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Archives for May 2012
A Critics’ Corner – Ch21 – A Long Walk Home (On tour with the Bank)
21 – Long Walk Home
I always thought that as my school years evolved I might in time get some faint idea of how I wanted to make a living other than my Sunday morning paper round. By the time I cruised through my O levels with minimal effort and equally modest returns – still practising the art of just doing enough – this remained a mystery so I opted for two more years in the holiday camp with A levels as an excuse and stayed on, still oblivious to the need to earn money. As a teenager in the 1970s there was no obvious need for money as nobody had heard of mobile phones, we were happy letting our mothers buy our clothes and a six pack was impossibly expensive and tasted like tar generally.
Far too soon those two blissful years in sixth form passed by and there it was again staring me in the face…reality. I had no interest in going away to university as I tended to get homesick each time I left Wrose so moving away and running up a debt the size of Mexico had no appeal although I do admire Rick’s youngest son Joe’s causal approach to a five figure debt before he reaches the end of teenage life. That kid has some style…as long as Rick can keep funding it.
The Summer of 81
As a young dreamer I thought my God given right to a life of luxury would come knocking on my door in the guise of a juicy job, fat salary and no responsibilities other than to make nets every Tuesday in the summer. Strangely nothing happened, an England call up looked remote and I survived with some horrendous part time jobs that if anything else were solid evidence of what I did not want to do for the rest of my life. Hard labour was not inspirational in my book so I needed a plan.
Over that glorious summer of 1981 when Ian Botham cut loose seemingly at will and Aussie captain Kim Hughes ended up bawling like a schoolboy as a result, I was finally cut loose from school. Unbelievably my entrepreneurial side hit a winning streak. I won some contracts to deliver door-to-door samples of everything from leaflets to Bachelors Chicken soup to Bold 3 washing powder. All that I required was transport and able volunteers; thankfully many were willing to undertake some easy work in exchange for a bit of dosh. My dad’s Capri turned out to do a very good impression of a low loader; all we had to do now was deliver the goods.
Bold 3 And Bonzo The Dog
We did the job, albeit somewhat randomly, given that the “checkers” employed by the distribution company followed chalk marks you made at the end of a street. Clearly they were as lazy as we were because if you made sure you did the first few houses in a street then you could ignore the rest. And who in their right mind really wants to deliver 17,000 sachets of powdered soup? My mum ended up with two suitcases full, a guilty conscience and my dad could not stop farting for two years. We used the stuff to barter in exchange for milk from milkmen, sweets from the local shops and played at being Robin Hood by delivering huge quantities to anybody who looked desperate enough to want to dilute the supposedly chicken flavoured sawdust and attempt to drink it.
Bold 3 was much more fun. It was much bulkier so sometimes hard to get through letter boxes. The sight of a box of washing powder coming through a letter box was too much for some household canines – especially if you wiggled it enough. So if you came home some thirty years ago to find Bonzo foaming blue at the mouth and your hallway covered in Bold 3…sorry.
Dark Satanic Mills
As winter approached things looked grim. In those days Smudger Smith had a wool-sorting mill and he needed cheap labour in the form of me and my similarly unemployed mate Andy, who by this time had forgiven me for stealing Alison earlier in the summer and was in the process of trying to nick her back. So for a tortured eight weeks running up to Christmas Andy and I experienced the 8am to 7pm plus Saturday morning grind in a dark, soulless mill with dark, soulless colleagues and the clinging smell of wool and sheep dung.
Sure enough, having exams to my name, the other workers used me as an example of why, even if they were as thick as posts, they were really my superiors. They had had a previous experience with a young JB and also “played” with him to varying levels of mental torture. One day they convinced me that the bag of “dag ends” – the bit of the fleece that was closest to the sheep’s rear – had to be compressed into a bale by foot as it was really valuable. Just because I had four A levels under my belt it did not mean I could not be completely gullible. Standing inside the bale bag, I fell hook line and sinker and spent a morning pounding sheep dung. It was to be a long winter.
The Man From The Pru…although Not For Long
It was not until around spring time that an employer seemed remotely interested but as it was the Prudential it seemed worth the wait and soon I was signed up as a trainee in the Claims Department, where I met people with even less hope than the lot still grinding away in the mill; there seemed to be a rota for who would be off on the next Monday morning sickie. It was a desperate place to look forward to spending the next forty years. However, there was light at the end of the tunnel in the form of a forthcoming cricket tour down South.
Now most of us can only dream of reaching the pinnacle of cricketing ability and donning the cap with the three lions that enable you to end up representing your country in some of the finest parts of the world. These days though even the most ordinary of club cricketer – me – may get lucky enough to enjoy the odd tour even if Richmond-on-Thames, Eastbourne and Hastings hardly rival Bridgetown, Cape Town or the MCG on Boxing Day with 100,000 ex-convicts baying for your blood.
Still that heady mix of visiting far off places with the ultimate challenge of proving your cricketing, drinking and pulling techniques is the pinnacle of every club cricketer’s life – to kid yourself that for one week only you are a Pro. I have been lucky to freeload on some of the finest company sponsored “sporting” trips anybody could wish for. Sadly, in these draconian times all these “opportunities” appear to have been consigned to another life…but at least we were there…and boy did we make the most of it. These trips were also the closest I ever got to being an “overseas player”…even if I could only use the term very loosely in connection with the Seventies disco on the Eastbourne pier straddling the ocean.
The Phantom Wanker Of Richmond
Lady Luck was just around the corner. Only two weeks into my soon to be short lived career with The Pru, I was delighted to accept three days away on the annual cricket tour to Richmond-on-Thames, comprising a one day game that was rained off…(paid to sleep – could life get any better?) and a two day game where it definitely could as we spent most of the time watching the opposition smash us to all parts with the only comfort afforded the enormous selection of cakes and goodies for the lunch and tea break. Chasing a ball was impossible after six vanillas anyway.
As the one-dayer was off we prepared as best we could and hit the bars of Richmond mid-afternoon, keen to share our Northern culture and get slaughtered. With this kind of preparation it was no great surprise that our bowlers could hardly stand let alone hit the cut strip the following day but this was in the days before real professionalism. In addition, as the Pru was footing the bill we made hay whilst the sun shone…even in the rain. After a good soaking I decided to get a relatively early night on account of being completely wrecked. So off I trotted back to the hotel where the young Swedish tennis star, Mats Willander, was staying with a girlfriend so impossibly beautiful I gave up hope there and then of ever pulling anything to remotely match her.
As I staggered down Richmond High Street I passed a battered, slightly steamed up VW Camper van with a guy who looked like Woody Allen sat rigid in the driver seat. Then I noticed it…he was jerking himself off furiously. Too much for me this liberal Southern lifestyle I thought and wandered past leaving him to it. It was then, to my horror, that I heard the unmistakable rattle of the VW engine and soon the Jerkmobile of Richmond was on my trail, driven by Woody the Jerker.
Running for my Life
I ran faster than I have ever run in my life but Woody remained in hot pursuit no doubt with trousers around his ankles. I made it into the lobby and all I could say to the Swedish vision in front of me was “Behind me, behind me…” I never saw her again but every time I saw Mats Willander on telly at Wimbledon all I could think of was Woody getting it on in his van. Needless to say my team mates were less than supportive and a cricket dressing room is the last place you should ever seek counselling.
My career with the Pru lasted barely three months. It culminated in spending two whole days in the basement pulling pins and paper clips out of old files that were being destroyed. The old bag that was supposed to be training me was off sick again; nobody else seemed bothered and this did not seem like the life I wanted. I needed to find another holiday camp.
Back To The Comforting Bosom Of Grant Assisted Education
Three more years passed in pursuit of a degree that seemed to have value in those days – before Tony Blair started shelling them out to anybody who turned up – on which basis I would probably have failed having spent most of my college years working at the Five Lane Ends pub and then Silks nightclub inBradford. All of a sudden, I liked the colour of money, I just had to find a more sustainable source. And then I joined dear old Mercantile Credit, subsidiary of Barclays Bank, and the best four years of my working life by a country mile. All good things come to an end though and in 1989 I hopped from Bradford to Leedsto join the sister business, Barclays Mercantile and left the madness of motor trade credit for business finance…a different kind of madness. Just when I thought it could not get any better I discovered another touring opportunity.
On Tour With Barclays – What A Bankers’ Bonus
Winning the Barclays Bank Lambert Cup Final in 1998, on a sunny day in Ealing Ranks as possibly the highest achievement in my mediocre career…cricket, that is. I have no idea who Mr Lambert was or what part he played in the great history of one of Britain’s oldest banking institutions but whoever he was and if all he ever did was think up a great wheeze like a cricket tour then thanks to him for the best few weeks of my life. Like most big companies who valued their employee’s health and well being long before these notions were overtaken by return on capital employed and shareholder value, Barclays had a strong and flourishing sports and social scene with national competitions in a variety of sports and, fortunately, cricket was one of these.
There were a few seasoned old guys who seemed to register for even the tiddly winks team if they could blag a few days away. It’s all about team-building after all. My first experience of the Lambert Cup was 1997 when Barclays Mercantile entered a team competing in the round robin matches staged in Eastbourne and Hastings. Frankly, we were a complete rag tag bunch and spent most of a rainy week by the sea either being smashed by much better sides or hanging around shopping centres like middle aged hoodies.
All The Gear… No Idea
As we assembled the first morning to play we were a motley crew. First rule of assessing any new player at cricket is if all his gear is brand new gear it’s fair to say he will be useless a term afforded to me at the beginning of most seasons after a winter’s excess at PC Sports. Given that the owner of all this shiny new gear claimed he had been netting with Hampshire all winter we cut him some slack that is until his first attempt at off spin bounced three times with a cry from the batter of “I cant hit that pile of pap.” True enough he could not as the third ball looped over his head and bowled him. Some said that he was a Middlesex second teamer but I could only conclude they went to the same nets as Hampshire.
Fortunately it rained quite a bit that week so our pummelling’s were shortened by the elements which is always a blessing in cricket where pummelling’s can be merciless, long drawn out affairs under a searing sun. Rain and a quick thrashing never hurt anybody…so they say. Later in the week we played the mighty Yorkshire region who, had they not been a collection of dedicated alcoholics, should have been odds on favourites to smash all comers. Knowing quite a few of the lads from the local leagues helped alleviate the pain of playing in a team of no hopers and they kindly lent me some of their favoured reading material to pass away my day, such as Super Mums, Fit, Forty & Hot and Doing Doggy with Granny although nobody ever owned up to that one.
Tapped Up – The First And Last Time
The following year I was “tapped up” for the only time in my life by “Panto” Bradywith an invite to play for the Yorkshire region. Panto got his nickname simply because when he ran after the ball he resembled the back end of a pantomime horse; the front end was not far off too. Yorkshire ended up every year playing their fixtures on the SouthCoast, which was an act of genius, and cunning planning particularly as York also hosted the Lambert Cup regional play offs.
It was all down to the scheming of skipper/tour organiser/butt of everybody’s jokes “Cod Head” so named because he looked like a cod’s head although I’ve never seen a six foot cod. Our much derided leader calculated that nobody was ever likely to get called back to the office in Yorkshire from Eastbourne and as we had a day off in the week of four matches and then team bonding was more important than share holder value. Another masterstroke was to arrange our day off on the Friday, allegedly for the long drive back but really because of the Seventies disco on the Pier, which meant that most of us did not get to bed till the early hours. Some never made it back at all but marriages are at stake here.
Eastbourne – Land Of The Dead
The weekend before the tour most of us had the dreaded double weekend and then after a never ending drive down the Sunday night we hit Eastbourne. I would play six games in seven days and be hammered for an equal amount of time … finally I felt like a professional…sort of. Eastbourne looked like the land that time had forgotten or at least allowed to be taken over by the living dead. Appearances can de deceptive and at night it awoke with a vengeance.
Sensibly and this is the last time I can associate that adjective with this experience –…we had a few beers and retired to bed. My room mate still works for Barclays so I have to be protective of his professional reputation, save to say he was a joy to room with even if most mornings I caught him hammering away under the duvet due to the sight of Kelly Brook on breakfast TV.
Why Mr Wong Never Got A Michelin Star
We stayed – on more than one occasion – in Mr Wong’s guesthouse. If any shareholders are reading this and thinking that this was a gross abuse of company money I can confirm it was a dump when we arrived and an absolute, in some cases door-less, hole when we left the following Friday; this was not the Savoy. There was no such thing as a porter and if you were late in you had to wake Mr Wong if your room-mate had the key and was otherwise engaged. Mr Wong’s greeting at these various times of the morning never wavered. It was a great credit to him and it always had a ring of welcome to it: “You wucking wunken Warclays’ wonking wonkers.”
Eastbourne really is a bizarre place; dead by day, populated only by shuffling blue rinsers and yet at night it comes alive with a variety of drinking holes so diverse you just have to try them all…and we did. Monday night and after a hard day on a cricket field where better to end up than a nightclub on student night? Mind you, it took some negotiating to get in with Cod and his fellow tour management team – all six foot plus and not one of them in possession of a full head of hair …but they let us in after we claimed we were professional athletes and therefore would spend a fortune. It was only the first night of the tour and I curled up in a ball and promptly fell asleep despite the blaring music and the temptations of student night miles from home.
Zinger Burgers
Time to escape and I never ceased to be amazed that no matter how far gone I was I could always find Mr Wong’s. Likewise I developed an addiction to Burger King Zinger burgers and had to have my fix before I hit the sack, with luck finding the right one and not frightening my roommate to death. And so for two weeks of my life there was a ritual observed with quiet honour. Panto would get me absolutely mashed each night, I would wander off (taking advantage of one of his visits to the loo) and he would come collect me a few hours later, slumped in the corner of the Eastbourne Burger King, face awash with ketchup and still clutching my coke. Then he’d lead me home, allowing me to gibber as randomly as I have ever done in my life.
The following day after my initiation to tour drinking I was stood in an open field, sun blazing down, a few people mingling around. Oh my God I was batting, it was 11am and we were playing the worst side of the group. Now when you are feeling slightly grey around the gills as a batter you really need to focus hard and to do so you need a bowler who is trying to basically kill you not a trundling, dibbly dobbly slower thanMollyand a sun so bright it’s only fit for factor thirty and a San Miguel.
There were many new experiences in my two weeks on tour and this day was no exception. The scorebook read:
S Wilson How Out Fell Over Drunk Bowler T Trundler 0
We then racked up 300+ although I never saw a run as I slept like a baby before having to field mercilessly for a much shorter time than I had slept. Panto got a ton and that showed up our wildly differing tolerances of alcohol. I knew trouble lay ahead as he had clearly marked me down as his drinking buddy for the week. The reward for a successful week on the South Coast– apart from cirrhosis of the liver – was a semi-final we won in York and the final at Barclay’s magnificent sports complex in Ealing a place steeped in history and used by various professional outfit is including QPR FC. The grass was that lush I swear it felt simply not right to be wearing spikes.
Winners
I cannot remember much about the final, apart from that there was “history” between the two sides and the opposition’s star player resembled a fat Russell Brand and was just as big a waste of space. It was he that I caught out at deep mid-off with the ball travelling faster than I had ever seen in my life. I swear if I had to do that now it would simply pin me between the eyes and death would be instantaneous. Next I opened the batting and the hippy opened their bowling with a mix of spin that had me groping about as blindly as many a bra clasp had done down the years. Somehow I scratched thirty-odd keeping the legendary John Proud company – and the Lambert Cup was ours. I still have the shirt and nothing will make me part with it.
I only ever went on one more tour as the following year after that the Bank effectively ended our unofficial extra week’s holiday with free B&B plus drinks allowance for reasons I have never been clear about. What was so wrong about paying for sixteen lads to tour the whorehouses of the South East on shareholder value? At least we came back happy bonded far more than any inane, useless, morale sapping, team-building exercise we seem to import very year from across the Pond.
A Critics’s Corner – Ch 20 – The Overseas.
20 – Pay Me My Money Down
As I mentioned earlier, one of the many things we had to adjust to following our admission to the new league was the concept of the overseas player. We’d never had an overseas player in our history, unless that is, you counted Johnny Escoe.
Big Johnny masqueraded as an exiled-African Chief at the Villas, but actually worked for International Harvesters in Eccleshill making tractors that at least had some chance of seeing Africa.
Only Haighy really believed he was African but then Haighy has never been the sharpest tool in the box, his brain addled by all the home made whisky he and the critics slurp up in Critics Corner.
The overseas player remains a contentious issue; had we been able to afford and accommodate one at the outset I am sure we would have done so like every other club.
As Yorkshire found out to their cost in recent times, clinging to the “Made in Yorkshire” principle simply means you are not competing on a level playing field. However, it’s a desperately difficult thing to get just right at club level.
“Can You Play Cricket Lad?”
If you get somebody outstanding they can mask a myriad of ills and often make the team appear much better than it really is and it’s happened to teams we’ve competed against.
Drop lucky and all of a sudden an ordinary team ends up promoted and then, if next year’s import does not measure up, it’s straight back down and in that time serious damage may have been done to the development of the club’s own young talent.
Get it wrong and you spend the summer babysitting some drunken, half-wit and getting deeper out of pocket – as we were to discover.
Our first season in the Aire Wharfe was a real education as we had to get used to various snotty kids generally wearing an earring or two and abusing us verbally in savage terms from week to week in a nasal Aussie drawl.
Of course we had Andy Stoker who, hailing from Zimbabwe, claimed he had fled Robert Mugabe many years ago, chased off his family farm to help the nation’s food effort.
I could only think that by the size of Stoker, Mugabe thought he could solve a few problems by roasting Stoker. Anyway, Stoker could hardly “sledge” anybody bowling as slow as he did.
The Fake Pakistani
In the early years we just about coped without an import, indeed we latched on to the idea of a fake overseas’ player.
A local lad called Atif did the job for a while, generally for about three balls before his middle peg went flying mostly suffering under Captain Stoker’s belief that although a late order slogger he was now an opening batter.
One year Stoker pretended to be our overseas player with severe overuse of the word “yah” and spending hours strolling around the boundary edge with a carving knife terrifying the opposition and critics alike.
He would produce this nauseous, salty meat called biltong from a blood stained hanky, chop a bit off and exclaim “yum, yum I love wild rabbit.”
The following year as cash was still tight, largely due to many of the members still struggling to come to terms with the concept of actually paying for their drinks, we again took the impressionist route.
Chiz grew a moustache and spent a season as a Fat Salim Malik look-alike although he was never accused of match fixing and preferred payment in pints before being dragged off to satisfy wife Lusty Linda once more.
Villas Overseas Players; The Good, The Bad And The Downright Blind
Shortly before the start of season 2004 we finally took the plunge into the unknown. The Villas’ first overseas’ player was recruited and cost us nothing. And as they say – you get what you pay for.
Pankash the Blind
The real, indeed only, attraction for the club of Pankash was that he was free as we had absolutely no money.
Pankash’s agent, Toj Teller of Tall Tales, had assured Molly that this guy was not only a great batter but also the next great Bollywood sensation. We reasoned that even if he was useless at least we might get some decent looking women hanging around all summer.
Pankash actually looked a very stylish batter; everything was so right about his stance, his back lift and his balance, it’s just that Stevie Wonder would have hit the ball more often and on a weekly basis stumps would be splattered.
Indeed, veteran net bowler Lynton Marsden claimed his first wicket since 1987 courtesy of the luckless Pankash and was soon deluding himself that, even at the age of fifty, he could at last make it as a bowler. In fact most of us thought we were good bowlers after a few thrown down at Pankash.
Weekly along came teams came with overseas players who could actually play the game whilst we were stuck with Pankash the Blind.
As his elected chauffeur there were many long, silent journeys home where I contemplated dropping him off in Middlesborough and scarpering knowing he would never make it home.
Pankash could actually bowl decent off spin – not what he came for but a bonus – and yet sadly this was the year we opted for the tactically retarded, Stoker, as leader of the first team.
It was no coincidence that this was the year we finished bottom of the whole pile and, Saturday after Saturday, whilst the opposition racked up scores that would have been far too big on a decent track, we generally had to bat second on one of Stevo’s moon-like surfaces often “chasing” over three hundred.
Whatever the opposition score we always kept two slips and a gully and this never changed for the whole fifty overs. Pankash finally got a spell at Harden, halted the carnage with an economical 4-for not a lot and never bowled again all season.
Blake the Sulk
Undaunted, the next season we upped the ante and stumped up for board and lodgings to assist the visit of a young Aussie leg spinner called Blake.
Now there is a temptation to hear an Aussie accent and think he must be either Ricky Ponting or Shane Warne but believe me there are useless Aussie cricketers and Blake was he.
We did our best to make him welcome even when it became clear that the neighbours’ roofs were in for a peppering most weeks he came on to bowl.
As for relations with the skipper – me – back again to turn the ship around after Captain Stoker had hit just about every iceberg going, it just was not happening.
I dare not bowl him as we never got past four hundred to feel safe enough. Barely good enough for the Stiffs, he ended the season with the nickname of “Blake’s Seven” because that was how many wickets he got us all season.
Jude The Pastry Chef
The following season we simply were not going to bother until we got word of a young South African living and working at a nearby pub who was looking for a club and all for the price of a pair of boots and a bat.
The recommendations were strong so once again we held our breath and then took the plunge.
Now Jude was definitely a massive improvement at least when he played. You see Jude was allegedly a pastry chef; at least that’s what he ended up doing most of the summer rather than playing cricket.
If you paid a fortune for your wedding at the Balloon and Basket way back then let me tell you that the pastry chef had never seen a kitchen till that summer and probably has not been since.
I think he played about eight games but scored more runs and took more wickets than his two predecessors combined. With a full season from Jude we could have done very well.
Kyle And The Pink Handle Scandal
Back to the land of Oz and timely as we had won the Ashes at long, long last so why not haul one over to take the piss out of before they predictably whipped us again.
This was our biggest investment ever: air fare, lodgings plus a league fine at the end of the season for slowest over rate due largely to Kyle’s thirty yard run-up.
Kyle was a great lad despite a strange insistence on wearing sandals throughout that long wet summer and memorably sledging an Addingham batter whose bat had a pink handle.
He roomed at Lynton’s new flat, conveniently going through a divorce as every cricket team needs a marital split or two especially to assist accommodating the overseas player.
Needless to say the flat ended up not so new after fours months of Kyle and he spent the last month at my place ending up addicted to Hollyoaks, Scrubs and Muller Rice Pots.
I was pleased to be able to share the rock and roll lifestyle of a forty-something and when he left us we were all genuinely sad.
Six Hit Shrey
We opted out in season 2007 the year the new clubhouse was finally opened as the coffers had been laid as bare as bare could get.
In truth the following season had we not been offered Shrey Datta (who had arranged his own stay with Uncle Paddy and Auntie Archie Devesher) then we would not have bothered again.
Fair play to young Navjot, who had to give up his bedroom and shared the summer with his older, night clubbing brother Varun.
However, Shrey proved to be a productive, pleasant and hugely popular lad with the highlight of his year hitting six sixes in one over.
Whilst he never scaled those heights again, the Skipper – not me – kept falling for his pleas to “bat me at three Shutty.”
Each and every time Shrey got that promotion he turned from elegant and powerful to dumb and dumber.
He could bowl though and he was magnificent with the kids who loved his enthusiasm. Doubtless we would welcome him back anytime.
Time For a Break
In 2009 we did not go down the road of the overseas’ player as new legislation had made this a very cloudy issue and, ironically, had our most successful season ever.
Footnote
After a season establishing ourselves in Division 2 we were offered and accepted an overseas once again for the following season.
Although he contributed to the team I spent a summer as chauffeur and go-fer; at times it was like looking after a three-year old.
At the end of the seasonhe told us how much he loved Villas and wanted to come back having been tying up the loose ends of a new offer with a rival club simultaneously.
The Overseas is a huge investment for most clubs and there is always an element of risk. The positives are many, especially the impact on the kids.
Last year (2015) we struck gold again with an noodle addict from Durban who was a great guy to have around.
Roll on summer!
Call Centres
Grumpy Old Men?
The other day I received an email from an old customer, a fellow equally grumpy middle-aged man, which will strike a chord with many of you out there. Here it is line for line.
“I have a rant to discuss and one which I know you will want to participate. 0800 numbers that charge 14 pence per minute and then spend the next 2 minutes giving you a list of options at 14 pence a minute. Telling you its being recorded at, you’ve guessed it, 14 pence per minute. You know and I know this is a ploy to stop the now angry customer swearing down the phone. This call will form the basis of their next seminar on Customer Anger Management and how to control it effectively and at the same time charging once again 14 pence a bloody minute. Then they say during the conversation “are you happy to wait whilst I find your details” at 14 pence per minute. 84 pence my last call to the bank cost. I could have rung New Zealand all day for that!
Then they have the brass neck to employ people who can’t speak the language so you spend twice as long asking him to repeat what he said. They have even tried to hide the fact that they are using sweat shops in Mumbai doubling up as call centres when the first thing you are greeted with is ‘ Hi its RICHARD Singh how can I help you ,this call maybe recorded blah. Press one if you know your name. Press 2 if you know the address you live at, written on the paper in front of you that also has your post code on it. Press 3 if you know the 27 digit number of the extension of the person you are trying to contact etc etc”
The Great Outsourcing Scam
This brought back vivid memories of my old Barclays days when the division I worked for hit on the novel idea of off-shoring several of the functions carried out quite reliably at the Head Office in Basingstoke, just at about the same time most UK Corporates were realizing what a crap idea this really was, especially for a supposedly customer-focused business. Soon our customers were about to be greeted by cheery sounding “Peters”, “Rogers” and “Harrys” all the way courtesy of technology from the sub continent; to be precise, the off shore operations were based inChennai,India, a sort of down market Basingstoke. Overnight our service degenerated into a farce and, as with all crap ideas, nobody would actually admit it was theirs.
Now none of us had anything against the people in India other than they were simply clueless as to what we did and what our customers expected – which, in truth, was not their fault – and they very quickly conveyed that impression to the customers they dealt with. Although senior management insisted this was a great idea there was no disguising that it was an unmitigated disaster; that it was all based in Chennai was to have a wonderful irony a few years on.
Wee Willie Addresses The Nation…from The Rooftops Of Churchill Plaza
Barely a year after the experiment began and with precious little good cheer about the state of the business as we lurched into the beginnings of the recession, we received notification that our Great Leader, a strange little Scottish fellow I named Wee Willie of Basingstoke Towers, wanted to address us all via a conference call; we called it his “State of the Nation” address. Although not quite instilling the fear factor the little fat lad in North Korea commands, we were still expected to listen in and obey, although it was not mandatory to get on our knees and start wailing uncontrollably – at least until he announced that all bonuses were once again going to him.
When working from home the drill for one of these calls was to register, put the iron on and crack on with a few shirts for the weekend; ironing in terms of tedium was about the equivalent of a conference call from Wee Willie. This particular day England’s cricket team were on tour in India playing a test match, by sheer coincidence, in Chennai and, for a change, things were going well on the field, en route for a decent first innings total. With the benefit of my office television and a strategically positioned ironing board Wee Willie could drone away at will.
With the conference call about to begin, my Morphy Richards spurted out a blast of steam and off I went determined to at least keep up my rate of one shirt an over and not blow off any steam at the spin I was about to listen to. However, soon Wee Willie was spinning it far more dangerously than the Indian spinners and, according to our leader, all was serene in the Basingstoke garden.
Wee Willie Jnr – Heir Apparent
Alongside Wee Willie, presumably on the balcony awaiting a gathering of the faithful for a march past on the Basingstoke inner ring-road, sat his sidekick and heir apparent, Wee Willie Jnr and the guy in “control” of Chennai – if you could call it control. It was the usual corporate “its a beautiful world” rubbish and so when the facilitator said the words “if you have any questions please press 1” somehow an outer body experience began; this was both career defining and almost simultaneously career ending. My jaw dropped as did the iron when I heard those words “and the first question is from Steve Wilson. Please go ahead with your question, Steve.” Had Wee Willie ever heard of Steve Wilson?
“I’m sorry” I began “but having just listened to what you have said over the last twenty minutes (and ironed five shirts) I think I must have been working for a different business for the last couple of years.” And then the last few years of sheer pent up frustration at our sheer ineptitude, arrogance to customers and blatant inability to acknowledge we were a shambles just exploded into effectively a career ending outburst; unlike in the land of the little fat lad though there was no knock on the door and a van awaiting me.
The Peasants are Revolting
This attracted numerous emails from colleagues, the funniest of all being from the customer support staff apparently cheering at their desks; as a colleague told me “we were all nodding in agreement but pissing our pants at the same time!” My phone was going mad with texts in support and emails were pouring in. Wee Willie, not used to civil disobedience, did what he did best and passed the buck to Wee Willie Jnr who lamely attempted to diffuse the situation before rioting commenced on the inner ring-road.
Junior attempted to explain the recession to me but he was no Robert Peston and floundered when I countered “I am not a numpty!” to which the email traffic ramped up again with calls for “Numpty for MD!” Clearly sensing he was losing, he tried to hand back to Wee Willie but his Teflon coating was having none of it and so Jnr tried to convince me that Chennai would be wonderful next year to which my retort of “the only good thing to come out of Chennai is that England are 173 for 2!” caused uproar.
The Job Centre
As it was Christmas I ended the call with a suggestion that I better nip down to the Job Centre now as there may be a few spare Santa jobs going. The silence from Basingstoke Towers was deafening. Of course the usual olive branch was offered in the form of a state visit to Bradford from Jnr in the new year – which never happened presumably because he had never heard of the place – and nothing at all changed, in fact, we got worse.
Out-sourcing is only ever about saving money by cutting costs and to hell with customer service. The art of delivering this within a business is to ensure that, as a senior manager, you have moved on before everybody else realizes that it is a total disaster and customers are leaving in droves. So it suits the UK corporate time-frame for most senior managers of a move every three years just in time to walk out the door and leave the mess to pin on somebody else; a bit like Ed Balls really.
My old friend only experienced what most of us do daily and the really sad bit is that there is not a lot we can do about it because nobody is there long enough to pin any blame on. So to “Peter”, “Roger” and “Harry” my apologies if we seem a bit grumpy in old Blighty…it’s not your fault but you’re all we have…even at 14p a minute.
A Critics’s Corner – Ch19 – A trip down Memory Lane to 2002…the Stiffs take on Guiseley in the cup
19 – Countin’ on a Micracle
Free from the pressures of an afternoon with First Team Captain Birtsy’s Special School assortment, having now been dumped out of the cup unceremoniously by Guiseley, the choices were numerous for the following sunny Sunday afternoon. Perhaps a boating trip on a deserted lake with my ideal woman, well any woman actually, or maybe a cream tea out in the country ending with a long stroll in the fading sunlight? God, was I turning into some Mills and Boon freak?
Anyway, beggars cannot be choosers so predictably there I was, at the sun-kissed Villas bowl, waiting to be entertained by Captain Patch’s assorted bunch of mercenaries and misfits masquerading as the Villas Second team otherwise known as The Stiffs. I was not quite early enough to get the best sun-trap as the sun kissed Mr and Mrs Massheder had clearly been queuing since early morning lathered in Factor 2 and greenfly repellent, oblivious to the fact that their eldest son’s central contract ruled him out of today’s game; in other words the wife had whisked him off to B&Q and an afternoon discussing decking.
Fair Play Old Chap?
As per the previous week the toss was lost and the Guiseley Stiffs‘ captain clearly shared the same morbid sense of humour as his senior counterpart and had obviously looked at the rag-tag bunch of opposition players, including a dishwasher plucked from the Stoker family café as a late replacement, and thought that a nice long procession towards four or five hundred would be the order of the day. Make this lot sweat in the sun and tuck into some easy runs for the career average. Saddo!
Whenever an opposing skipper elects to do this then, whatever happens for the rest of the afternoon you just smile at the knowledge that eventually he will have to go home to his miserable wife sometime even if he has so obviously prolonged it by batting first against a bunch of no-hopers. In situations like this the normal thought process from the underdog is simply “For God’s sake stick us in, take the win and go home and mow your lawn.” I suppose he must have thought that if that was the first team that turned up last week how bad were this lot going to be? As I said earlier…funny old game.
A Rounded Approach
Villas opened with Stoker, the ex-Zimbabwean international only by virtue of him working on the coffee bar in Harare Airportin a previous life and having cleaned Mugabe’s shoes once. Stoker had so many nicknames that you sometimes forgot he had a real name. Otherwise known as “Cannibal”, “Meat Eater” and sometimes as a “Fat African Elvis look-alike” if you felt brave enough, his run-up to bowl resembled that of an Olympic ski jumper. A careful march back, pose with feet locked together, toes pointing forwards then lift-off delivering wave after wave of gentle dibbly-dobblys that batters all over the world hate. He was a first rate nutter but, some years later, just to illustrate how desperate we had got he had a season as first team captain.
Captain Patch, another fat lad who also went by the nickname of Ranatunga the rotund Sri Lankan captain of the time with a similar pear shape shared the new ball. This was in the absence of veteran seamers, Molly and the inimitable Reg Nelson each with a pathetically poor excuse. So Ranatunga steamed in up the hill, cheeks puffing out like a miniature Browny – except Browny actually ran in quicker – with his arm low enough to cause the umpire to bend over to save being decapitated. This had the look of a long afternoon as the opposition batters started to tuck into the feast ahead. I gazed around the field at the Stiffs and my worst fears were confirmed.
Whatever Happened to Ben Marriage?
Unbelievably, Stoker, the slowest of the slow (of mind and body), patrolled the covers whilst the pride of Villas youth were scattered around the boundary edge. Young Sam Stockill, pin up boy of the Villas juniors in those days, looked disconsolate as none of his legion of female admirers had bothered to turn up; this disappointed Ranatunga as well given Paula, his wife, had gone to watch her beloved Bradford Bulls leaving old Ranatunga looking forward to Sam’s harem rolling up. For Paula watching the Bulls was her equivalent of a porno movie with all that muscle and bump and grind. Patch, never averse to some bump and grind, stuck to the porn hidden behind the pull out brick under the television.
Older brother Luke Stockill wheeled down nine overs of high promise reflecting years of dedicated coaching – call that editorial bias if you like – oh the joys of coaching, usually on endless freezing cold nights and rainy Sunday mornings with stinking, curry-infested hangovers. Just before Ranatunga collapsed he handed over to Ben Marriage who, unlike the first team game, had actually turned up this week, although he constantly had to be physically separated from a young slip of a thing that I later found out did not strictly belong to him. All is fair in love and war…or while the cat’s away…or boys will be boys…you know what I mean. It was at that precise moment I knew why I should have trained as a divorce lawyer with young men like Ben around.
The Lawrence Dynasty
A very young Sam Lawrence, current leader of the first team attack, also patrolled the boundary edge wearing his new Villas replica shirt, the sale of which I had negotiated the sponsorship for by wining and dining our opening bowler’s very attractive boss up until the point of the ink drying on the cheque…as I said all is fair and it was hardly a chore and ll for the Villas. Contrary to popular belief no expense claims were submitted but the banker’s bonus was memorable. And still Sam’s old man, Rick, clung to his moth-eaten, 1986 cup final shirt almost twenty years on resisting all attempts at corporate sponsorship.
Now there was a sound cricketing reason that Sam was on the edge. He was one of the few that could actually throw the ball in without it replicating the path of the dam buster bombs. JB, with an arm so weak he needed three attempts to get the ball all the way in, was by far the worst and needed the equivalent of a driver, mid-iron and a wedge to throw the ball in. Sam just lazily rolled a wrist and in it pinged into the gloves of dad Rick.
Both juniors bowled with great heart but behind the stumps there was a virtuoso performance from the gnarled old pro, known affectionately for years as “Marigolds”. Some claim the nickname came from earlier wicket keeping displays when he kept as if he were wearing a pair of marigolds, others swear that to get the odd game he had to agree to a week of domestic chores to placate wife Julie. Two edges were snaffled, one-handed in front of first slip, which was just as well as the greying monument stood there – Paul “Cav” Cavender, was motionless; I had seen Nelson’s column move more.
The Maddening of the Hot Sun
Down at third man, lo and behold, was JB with shirt out, dirty boots on and sporting more face paint than Shane Warne; team Tramp of the Year…once again. Then came a moment of pure madness from Ranatunga.
“Can you bowl?” asked Ranatunga of JB.
“Can he chuff – go ask a tea lady instead!” bawled back the crowd in unison “have you seen his batting? That’s even worse. Don’t do this to us.” But Ranatunga clearly had a theory and would not be deflected so neighbours hurried inside to put up barricades. Harry Lycett had to be woken from his corporate hospitality slumber in the executive box owned by Steve and Oxana Wolstenholme, who were also accommodating a mysterious Ukranian woman, which many of the lads had also been trying also to accommodate; I do miss her whatever she was called.
And so it came to pass, the Waddilove Cup was reduced to farce as JB attempted to convince the cup-holders that this jerky, stiff armed, face-painted little fellow was actually a spin bowler so imagine the surprise when the first one actually landed. Money was exchanged at a frantic pace on the boundary edge as bets were placed on the eventual total. And then another surprise, Binny the Beast of Santa Monica, on at the top-end resembling Flat Jack or Fat Jack (depending on your view), threatening to give it a real rip…trousers not the ball. The batters were delirious, concentration wavered and the innings collapsed to a mediocre 187 leaving the Villas a great chance of causing a real upset and a halting stop to the Guiseley strut.
An Upset on the Card?
Tea was to prove the highlight of the day, sufficient provisions available to contend with even Browny’s gargantuan appetite although he nearly ended up wearing one of the scrumptious strawberry cream teas after his man management skills fell somewhat short of the mark with the normally placid Beast, attempting to offer bowling advice to a man not blessed with athletic prowess nor powers of recovery. Crumbling scones, delicious chilled cream and skilfully sliced strawberries…England my England.
So the chase began with the Beast and Cav opening up but soon Cav’s off stump was displaying far more life than he had all afternoon flying past the wicket keeper at a rate of knots and the exciting stroke player Luke Stockill came to the wicket…but not for long. Alas the challenge was to prove too much for both Luke and also brother Sam, bringing JB the new all-rounder to the wicket, chest puffed out, pins holding most bones together, reeking of Deep Heat, ready for the challenge.
Run Binny Run!
Progress was painfully slow and Mrs Binns IV was nodding off in the corner, comfortable in the knowledge that the Beast would not be capable of mounting a challenge of any sort later on and then tragedy struck. Old timers will recognise that JB’s vision of a quick single is best countered with a combination of derision and laughter as the little man remains convinced he can do a twenty yard dash in three seconds to this day. Sadly, he caught the lovelorn Beast unawares – who had all on running twenty yards full stop – and never one for being quick out of the traps there simply wasn’t any need for the third umpire. The only worry was if the brakes would work before the boundary wall was demolished and a fuming, ruddy faced Beast ploughed through it.The crowd were dismayed.
Village idiot Jarvo, now in exile at Thackley CC, had been in residence with his bunch of followers all afternoon and we all witnessed first hand why Care in the Community was such a disaster; if only they could be returned safely to their padded cells then all would be well with the world. Clearly they were causing some concern and the scholarly, studious Mrs Lawrence rang husband Rick from the clubhouse pleading for the car keys as the club was full of “undesirables”. Rick tried to explain these were the regulars and few were offended – least of all my dad.
So Near, So Far
Despite a few lusty blows from JB that limped off the square and a cameo from Stoker, Villas finished well short and several marriages were saved from the prospect of further exposure to Jarvo on yet another Sunday afternoon. Meanwhile another Marriage, young Ben, disappeared up the lane arm in arm, showing much more promise off than he ever did on the field. And so, in the course of two weekends, we had been made painfully aware that although we were now enjoying the elevated status of the new league there were many hard yards ahead. In truth we were light years behind clubs of the stature of Guiseley and, at best, we could only hope to begin to close the gap.
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