we did and all the rest is history.

Two good friends who are ‘master builders’ came to our rescue. One of the first problems we faced was the fact that the ‘demolition team’ had removed the supporting structures that held up the road alongside our house and a particular foundation for the main supporting part of the whole structure had been ‘overlooked”.

Nightmare. Liz and I worked late into the night under torchlight trying to put some metal siding sheets in place to stop the road falling in! No good the road was beginning to show signs of cracking.

Matt and Barry (our builders and great mates) announced the need to properly excavate the hole and after digging footings etc (to support a bridge like structure) we would need to fill everything back in to road level.

Yellow pages and a man arrived. Shy, almost retiring but with great references. ‘I am in the JCB display team’ he informed me, ‘so is my wife!?) – (He was and so was she we checked)

Now this was to be a big hole and although I knew the power of JCBS his final figure of £15,000 estimate actually seemed reasonable at the time. At eight the following morning he was there. Descended from its low loader the beast got to work. I do not have a picture of the hole but it was huge. Pillings inserted the soil that had been taken off in trucks the previous day returned, minus a handling charge of ‘quite a lot’!.

Over a coffee I got talking to Mr JCB and not only was he very nice but amazingly open. ‘I have great recommendations you see he said’ “‘in general most people are scared of demolition and the like and have little idea how to price it”. ‘Only last month I won a contract to demolish a primary school.” We priced the job and told the contractors it would take ‘the men’ between two and three weeks to do the job” “in fact my wife and I did it in three days”. “25 grand for the job” ” What is more the people were so delighted how tidy we were etc they have promised to recommend us to anyone who asked.” I was now very curious as the man ‘unpeeled the orange’. He had a home in a prestigious area he gave me a website address of ‘the best family pub in the world’. This pub was his ‘hobby’, he owned it and he told me quite simply without any boast or embarrassment. ” Most people would look at me standing there in my yellow work wear and think mmm a JCB driver. This JCB driver is a millionaire” !!

I have read that many injuries around the home are caused by personal negligence. Indeed I recall that 60% of all A& E consultations are routed in incidents involving a domestic fridge. It seems we are less careful with ourselves than sense dictates.

I was busy hammering nails into a horse paddock fence one afternoon in mid summer. One of Jo’s horses used a particular rail as a scratcher and in time the friction had caused a rail to come free. My attempts to hammer the offending piece of wood back in place went wrong as I mishit the nail bending it. The hook bit on the back of the hammer engaged I gave a mighty pull. Out shot the nail but unfortunately the force of the hammer was such that it only stopped when it connected with my left eyebrow. ‘Damm’! A moments pause then the worst thing. A drop of blood then a stream and soon, because that part of the body is loaded with blood vessels , a torrent of the stuff. I was soon looking like a war victim and I headed for the house bleating ‘Liz’. She gulped but did not panic, reached into the deep freeze and produced a bag of peas and placed it firmly over the wound before wrapping my head in a turban.

At the local A& E I was inspected and immediately congratulated on my ‘quick thinking’. ‘Self hammering are way more common that you might think’ the nurse said. The consequence of the ice pack was such that I was offered two alternatives. A visit to Exeter for the attention of a plastic surgeon or else glue. I opted for the latter and today you have to look closely to see the wound.

Wind the clock forward 3 years and I was about to set off to Sweden in my VW Transporter on an athletic adventure. For the first time ever in my life for some reason I chose to check my wheel bolts. 3 wheels done I approached the last one. The wrench on the bolt I detected a small bit of give. ‘Thank goodness’ I mused ‘that could have been nasty’. A muscular twist of the wrench and it slipped, coming off the wheel nut and hitting me square in the right eyebrow. Yes you know the drill. Blood everywhere, “Liz”? the bag of peas.

I arrived at The Honiton A&E just as it was opening at about 8:30 am I seem to remember. The nurse in charge looked at my eye and offered me exactly the same treatment choices. Glue was again ordered but she asked for a pause as she needed to log on and access my records. A few moments later she returned almost gleeful. ‘We see a lot of ‘self hammering’ she said but this is the first time I have ever seen anyone on the anniversary of a previous incident. Three years to the day, first my left, then my right. I was unsure whether to laugh or be ashamed. I was asked a whole series of questions that I suspect were geared to establishing my state of mind. The right scar is all but invisible too.

In the past I had sought the services of a plastic surgeon in fact. I was in Scotland on a business trip. I was escorting The Finance Director of William Morrisson Supermarkets around some of the major Investing Institutions in Glasgow. My company was Morrisons officials agent in the city and this sort of thing goes on all the time. The largest shareholders get a ‘one on one’ and the smaller ones share the executives time via a lunch. I was effectively a ‘bag carrier’ making introductions and hosting the lunch and briefing the Finance Director on the various clients he would meet.

Arriving at Glasgow airport it was a cold drizzle filled murky day. A Black cab approached the rank. I was temporarily distracted and as I was the passenger opened the cab door whilst it was still moving and hit me square in the face. My lower lip started to produce blood-not as bad as eyes. The Glaswegian Taxi driver had no sympathiey and laughed at my plight. ‘Pour some after shave in it’ he said ‘that will dry it up’. I stopped in the city centre with around 15 minutes to go to my rendezvous with the Finance director. I entered a Boots and the lady behind the counter winced at the site of my by now ‘hanging lip’ “you need stitcha’s” (glasgow accent) she said. I opted instead for a large plaster which covered my lip and most of my chin. Whilst this was useful as a shield so as not to offend the squeamish it did inhibit communication. ‘Dud munin mita Kelto I am afwaayed i av Kurt me mowf’ was my introduction to the important man. I got through the meetings as I knew all of the people but lunch was a real struggle. First of all a formal introduction and the obligation for me to make a speech outlining just how valued a corporate client Morrisons were to my firm. Eating and drinking were a no go of course. Someone later told me I looked and sounded like a ventriloquists dummy. A bad one. ‘Tant u vewy much for cumin’ was my departing announcement. I shook the hand of the director and headed off into the Glasgow late afternoon as it was then.

I took stock as my plane was at six o’clock and I had a school parents evening scheduled in which I had promised to join Liz for the last part of the proceedings. All parents feel a strong obligation to show their faces at such event even though in their heart of hearts they know they are being told a pack of lies.

I rang my good friend Ian Lynn who was a senior man at a firm called Murray Johnstone. ‘Stay were you are’ was his order. Shortly his Range Rover rolled up. He laughed at me and spent the next minutes telling me what an idiot I was as he drove. He swept into the driveway of a large house on the outskirts of Glasgow. The sign BUPA was on the gate. Hurrying me to the reception desk he demanded to know if there was anyone who could fix ‘this idiots lip”?

We were sent to the third floor and got immediate entrance to a large surgery. A man steeped out of a side office greeted me warmly and announced his credentials. Checking later I discovered this was Scotland’s leading plastic surgeon., or top three for sure. He placed me in chair, illuminated my face with a bright light and placed a huge magnifying glass over my face. This magnifying glass was obviously used to ensure his delicate skills were performed with the maximum of precision. The reverse of that facility was my ability to scrutinise, in minute detail, the inner hair follicles of the man’s nose. It was all very weird. he told me he had inserted around 14 stitches both sub cutaneous and surface. The finished job was excellent such that I no longer even needed a plaster. Ian had watched the whole thing and whilst the surgeon had done his work Ian engaged him in light hearted banter. The surgeon seemed to enjoy the whole thing and shook my hand firmly when he was done. The anaesthetic in my lip made talking even more difficult. ‘Ow mooch du i ow oo” ? I said. He beamed and in that lovely accent, that hails from Edinburgh not Glasgow, he said ‘no worries that one is on me, I hope you catch your plane’. I did thanks to Ian.

The following morning I was something of a hero much to my deep embarrassment. There used to be, probably still is, a gossip column in the Daily Telegraph. The headline was something like. ‘Hero Elliott carries on despite a serious injury’.