Unusually, I did a job setting up the UK for an emerging Swedish enterprise software company. Things went very well (eventually) and we floated on the Swedish stock market. Sales really took when we adopted Citrix, which turned our system into an early Cloud application.

Citrix invited me to the Monaco Grand Prix to tell their other important enteprise software clients (such as SAP) how good they were.

We stayed in an outrageously expensive hotel in Cannes and commuted to Monaco each day on a Sunseeker powerboat while being plied with champagne, and caviar. In the photos I look like Cary Grant in the French Riviera. That wasn’t my idea. I went to an expensive men’s outfitters in Henley and said,

“I have to go to Monaco next weekend and I don’t know what to wear”.

Cary Grant is what they came up with. I still have all the gear. I call it my “Coat der Azure” collection. It’s about 25 years old now.

Citrix was a big American software firm whose owner, Ed Iacobucci was going to be there. He was a big propeller head who invented their stuff.

He was minted.

He had 200 classic cars in his collection.

I had four and people thought I was rich.

The other guests were from the biggest most prestigious global software companies out there. In the same income bracket as Ed. Very early in conversation these sorts of people let you know they own vineyards, car racing teams, yachts, racing stables and make it all sound normal.

Our hostess was an Austrian Countess who lived in Monaco. She kept an eye on everything, including me. There were only eight of us, so it was impossible to sneak off to the pub as I like to do at these things.

The other guests didn’t look like Cary Grant and seemed much more comfortable in expensive casual clothes and huge Rolexes. They were way above my economic league. I thought I had been invited to throw in front of the bullets if we were attacked by a Bond villain.

At dinner on the first night I found myself thinking negatively about an arty looking French-Vietnamese banker who wore a very snazzy outfit that made me look ridiculous in my navy-blue blazer with brass buttons with anchors on them, a stripey tie, cream-coloured slacks and a yacht skipper’s peaked cap with a crest on it. Actually, I left the hat in the room.

He smoked pongy ciggies through a cigarette holder which he held in a way that a bigoted working-class English person (like I struggle not to be) would call effeminate and he waved it around theatrically, taking long puffs with his eyes shut. I kept trying to think of the French word for poseur, but settled on something Anglo Saxon that rhymed with it: toseur.

That first night was painful. We drove in limos to the hills behind Cannes and had dinner in a posh restaurant overlooking the bay which was closed to other customers for our exclusive indulgence. The food seemed non-existent. It was that lift the lid thing to see “nothing” arranged artistically on the plate. When we got back to the l’hôtel I went straight to McDonalds. I was the best dressed person there. It’s dead opposite the famous movie theatre if you need to find it.

Don’t sneer. McDonalds has more outlets in France than it does in the UK or any other European country. If you ever eat in a posh French restaurant you’d know why.

Next day I had to sit next to the French guy at breakfast.

“Bolleaux”, I thought in Franglais. My French is non-existent but I managed a “Bonjour”.

“Yow awlright” he replied in a strong Birmingham accent.

I practically fell off my chair.

Eh?

He was totally fluent in the midland English working-class vernacular. It turned out he had been to university in Birmingham and was a completely ok bloke. He was a director of a very big French bank and explained how they had connected their Citrix network in Paris by running cables through the underground sewers to save digging up the roads.

“Did you call it Shitrix” I asked.

It wasn’t a world class joke but I should explain that people of this status do not take the piss out of anything. They are social and economic ultimate winners. They see nothing to poke fun at in this world. The Citrix guys didn’t look happy but everyone laughed so they joined in. It was fine.

After the trip, I stayed in touch with Jacques. He did reference calls for our banking prospects and in return I sent him Ginster’s pasties. He had become addicted as a student and couldn’t get them in France. Can’t think why.

-------------------

To thank Citrix for their generosity our CEO asked me to invite one of their bigwigs over to our HQ in Sweden. It was midsummer and the highlight of that trip was to go yachting in the middle of the night at 2am - in broad daylight. The CEO had blown c£250k on an ocean racing yacht as a present to himself after our successful IPO. He had made big bucks. As head of the UK I made medium bucks which was ok. I didn’t want a yacht.

Unfortunately, I nearly crashed his into the Royal Swedish yacht club where we were stopping for supper. He let me drive and at the last moment on the approach he grabbed the wheel and we went around again with him looking very cross.

“Slow down” he had said as I aimed at the jetty.

Looking at the throttle I took a 50/50 guess.

Ooops.

Even though it was 2am the Sun was up and the place was packed. The guests were staring at us.

“Who are you looking at you bunch of turnips?”, I didn’t say.

Good job I didn’t as they were of course Swedes not turnips and they weren’t looking at me. I didn’t know it but my boss was a famous yachtsman and his new boat was also famous. They must have thought,

“Sven might be good at ocean racing but his stupid English friend can’t park”.

After dinner we sailed back to the hotel. It was 4am and the Sun was shining bright. We went to the bar. It was still open.

As you can see, students at our local FE college in Barnstaple did exactly that, helped by retired old gits who should probably have known better.To mark the successful inspection by our BMAA inspector, we invited the students to a BBQ at Belle Vue airfield in North Devon, where our chief pilot took them flying. Some of our seven students had never flown in an aeroplane before. Imagine that? Like Orville and Wilbur, the first time they flew in a plane was in one they built themselves.

It was a perfect sunny day. A light and friendly breeze was blowing straight down the runway. To the south Dartmoor, to the North Exmoor and the Bristol Channel, the West the Atlantic and North Devon beaches. You take off to what are arguably the best views from a small airfield anywhere in England.

Our chief pilot, who had twenty years’ experience as a flying instructor at RAF Chivenor, flew constantly. Wherever you turned there was a young face looking nervous and excited and then looking elated and excited after landing and - wanting to go up again. Proud parents shared their special moment, telling the plane builders “this will be a day you will always remember” and it will. How many teenagers can say they built a plane and then went flying in it?

The only people who looked happier, were the volunteers who gave up their time to help students turn a box of bits into a plane. Why were they so happy? Because they are a generous bunch of blokes, who enjoyed passing on knowledge and seeing young people get the aviation bug.

The burning question is: how come?

How come a bunch of kids in a poor rural area of the UK at a Further Education college that is so “further” it is the furthest in the country from a Pret a Manger, or a Premiership football club or a university, or any of the other things that are “essential” to modern life, got to build a chuffing plane?

Like so many great “bloke” ideas, ours was born in a pub.

As my pre-retirement gardening leave approached, family and friends suggested I needed a project as a sort of methadone to cool down from a career running startups.

Fellow drinkers at the Poltimore Arms, where I receive a lot of well-oiled advice, agreed and pointed to the “Dead Wall” (where your photo only goes up when you are dead) with dier warnings that many died shortly after retiring, because they had “nothing to do”.

Why do a plane?

A retirement project must be departure appropriate. You need to be honest about who you are. A CFO (basically an accountant) who retires at 55, might choose to do a jigsaw puzzle. A CHRO might do some colouring in. But start-up entrepreneurs like me, don’t retire young or quietly. We keep wanting to “roll the dice”. We crave the win. We are intense, hyperactive, unpredictable, frightening, uncertain, heroic and, these days, cool. When start-up projects work, there is a unique buzz and a big pay day. But it’s risky. When they fail it’s messy. Very messy. If you want to “get” what it’s really like don’t read those ooks with beaming billionaire faces on the front cover. Watch Nick in the “Deer Hunter”. He thinks he is brilliant at Russian Roulette. People like Peter Thiel, Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos gob off about how brilliant they are but they would be more honest if they admitted they are also like Nick (lucky at dodging bullets), startups always have a terrifying and addictive element of chance.

At 66, after forty years of playing the startup game and being repeatedly shot in the head (the bullet sometimes passing dangerously close to my brain), I was as addicted as any gambler, alcoholic, pie eater or crack head. Building a plane was a fix. An adrenalin trip but without the full-on stress of a real project. It felt real but it wasn’t. I had to fund it with a serious sum of money. We call it “hurt money” in start-ups, but it was an amount I could afford to lose and, anyway “Dangerous Dave” said we would recover most of it by selling the finished plane. There was pressure but it wasn’t life and death.

And that’s how it all fell accidentally into place in the Poltimore Arms, on a baking hot summer’s evening up on Exmoor.

“Dangerous Dave” Karniewicz suggested it and like a kid facing a dare, I said I would fund it. Dave had built planes before, and I was a startup CEO, which means I can manage complex projects.

Dave knew I had been giving gifted students at the college coaching for Oxbridge interviews and said,

“Why don’t you help the kids doing trades?”

and I said,

“I’d be happy to if I could think of something”

and he said,

“Why don’t we build a plane?” and, “It’s your round”.

I said,

“Ok” and, I’ll get ‘em in”.

It was that simple.

When I got back with the beer, Dangerous explained that the kit for a Skyranger Swift 3 cost £30k and they sell for £50k when they are made and certified. I said I would cover the cost, whilst instantly believing the project would actually cost £60k if the normal levels of over optimism were in play. I didn’t mind losing £10k on what was sure to be a unique experience. After concluding all that, I said,

“Your round, get ‘em in”.

Fellow drinkers in the pub were laughing away deriding it all as “pub talk” but it wasn’t.

I got on to it the next day. But before describing how the plane was made let’s cut through the suspense.

We finished it on time. We made it for £50k and it sold for £50k and all of us, students and volunteers had a year of the most rewarding and challenging experiences.

Win.

Technical legal point: in case you are thinking of doing this yourself, (why not, there is an FE college near you, it’s great fun), you are not permitted to make a profit on a self-build. That was never our plan and would never have been possible given the bills of setting up a Community Interest Company, tooling up, getting insurance, covering the cost of facilities, legal fees, accounting fees etc. I expected the loss to be no worse than the annual cost of belonging to a golf club and less than the cost of running a Land Rover, which are my other hobbies.

So… how the chuffing hell do two highly qualified boozers go from pub talk to making, certifying and selling a plane made in a state FE college?

Seriously, would you take that on?

Would you cough up £30k for a plane kit and then £15k for the engine, (an item Dangerous had strategically forgotten to mention) and then hope it all fits together so you can sell it? and, after you sell it, lay awake at night hoping it doesn’t crash?

Probs not, eh?

Thought so.

This is an appropriate point to speculate on the personality type that does this stuff? As mentioned in previous episodes, I have that defective gene that causes startups and as I had just retired, I needed a substitute, but what about my mate “Dangerous”, what was his excuse?

Dangerous Dave had what we call an “earned prefix honorific”.

You don’t get called Dangerous unless you are. In the Poltimore Arms Dangerous was a legend. He was an engineer who also had a national reputation as a fearless crane driver. A man whose services were in demand for challenging, marginal tasks where lifting heavy objects such as a bridge was at the limit of the equipment’s performance and nobody else wanted to do it. A gust of wind or a slightly uneven lift could swing the whole thing, including the crane over. He could strip and rebuild any mechanical device. He won lawn mower races with a machine that could clock 100mph, he performed well in the Red Bull soapbox derby, in Covid he erected the country’s most impressive Nightingale bar outside the pub using scaffold poles and the canvas from a lorry trailer.

Brilliant until it fell over.

The mk2 lasted the course though. He gravitated (or ungravitated) into aviation by qualifying as a microlight pilot and then buying one of those flying coat hangers. He got it cheap because is was powered by an engine with an oil leak Dave thought he could probably repair. He flew it, with the leak, across the Irish sea from Ireland and then to Devon, landing frequently to top up the oil. He ran joy flights from the field next to the pub in the summer and never lost a customer. His own airfield was perched on a hill where he had rented a strip of land from a farmer that was so steep and precarious cows couldn’t stand upright. His plane was stored in a hangar made from what looked like materials salvaged from a skip. But from here he set off on many adventures. He flew Steve our publican to the Badminton Horse trials landing alongside other planes flown in by people who weren’t as dangerous.

Ok he had some heavy landings but none that he couldn’t walk away from. He made me spit my beer out when he told me with a straight face about a close call when he had some engine trouble and spotted an airfield with planes lined up by the runway, that he could make an emergency landing in and then almost hitting the fence at the end of the field because the runway was so short. When he taxied back to the clubhouse and looked at the other planes, he realised it was a model aeroplane club.

Dangerous? Yes, but hilarious.

Dave was 60 and I was 66. We were still both firmly following a lifestyle that began at the back of the class at school messing around, having fun, taking chances, breaking rules, nothing malicious just not conforming, which becomes a way of life. Dave took physical risks in cranes and diggers, I took mine metaphysically in startups, but we were metaphorically the same. Our superpower was the willingness to jump off top board into the dark not knowing if the pool had any water in it. Building a kit plane with trade apprentices at a state college was exactly that.

Or was it?

If you get to know a wild child risk taker you will learn that they have a way of fixing the odds. It is probably different to yours, more intuitive, less statistical, swayed by the thrill but not ignorant. From the very first day I set about minimising the risk of failure. We don’t rely entirely on chance and luck. We lean hard on the scales of fate to tip the balance our way. Honestly, that is part of the fun. Cheating fate is a serious business.

One of the reasons I took the gamble was the Skyranger. As, this article is intended to encourage others, it is worth going over why. This is a highly respected plane, and is a relatively straightforward build. It comes supplied with all the parts in a box, (which you can collect in a Transit, see photo, that is a whole plane in that van).

They all fit together without modifications. It’s all nuts and bolts. No welds. No glue. If you follow the very detailed and well-illustrated instructions and use up all the bits you have a plane!

And, it has a reputation for being safe and reliable. There are 1500 of them flying. Many flying schools use them and many people who learn to fly in them are interested in buying one, or a share in one, without facing the 500+ man hours of building one in a tight space with no experience of engineering.

Finally, Paul Dewhurst, the CEO of Flylight who make the kits, actually answers the phone and looks after customers. To confirm this was not all too good to be true, I spoke to Major Matt Commander at Benenden school where well-bred private schoolgirls built a Skyranger and are building another. He is an ex-Army engineer. He confirmed students could do it and would enjoy it.

Persuading the college was easy. When I told the Principal the only thing, we needed was space, he jumped at it. They recruited the students, organised our DBS checks for volunteers and provided us with all the relevant college standards for safeguarding, health and safety and security.

Our business case, project plan, timeline and budget are available for anyone to share. In my career I have completed thousands of projects, and this conformed to the golden formula for success. Keep it simple, copy the success of others, don’t be first, (in other words build a kit), recruit a good team, be flexible, expect the unexpected.

For us, the unexpected turned up very early on.

Flylight told us delivery dates were being pushed back because some key components were made in Ukraine, which Russia had just invaded. For our first seven weeks we would be without a kit.

Then, in another setback, the local engineering companies, who offered to send us some engineers once a week to help, changed their minds.

No problem.

We didn’t miss a beat. I ordered a brand-new off-road buggy as a pre-project for students to learn aviation workshop methods. They were told to take it apart, label the components and then put it back together while documenting what they did. A buggy was an exciting item that sparked their interest. It cost £3k but I got £2.5k back when we sold it. A £500 loss equated to less than £100 a week to amuse and train the students. That was good value. A teenage girl somewhere in Essex got a fantastic Christmas present and our plane builders had a real-world lesson in overcoming setbacks.

The resourcing problem was just as quickly solved. If you run startups, you solve problems.

I emailed the North Devon Sports and Classic Car Club asking if any members would like to volunteer and within 24 hours, I was turning away people with perfect experience. This is why I have confidence that a Build-a-Plane project can be run anywhere in the UK. The UK has a vast reservoir of retired engineers and tradespeople who would enjoy the chance to work with young people building a plane. Retired men enjoy socialising through practical project-based work. The Men’s Shed movement is built on this phenomenon.

We had the kit in our hands by Autumn half term holiday. For anyone who wants to follow our example, we can explain how to: run the kick-off, divide the work, supervise construction, manage health and safety, organise a storeroom and tool-room and maintain a good orderly project – with 16- to 18-year-olds. Of course, we faced challenges but far fewer than most projects.

Top tip: If you wonder what it is like working with 16–18-year-old students, especially males, the answer is – just as you would predict. Sometimes they needed to be calmed and even bollocked. But once we remembered what we were like at that age it was straightforward. By the end of the project there was an age difference but not a gap. It was one team. All the volunteers agree that working with young people and seeing them develop over the course of a year and helping them as they approached their exams and job interviews, was the most rewarding aspect of the project.

A few words on organisation. We had a fantastic workshop. It was an empty shed on the college site with lots of space with lockable rooms for tools and parts. The only snag: it had no heating. From December to March, we wore coats and gloves. Nobody complained. When people want to do something, they dig in. When it snowed and the college shut down, we told the students we were still working. Engineers were outside in the real world working on planes in the same weather, while we were dry and inside. The inside temperature was 8C. If felt colder. I bought a heated coat! In a moment of pity, I asked if we could send students into an office next door to warm up every so often. It was a surreal conversation with what looked like Harvey from the James Stewart film. The office receptionist was so cold she had come to work wearing a rabbit onesie. Try keeping a straight face talking to a human sized rabbit.

We divided the build into three workstreams. 1. Wings & wheels, 2. Fuselage and 3. instruments and electrics to allow work in parallel and make up for lost time. Our modus operandi was to have volunteers in on a Tuesday to locate and first fit the components. Then, take them apart, so the students could assemble them on the Wednesday. This worked extremely well.

If anyone thinks this means the students didn’t build the plane, I am ready for an argument. I have worked on many big projects, and I can build a cast-iron case to say that ever since the Big Bang, the history of the Universe has been assembling stuff that started somewhere else.

If you were to break a Boeing Dreamliner apart you will find components and sub-assemblies from forty-five main contractors, hundreds of sub-contractors, and thousands more beneath them.

And, as this is aviation, every component is important. Nothing on an aeroplane is there for fun. The whole thing has to work. That means everyone who turned a spanner on our plane gets their name on it.

Subscribe now

Try and imagine the magic of this for a generation that spent its childhood playing train simulator or Gran Turismo on PlayStation. At 18 they are making a real thing that real people (including them) will fly in. It is not imagined or simulated on a screen. That nut and bolt is real. It goes together only one way. The right way. If we find it’s wrong when we check each other’s work, it comes apart, we start again, and it goes back together the right way. Everything on the plane has to work and we all rely on each other’s discipline and commitment. How cool is that!

Our students built a plane.

In fact, so did the dinner ladies and the people in the print room and the college baristas. The janitors were regular visitors, the scaffolder working on the building next door helped us move the finished plane into the car park, the Principal who found us the space and brought VIPs to the hangar, all built the plane. I hope I am conveying the power of the project.

Obviously, the students who came every week have the greatest claim. To the BMAA and anyone else who is interested in sparking an interest in aviation among young people, the verdict is clear. The experience was incredibly positive.

When we did our initial introductions and sat in a circle to say who we were, none of them listed aviation as their passion. Twelve months later Noah, who could choose to do any degree with his A*s in Maths, Physics and Chemistry, is off to Southampton to do aerospace engineering. Tilly is determined to pursue an aviation career in the navy and will be applying to the BMAA for a pilot training bursary. All the students show visitors around the aeroplane and expertly explain how it works and they would all like to learn to fly.

Another reason for this enthusiasm is that we bought a PC, with Logitech yoke, rudder pedals, instruments, and throttle quadrant to set up our own flight simulator. Rather than fly F-18s down Barnstaple High St, we restricted flight time to a Cessna 152 flying from the former RAF base at Chivenor, which they all knew. Using the excellent Flylight manual on aeroplane control, they all went through the basics of pre-flight, take-off, climb, straight and level, turns, stalls, and landing. Like all good microlight pilots, they flew by looking out of the window, and picked up the disciplines of referring to their instruments. Today’s teenagers are all expert computer pilots, but they appreciated the disciplines of real-world aviation. When we had our BBQ and they had their first flight in a real plane, they knew what was happening and could follow a heading and try some turns. Judging by their expressions and conversations it was obvious they would like to take aviation further if there was a way.

Having passed its final inspection in August 2023, we had a frustrating battle with the weather and diaries to find a two-day slot for test flying. Our test pilot, John Hunt, was great for keeping our spirits up and when things looked right, he rang up early on a Saturday morning to say he had set off on the three-hour journey from Wales to Devon. His pre-flight inspection and attention to detail with the paperwork was challenging and thorough. Exactly how we wanted it. With a few minor items to fettle he told us he was ready to fly. The runway was slightly sticky so when the earth (mud) let go it jumped into the sky. He completed five more test flights with no issues, and we were very happy to hear “It flies nice and smooth. Well done”. The school report we hoped for.

You know how this story ended because it was mentioned at the beginning. All the students had a chance to fly in the plane before it was sold, but that wasn’t the whole story.

Perhaps the biggest proof that working together in a team creates a special bond came when Dave Karniewicz, who came up with the original idea, passed away just before that first flight. Dave suffered an infection that knocked out his transplanted kidney. He was going for dialysis every other day and still leading our project.

It was a bitter loss.

He was in hospital when I showed him a video of the plane successfully performing engine runs and a fast taxi. He knew it would pass inspection. But when I said he would be there to fly it, he looked at me and just told me straight that he wasn’t going to make it. All the fun we had, all the laughs at the pub, the breakfast fry ups in the college canteen, the dares and capers were about to an end. He was in ICU and had made his peace. I couldn’t believe it. On the way out I asked the nurse what more they could do and fighting back the tears she shook her head and said some words of comfort. What a heroic job those people do.

I was proud our students attended Dave’s funeral which was a comfort to his family, who knew how much the project meant to him. It was a lesson in life that we hadn’t anticipated but the students faced up to it and handled it well. At their request we named the plane Karnie’s Kite and at our summer BBQ, Dave’s wife attended to watch it fly. We all hoped he was looking down with pride.

Sadly, Dave is on the Dead Wall now. It will come to all of us in the end. Make sure you squeeze in a good life before it comes.

Many thanks to our team. I would like to mention their names.

Students: Matthew Gibbs, Noah Nutkins, Joe Dunsworth, Mathilda Baker, Luca Sanders, Louis Orton, Alan Smikiel, Matthew Speed

Mentors: Dave Karniewicz, Mike Simpkins, Roger Burge, Andrew James, Dave Vogler, Karl Moore, Nick Peace, Bob Bateman

Marketing sponsor: AMI - Marketing for Manufacturing who developed our website www.buildaplane.co.uk

Charity partners: North Devon Hospice and Devon Air Ambulance.

What fun we had.

Share

Subscribe now

You don’t need an alarm clock when you are 59. I was already awake when it went off at 06:30. We had a 09:00 meeting at Thomson Reuters, No1 Times Square, New York City. That has to be the easiest place to find in Manhattan.

This was an important sales call with a top-level decision-maker and I was taking no chances.

I had quit the bar early the night before to be sure to have a clear head.

My brand new suit was hanging in the wardrobe.

My shirt ironed the night before.

All I had to do was shower, get dressed, meet the team for breakfast at 7:30 and walk up a few blocks to Times Sq to be there bright and early at 8:45.

Outside it was a clear summer’s day in June, 2016.

I was completely on top of it.

Like Eisenhower on D-Day.

I swung a leg out of the bed and followed it to the bathroom. This was my thing. A big sales call in the Big City.

My domain.

Ten years earlier I had a sales territory that was London and New York. I was at home here.

The bathroom phase went without incident. No falling over on the soap. No shaving injuries. Hair in place. I emerged. Resplendent.

Next step was to put on my smart Daniel Craig tailored slim-fit suit. As well as the suit I had bought new socks, new pants, new shirt and new sunglasses to pay tribute to the Sales God.

Everything proceeded to plan until I picked the trousers off the hanger. Somehow, they didn’t seem right. When my right leg disappeared into swathes of material I knew I was in trouble. With the left leg also in place I pulled the waist up and nearly disappeared as I tried to fasten it. For fun I did up the clasp and let go. The whole arrangement dropped to the floor. WTF! I couldn’t believe it. I had picked them up from the shop the day before after they had been altered to fit my trim 37” gut. I repeated the performance. The same thing happened. A glance inside the label explained everything. 42” waist, and even that had been let out.

Many people would start crying at this point but, as a battle-hardened veteran entrepreneur my training kicked in. This would be solved.

First up problem analysis. These were the Wrong Trousers. The drippy Devon clothes shop had got them mixed up. The bloke who had mine, probably a jolly fat farmer who was going to his daughter’s wedding, would suffer permanent injury if he tried to put them on. No time to worry about him.

Second up. Solutioning. How the eff do I get out of this. My only other trousers were jeans. The appointment was for 9am, before the shops opened. There were no belt loops on the trousers and anyway how do you hide almost a foot of unneeded waist-band, besides which fatso was also a dwarf. The bottom of the trousers hung in mid air 4 inches above the shoe line.

I rang the shop in Barnstaple and alerted them to the situation. A friendly Devon voice cheerfully told me she would get the manager (and called her Mother). Her Mother greeted me warmly and said she had been waiting for me to call and I could pop in whenever I liked to swap them over.

I explained the situation. I don’t think she had heard of York let alone that there was a New one. No point wasting time. I said I would be along “as soon as”.

Back in the real world I left the room dressed in suit jacket, shirt, tie and jeans and bumped into a very dapper looking colleague wearing conventional suit trousers that fitted. He was an ex-RAF officer and Marlborough Old Boy or was it Charterhouse? No matter, you get the idea. Before he could speak, I answered his question and issued orders.

“Jeffrey, my tailor has given me the wrong trousers for my new suit. You and Dave are to proceed to breakfast and then Reuters as planned. I will buy a new suit and meet you in reception at 08:45. Got that?”

There was no argument but he clearly doubted my chances of success.

The news at reception wasn’t good. Clothes shops on Fifth Avenue don’t open until 10am on a Monday. Good. I didn’t want an easy problem. Anyone can solve them. What next? Wear jeans? Go back to the bedroom and start the crying?

No. Without a word I marched out the door. It was 07:45.

I didn’t know how but I was going to buy a suit two hours before the shops opened and turn up to the meeting properly dressed and on time. There was never any doubt in my mind. Remember that entrepreneurs. It is the most important lesson you will learn. All problems submit to determined combat.

The sun was shining and temperature climbing as I walked the deserted sidewalk past shut shop after shut shop. Then I saw movement. I pressed my nose against a window. People were in there. I went to the door and started banging on it. No reaction. I took my shoe off and gave the door a proper shellacking. That did it. Somebody moved nervously towards the nutter trying to get in with a shoe. Through the tightly closed door I shouted.

“I need to buy a suit.”

“We aren’t open.”

“I know but I have a meeting at 9 o’clock and I need to buy a suit now.”

The manager arrived. She could see a buyer. She instantly opened the door.

“I have to get a suit now”.

“What do you have in mind”.

“A good suit $1,000 no problem”

We found one with a me-sized waist but the bottom of the trouser was unfinished.

She said “no problem. I can get our tailor in right now…. If you buy two suits the second one is half price.

I LOVE America.

“Deal”.

I chose another suit. Why not. She had just saved my life.

I left my other new lightweight sharp suit and jeans at the shop to collect later and set off in the blistering heat on the fifteen-minute walk to Time Square, taking care not to sweat.

Five minutes late didn’t turn out to be a tragedy. My colleagues were still waiting in reception, looking a little drab compared to my latest New York fashion statement.

The meeting was the latest development in a long running campaign to create a new business out of a software application that had been built for a major global firm and now the firm who built it and the firm who commissioned it wanted to sell it to other major global firms. My job was to show them how to do it. That context allows me to deal with the question,

“Where do products come from?”

If you are an entrepreneur you need a product or service to sell. Some people think entrepreneurs are inventors. And, they might be but they don’t have to be. The essence of entrepreneuring is to build something not invent something. Building requires heavy lifting that most inventors aren’t keen on. Most prefer to keep their propeller heads in the research lab and pass their inventions over to others to do the hard bit. Not all, there are some who want to sell and persuade, for instance James Dyson, but not Steve Jobs. Steve Jobs was a classic entrepreneur who jumped on other people’s ideas.

The executives I was with were having trouble getting their superiors to get behind their new product. Selling to Reuters might make them sit up and notice.

Why was their company, that needed new ideas, ignoring this one?

As I don’t want to be sued by a global megacorp for dissing them, I am not naming them but I can supply the answer, which is a common problem that is not unique to this specific company.

The answer is that it did not originate in R&D.

This idea came from a consulting project that morphed into a product. That is not how big institutionalised companies think. It started in the wrong place.

Let’s get serious for a couple of thousand words. I feel like it. This section is a sort of substitute for writing a 26-page journal article, which I can’t be arsed to do. Nobody reads them anyway, and the subject has already been covered in one that I’ll post a link to at the end. (Henry Chesbrough & Richard S. Rosenbloom, 2002)

Big companies have become professionalised and specialised. Economies of scale and concentrating on core (doing one thing really well rather than doing lots of things ok) have infected them badly. They are functionally organised by specialisation. Employees are primarily identified by job (profession); accountant, an engineer, marketer, HR person, salesman, toilet cleaner, cook etc. For most people this sets their identity and career path. They move up their hierarchy and earn more money within their job silo. They might move between business units, locations, countries and employers but they take their professional identity and purpose with them. They see what each other do, because they work together. One day they might become general managers and lead a diverse team of professionals. To prepare for this they might do an MBA to pick up some book learning on the other professions; finance, marketing, HR, technology but they don’t usually spend real-time working in those departments (which is the only way to really learn about them).

For entrepreneurs who work in start-ups, it’s different.

When you start a new company, from an egg, you have no money so you have to do everything. You are the book-keeper, VAT clerk, payroll administrator, pension administrator, office services manager, HR partner, IT manager, accounts payable, accounts receivable, management accountant and financial accountant and toilet cleaner (which I am not joking about). All of that is vital administration that you need to build a business. On the other side you are even more directly involved in value creation; product design, development, testing, production, marketing, sales, delivery, support. And over the top of that you will be responsible for strategy and investor relations. Maybe you can squeeze in being a partner, parent, friend, dog owner etc. Maybe.

Is there an entrepreneur school for this?

I have never seen one.

In my experience you start a business and jump in. You have your deep skill in one thing and you learn the rest as you go and you make plenty of mistakes along the way. This education is invaluable. In my career I have spent regular spells back inside big global mult-national firms (GMNs) after we have been acquired or working as an external consultant. My general, real-world knowledge of what all the other people actually chuffing do in their work-caves gives me a big advantage compared to the glossy executives who joined on the grad scheme and then did an MBA to try and find out. Fat chance. Human beings are very tribal and if you want to join all the tribes together in a tribal alliance, it is a great advantage to understand what each tribe believes in. They all have their own professional myths they chat about when they sit down around their campfires, or go down the pub and reinforce each other’s bias and prejudices.

In a big company workers who belong to separate tribes have to work together to produce output. For most of the twentieth century this meant each business unit had its own local team with representatives of each tribe working closely together in one location where they could easily send pieces of paper to each other and join up in meeting rooms. In international firms this professionally organised hierarchy would be replicated in each country. As well as professional rivalry, these local organisations developed a local identity which also became competitive with other locations as people tried different things to prove they were better than the country next door etc.

Cheap computing, the development of TCP/IP and the internet trashed all that.

Management gurus and academics developed theories about specialisation and concentration of core activities into single global location shared service centres in low wage countries but still communicating via email, phones, teleconferencing etc. The loyalty to the business unit or local country was smashed.

Work was further segmented and specialised so that professional jobs, where workers had “permission to think”, were systemised and deskilled to be performed by cheaper less well-educated staff. Work became a commodity service that could be done anywhere to the same quality standard. (The theory goes). There is no need to elaborate further. I had an insider’s view when we were ripping the old world apart. I was involved in selling systems and setting up these operations. It’s not something I am proud of.

I made money out of helping to create call centres in countries where the phones don’t work and the call handlers can’t deal with anything outside a very narrow field of knowledge. Global business claims to have saved trillions with these “efficiencies” and “transformations”. Insiders know that is wildly exaggerated but that’s something we (professionally) do not talk about.

That is the commodity end of the labour market. New products, like the one I was about to start pushing in New York, in one of the three suits I ended up buying for the same meeting, are invented at the other end which is “value creation”. This is where ideas are born and engineered into products that actually work (sometimes with software). Then they are marketed and sold. The people who work here (like me) have a very high opinion of their special personal individual “talent” that they think is vital and scarce and cannot be commoditised, so we demand lots more pay.

HR in GMNs encourages this conceit. The very top elite talent is recruited from those who have done very well academically, been to the top universities and passed IQ tests, interviews, and psychometric testing to get on graduate training schemes which then channel them to their appropriate specialist function. Competition for these demi-God places is intense. They see themselves as a species apart.

Subscribe now

And that’s why we were in New York. Our new product had not emerged from this professional machine. It was the result of a one-off consulting project where a local consultant (an inferior life form with an entrepreneurial mindset) had solved a huge but unmet need across global business. It could become a major new market but only if the HQ class would take time to look at it.

Ironically, in these companies let’s take Xerox as a for instance with its world-famous Palo Alto Research Centre (PARC) that’s not the way the script is supposed to work. New stuff is supposed to be invented by nerds in research centres with sandboxes and slides etc to stimulate their huge brains.

How successful has that been?

Not great. I used Xerox as an example as they are so famous for not being great but the problem is the same across all global firms from tech to pharma to car manufacturing etc etc where the culture is resistant to change.

Xerox invented the GUI but Apple created the global business out of it.

It created Ethernet and the Local Area Network but 3Com created a global business out of it.

It developed the laser printer but everyone else, especially HP created a global business out of it.

It nurtured the brain behind PDF but Adobe created the global business out of it.

How come?

I can’t say for certain but I suspect that like most global firms they lack the renegade risk-taking rule breakers who did badly at school but are who you need to rip up the status quo and build new stuff.

Serious interlude over.

Now, back to why I was in New York with a pair of trousers whose waist diameter was 12 inches longer than their length, as an external hired gun, helping a couple of guys on a black ops sales call to Reuters. The real company we were selling to was their own company that owned and developed the product, but they weren’t interested in it.

I knew the only way to convince our own side was to sell the new product to a global firm that could afford to buy anything it wanted, because HQ could not say “So what?” to that. And, I had helped them develop an entrepreneurial business plan for a standalone spinout to extract them from bureaucratic glaciation.

And it went well.

They liked the product. They liked us. We all had trousers that fitted and that is important. We described the business challenge from their point of view, offered a solution, listed the benefits, revealed that the economic benefits far outweighed the purchase and running costs. We covered off configuration, training, technology, security, payment. We laid out how all of our claims could be tested and proven prior to contract. It was powerful, charismatic, intoxicating. The prospective clients fell under the spell. The meeting ended well with commitments from both sides to go to the “next step”. There were many, many steps still to go but the prize was huge and we were satisfied with the outcome.

As we were in New York, we stuck around for a few days and nights out (it’s a fun city, we were on expenses) and delivered seminars to VIPs from the Wall St banks.

Two things of note about those seminars.

This was 2016, the year of Trump and the Brexit referendum which was taking place that week. In the warm up chats before we started presenting I confidently predicted Remain would win and our US seminar participants confidently predicted Trump would lose. Which shows how much you should listen to overpaid, senior business executives.

Secondly, I asked the overpaid US business execs if they could name one person in the US who everyone liked, who might unite their country that was ripping itself apart in a political war. Attendees at both seminars were unanimous; there was only person and that was - Tom Hanks. (What a burden. I wonder if he knows).

The seminars went ok. Interest was strong and sincere. But until we got that big order from a global firm, we were nothing but a bunch of guys with PowerPoints.

My flight home was on the day of the referendum. I arrived at the airport at 10pm and wondered why the business lounge was so silent. One look at the tellies gave me the answer. It was 3am in the morning in the UK. In the BBC studio David Dimbleby had never looked so tired and depressed. The UK had voted to leave. I joined in the silence and wondered if there would be anything left of our little island to land on.

Henry Chesbrough & Richard S. Rosenbloom, “The Role of the Business Model in Capturing Value from Innovation: Evidence from Xerox Corporation’s Technology Spin-Off Companies,” Industrial and Corporate Change, 2002, 11(3), pp. 529–555.

Share

Subscribe now

I have never been a customer in the so called “massage parlour” service sector. So, I was at a bit of a loss, not knowing what to expect, when Dan showed me into a private room, told me to take off my trousers and pants and lay on the bed and gave me a towel to place over my gentleman’s parts, and said Annie would be along in a moment and it was their policy for someone else to be present, so he would be my “chaperone”.

Being English and feeling a bit awkward, I thanked him politely and did as I was told.

A few minutes later, Annie, a large, cheerful lady, who had the air of someone who had seen everything, and Dan swept into the room.

“Have you done anything like this before?” Annie said, loudly, in a strong West Indian accent, rolling her sleeves up and zapping her marigolds on.

“I don’t think so”, I said.

She rolled her eyes, then whipped the towel away and said.

“I am going to gel you up and then we can start”.

She poured a sticky fluid over my bits and pieces. Dan the chaperone, a nice, friendly “chap”, sat by my side and kicked off the conversation.

“Where do you come from?” he said.

What was he on about? How do you reply to that…?

“The same place as everyone else”..? I said, but he meant where did I start my journey from, and I told him near South Molton.

Share

“Have you always lived there?” he said, as Annie got going rubbing in the gel in a circular motion.

“No, I was born in Barking, Essex but I have lived in Devon for ten years”

“I thought I noticed an accent” said Dan, in a Devon accent.

“Why did you move to Devon?” he was genuinely interested, Annie was working away intently.

“I wanted to move to Devon since I was five”, I said.

Annie roared with laughter rolling her eyes again like Rustie Lee the famous TV am cook.

“Since you were five?” she roared. “Why was that?”

I explained that I was on the beach at Woolacombe, and I thought it was paradise, and I never wanted to leave, so I decided I would live in Devon one day. She chortled away still maintaining her grip, rhythmically working round and round from one testicle to the other.

I explained, I had left home to follow a career and never went back but my brothers still lived in walking distance of my Mum, who was 92. Annie said she didn’t want her sons to leave home. I said my son was even worse than me as he had emigrated to America.

“Where?”, they asked.

“Well, he was a mechanic and did an online motorsport engineering degree, then he went to Indianapolis to do a Motorsport masters and now he works as an aerodynamicist in North Carolina”. I said proudly. They were impressed and we got talking about how hard it was to get boys off their PlayStations and do their homework, but I said my son showed there was hope and they get there in the end. Yadda, yadda, yadda. We were having a fine old time, yacking away about a subject we all agreed on, with Annie professionally doing her thing (down below) with her gentle feminine touch and uninhibited conversation and laughter. She kept shaking her head saying,

“How can you decide where you want to live when you are five?”.

And then she stopped.

“We are all done” she said. Straight faced.

And, then there was that pause in which you wait for the next thing.

“Don’t worry” she said. “Nothing sinister, just fluid, contact your GP in a week’s time”.

Smiles all round. Then Dan said.

“I see you are down for an X-ray on your hips. I asked down the corridor and they said they can do that today if you want“.

I was expecting a four week wait, so I said definitely let’s go for it. I got dressed and it was only a short walk in a small hospital past people, who I didn’t know, who greeted me with a smile or a nod or a “hello” as is customary in a backward rural region, where the default human setting is warm and friendly. I had recently been visiting my Mum in Queen’s hospital Romford, and it struck me how different it was here in Devon; there were no security guards working in pairs wearing stab vests.

Alex the X-ray guy, told me to get changed into a gown but this time I didn’t need a chaperone, so Dan left the scene. There was no queue. I was done in a few minutes. The ultrasound had started on time at 2:40 and I was walking back to my car after my hip x-ray by 3.10. No complaints about the NHS on this trip. On the way out I put my car registration in the machine and paid for my parking. This was the same system as in Queen’s hospital, Romford, so I was expecting the same long queue as the car reg was matched by a camera and payment checked before the barrier was raised to let me out, except, this was Devon, there was no barrier, there was just a sign saying “did you remember to pay for your parking”, and having lived here for ten years, I am sure that anyone who had forgotten would stop and go back and pay.

I was five, when I decided this is where I wanted to live.

Subscribe now

There are times when I imagine a long chain of human face to face contact handing over the skills of this ancient craft (see below) in an unbroken chain from generation to generation stretching back centuries sitting in the pub in the same half circle around the same log fire, that never goes out, that has heard every story, listening, laughing and giving them sparks out of ten.

On this afternoon two proper old Devon boys, Peter and Brian had been hitting the cider. One had a very smart leather waistcoat which is a good look I might adopt.

When it was his round he thrust his hand deep in his pocket, like bus conductors used to do, and pulled out a mound of coins like a crane bucket might scoop mud out of a hole and then sorted them in the flat of his hand picking out the right ones until he had enough for a double round (they were buying double rounds on each trip to the bar). This took time and was accompanied by loud derision from the small group sitting in the circle who told him to “get on with it” because he was “holding things up”. Undaunted he carried on theatrically, then went behind the bar, helped himself to four cans of Thatcher’s Gold and slammed the money on the counter.

When he sat down he said.

“I’ve got a story to tell you about money as you’re all so interested in it”.

Nice start.

About half the group looked up to Heaven or sat back waiting to hear it again, as they had heard it many times before.

“I was in the Williams Inn to meet him (Peter) as I owed him some money for something”.

…. “It was six grand” said Peter.

“That durznt matterrrrr….”

[pause to regain control of the audience]

.. “can I carry onnnn then” (rural drawl… pause and stare… nod from Peter)…

“roight then…”.

Sip of cider…

“Where woz I? That’s roight we were meeting for breakfast and they had a lovely fire going. I has the six grand with me….”

Peter interrupted again.

“He had it stuffed in six little plastic boxes not folded up to make it easy to count loike anybody else would”…

[Note: as if “anybody else” would hand over £6k over to settle a debt - in a pub - at a breakfast meeting]

Peter helped the build up once again,

“And he makes a big performance of getting each box out and banging it down in front of me. I goes along with it as I knows this was probably my only chance of getting paid by him”.

Brian resumed.

“and then he sez… (referring to Peter) … you got me up early to pay me six grand. I don’t get out of bed for less than ten grand”.

Peter nodded that he had said this and said everybody there in the story circle who knew him wouldn’t be surprised by that.

[Muttered agreement for the benefit of new listeners who did not know Peter or the story]].

Brian resumed again.

“So … I threw it on the fire”.

Peter said “he did as well”.

Brian said, “you should have seen him jump up and burn his little fingers trying to save his money”.

Peter said, “I had to. I thought I bet the bugger hasn’t even put the money in the boxes”.

Anyway, the money was all there in the little boxes and the venue with the big hearth and fire that was chosen for the plan was told in advance to get a good fire going and other people, who they both knew, were also told and were secretly waiting in the pub to watch what happened when £6k got lobbed in the flames.

Loud guffaws of laughter all round from new listeners and those who had heard the story many times before.

These stories are theatrical and sitting in a circle telling them is a sort of folk activity that I have learnt about in my rural anthropological action research education. Status in the group is elevated by featuring in the story as “being there” when they happened. Part of the ritual is to state who was there (for proof it happened) at the beginning of the story. I am starting to chalk up marks for this.

“I tell you who waz there.. Ken .. and Alan”

And, if you were there you nod acknowledgment and if the story has been told before, as they nearly all have, listeners who are story spotters can often guess which one it is from the “”I tell who was there” intro.

When you have been around long enough you are trusted to tell stories yourself and you learn how to deliver in a cadence that allows listeners to laugh and take a swig of ale as it unfolds.

When the laughter died down on Brian’s excellent “turn” somebody referred to a bloke, who is rumoured to now be a school janitor in Bideford, who was in a pop group called KLF who famously burnt a million quid on a fire on a Scottish island for a laugh (art).

Comments were made by wizened farmers about how they bet he wishes he hadn’t done that now.

But he doesn’t as confirmed at another art event when KLF turned up in an ice cream van to break their 23 year silence on the matter.

A million quid did go up in smoke, but I can’t confirm it was burnt by someone who is now a school janitor in Bideford. I think he lives in Totnes.

Anyway, what I do know is that if Peter had been there he would have jumped into the flames to pull it out.

Share

Why did the KLF burn a million pounds? ‘Because it was fun’

https://www.thetimes.com/article/b2a8661e-88e0-11e7-a8f3-117a3aea90d9?shareToken=b0fc21197e56ccbda74b3d455c268abe

We could not bear the thought of putting Becky (loving to us but a ferocious lunatic with strangers) into kennels, so we decided to employ housesitters. People with big houses use house sitting agencies found in the classifieds in Country Life magazine. The agencies arrange for respectable class appropriate people like retired Army Officers from the Household regiments to sit your house. We were allocated a retired Headmaster and his wife. They came around on a Sunday to look us over and be introduced to the dogs. As I was new at social mobility I was under strict instructions.

1. Sit still
2. Don’t speak (due to common Essex accent).
3. Don’t eat or drink (more social defects).

Trudy would do all the talking in her BBC announcer county voice. Cakes, tea and biscuits were arranged. The throws were lashed down over the armchairs and sofas to hide where they had been eaten by the dogs. We were all set.

When their car pulled up things got off to an ‘iffy start. The dogs had an argument in front of the gates. Nothing serious but it took a minute to separate them. Less caring owners would have hosed them down, or maybe beaten them with big clubs. I just shouted. A lot. With things loosely under control, Trudy opened the electronic gates and the housesitters drove in, cautiously. I had the dogs on leads. They were dragging me after the car. Trudy advanced towards the driver’s door window.

“How lovely to meet you. Have you had a pleasant journey. Isn’t it a nice day”.

[Growl growl nash nash bark bark].

After some comforting small talk through the tiniest of gaps in a barely open car window, they were confident enough to get out and set off to the house. As they walked along, I stayed a safe distance behind struggling to hold back 15 stone of excited dogs with both my feet sliding in the gravel. On a dry day big plumes of dust rise up from my shoes. I look like a human chariot pulled by the hounds of Hades. I could tell from the look on Trudy’s face that she would have preferred me not to do this, but to be honest I didn’t have much choice.

Our guests were shown into the lounge and I gave the dogs two enormous bones in the hope they would stay quiet. I shut the door leaving them in the hall. That didn’t work. They started throwing themselves at the door. The house was shaking and nobody could be heard above the racket. I opened the door and they brought their bones in. They lay there gnawing and growling in a contented sort of way.

Conversation started to flow. Trudy was doing a great job. I was sitting there in my tweed jacket and tie and shiny shoes saying nothing. I don’t know if they even knew who or what I was. They glanced at me now and again but I didn’t acknowledge them or say anything. Maybe they thought I was the dog butler. Then, a large noisy bumble bee got in the room. Becky, who is much the more aggressive dog and quite neurotic, moved in on the bee. That old hunting instinct. Uncontrollable. Head lowered, teeth bared, shoulders hunched, growling, she stalked the bee. The housesitters looked edgy. I sensed they wanted me to do something but the only way I could keep a straight face was to sit perfectly still digging my nails in my palms to create pain and staring straight ahead to ignore them.

Trudy offered more cakes and kept talking.

The bee landed and took off again. Becky leapt after it teeth snapping, mouth foaming. The bee weaved and dipped. The dog jumped (continuously) with great hang-time. Incidental furniture side tables, lamps etc got knocked to the floor. Some of Becky’s air bites were so fierce she defied gravity for fractions of a second. Her mouth was emitting big globs of saliva, her teeth were making a loud slashing noise.

Trudy knew the situation was getting out of control. But at this stage the housesitters were more stunned than scared. They sat there with their mouths slightly open, tea spilling slowly from cups into the saucers. Trudy glided to the end of the lounge and opened the double glazing to shoo out the bee. The bee dodged her and flew to one side. She adjusted the double glazing and opened a different window. It worked. The bee flew out. She turned around triumphantly, just in time to see Becky leap through the window after the bee. The housesitters gasped. Trudy knew she couldn’t just ignore it.

“Oh look the dog’s just jumped through the window”, she said casually as she walked back up the lounge.

It was at this point that Boo realised something was up and decided to join in. He ran down the room gathering speed and jumped ... straight into the double glazing.

The glass did not break but it was severely shaken and it bore the perfect image of a dog nose print. Boo wobbled around. He couldn’t figure it out. The air had suddenly solidified. Even Trudy was lost for words. She looked at Boo. She looked at the housesitters. She looked at me. She had just about regained composure to speak when... Becky re-entered back through the window ... at speed and landed on Boo. What could easily have turned into another fight passed off with a couple of cursory snaps as Becky went back to her bone. She threw us all a “what are you looking at”, kind of look, “haven’t you ever seen a 110lb dog jumping in and out of windows before?”. Boo staggered around like a drunk. Concussion I guess.

I let go. I couldn’t help it. I laughed like a drain. It was the funniest slapstick routine I had ever seen. The housesitters shock, The Fawlty Towers attempts to pretend everything was normal and mad dogs jumping in and out of windows. I creased up.

Anyway, it turned out OK. The housesitters had lived on farms in Africa and Australia. They were even used to Rhodesian Ridgebacks. They had a good laugh as well. They took the job and sat our house on every holiday we went on over the next twenty years. Like everyone who gets to know these dogs their hearts were captured. They even made us a set of placemats from photos they had taken of the dogs in the garden. My favourite is Boo bouncing on the trampoline.

“No, it couldn’t”, my wife said.

A typical exchange. No sympathy, not that I was asking for any. I just mentioned it because I thought it was interesting. I have been cutting my own hair with electric clippers since Covid (a practice that has saved far more than the purchase cost of the clippers) when today, by accident, I started cutting my hair without the comb thingy that sets the length. A number 1 is “skinhead”, No 6 is “George Clooney”. George also cuts his own hair. Without a comb it cuts even shorter than number 1, in fact it’s a scalping. Not having an elegantly shaped head, I usually go for number 4.

I wasn’t looking in the mirror as I started cutting and when I looked up I saw a 4cm wide firebreak down the centre of my nut (from front to back). Forgetting to attach the comb must happen all the time, especially if you are listening to podcasts like I was (which was on A J Ayers famous dismantling of Wittgenstein’s metaphysics, or so he thought). There were no metaphysics in the mirror. It was a physical fact. A fact I couldn’t bluff my way out of. It could not be passed off as a centre parting. Too wide. Now what? I stood there, clippers in hand, mouth open looking at a head which was the opposite of a Mohican. Obviously, I had to sort this out.

Shaving my whole head to create a uniform, consistent all-over billiard ball was impossible due to “potato-head” shape. It was the one thing that would look even worse. So, I cut test strips by its side with a number 3 and then a number 2 and when it became obvious that nothing could stop the shaved patch looking like hair growing back after brain surgery, I buzzed over the whole dome with a number 1, taking care not to remove any ears.

Looking in the mirror and then holding up another mirror to check the sides and back, I was struck by how my friends, who have been bald since early manhood, have done a much better job cultivating a more human look. The face left hanging under my scalp looked, vacant and idiotic. Which it was.

I needed to check how my new look would go down. So, my wife asked her colleagues who work in our house, to “come and look at Ken’s new hairstyle”. Who could resist? There is a moment on a person’s face when they see something surprising when they can’t conceal their true opinion. Then they change their expression and, out of compassion, utter a few kind words. Not on this occasion.

“What did you do that for?” said a normally polite person, leaving a pause before continuing “at your age”.

Trying to think what George Clooney would say, who is a man only four years my junior and, therefore, must have made this same mistake at some point, I said “It was an accident”.

Not much of a riposte. There was no further conversation. I think they were hoping for something comical rather than plain tragic.

Before

After

Fortunately, I had no immediate speaking engagements, and I rarely bump into young children so I wouldn’t have to listen to them screaming. The pub was a concern. Without deliberately cultivating an image, I have been labelled over the years as a serious businessperson. A steady hand who can be relied upon. A sound judge of the world whose opinion carries weight in the courtroom of the public bar. As soon as I stepped through the door, that evaporated into thin hair. Convict-head incompetence isn’t something you can stand under and hope nobody notices. You either bring it up yourself “did if for charity”, “fleas”, or face the insults “did you pay for that?”, “where did you get that done, I want to avoid them”, “did you fall into a pencil sharpener?”.

A J Ayers logical positivism offered nothing to help. Wittgenstein had more promise. He could explain that this stunning haircut illustrated one of those anomalies that prove that communication can never be absolute and exact. Unlike events in Maths or Physics the subject under observation is always open to subjective variations in interpretation. Here was a head that clearly fitted the words “ageing skinhead bovver boy” while, in reality, the truth was “man with self-haircut gone horribly wrong”. Wittgenstein was right. He always is. Sometimes.

Subscribe now

To take the skinhead persona further, I have a confession to make. I could don the relevant attire. I have it all in my wardrobe. I admit I was there in the late 1960s and early 1970s when skinheads evolved. I admit I have a pair of Doc Marten’s (boots), a Ben Sherman shirt, Levi jeans and a long dark overcoat (Boss not Crombie). Each of these items is safe and acceptable to wear separately, but worn together, under my current hairstyle, they are toxic.

“Is this what Bill Gardener looks like today?”, I thought with reference to the famed InterCity Firm (ICF) hooligan. I never got involved in hooliganism, but back then in east London you had to wear the clothes they wore, to move safely about the streets. You had to look like them to be invisible. Believe me, you didn’t want to be visible (different). In all the times I walked home at night around Barking, Dagenham and Romford to save bus fares, I never got attacked.

Assault in a public place didn’t happen until I was fifty walking back home from Wokingham station, wearing my glasses, dressed in a suit, carrying my laptop bag through streets lined by nice executive homes. I had observed two young males, walking towards me and thought I would not show fear by crossing the road to avoid them and - just after we passed - a blow struck the back of my head with such force it knocked me from the pavement across the road. As I slid along watching the contents of my laptop bag spilling out in slow motion, I realised my appearance had painted a bullseye on my head. In the games going on in the minds of young males walking between pubs on a Friday night I looked like a soft, old, riskless target. A turning point in life.

It might look ridiculous but would my current hairdo combined with some retro working-class clothes and maybe a tattoo suggest to the violently inclined that they should wait for a more willing victim?

Maybe I will keep it.

Subscribe now

Steve, the publican, went in with Jack and they came out and Jack gave the carer her drink in the car, the engine still running. Jack lit a cannabis roll up and flashed his NHS medicinal cannabis card. We nodded consent. He is stick thin, my age, sixty approaching seventy, and has long thinning grey hair, centre parted by what looks like a fire break. His face ends with a beard that tangles down to his waist. Like everyone on benefits he was in tracksuit trousers and trainers. He is intelligent, articulate and… alternative. A bit like Neil in “Seven Up” before he found fame in “The Young Ones”. Bright but dark. He is now living in a council flat but before that he lived for five years in a hut he built himself on Exmoor and before that he lived for ten years in a car. He used to come to the pub to have a bath.

We had a chat and Jack checked on his carer and came back and said they were going inside to get out of the Sun. I was pissed off as I wanted to stay out so I ignored them as they walked in. That’s the carer wagging the cared for, I thought. Some time later I went in to pour myself another beer and saw that the carer was Rachel! All negative thoughts evaporated. She is one of my heroes. A rough talking, rollup smoking, rural working class hero. A hard worker who drives between care appointments and is not paid for her travel time and hasn’t had her mileage allowance increased in years. More than ten years. But off she trundles to warm up lunches and wipe arses all over Exmoor.

I always buy her a drink.

She talks like a bloke and takes no prisoners. I wouldn’t cross her. I asked where she had been as it was so long since I had seen her. In a husky, wheezing voice she said she had taken early retirement.

“What, to spend your millions?” I said.

“No. I can’t fucking breathe”.

Emphysema. Should have known.

Rachel had driven Jack to the pub unpaid, as a favour and she couldn’t stand the heat. I said the Sun had gone in. We all went outside. She rolled herself a Rizla.

To make conversation, but not much, Steve asked Jack how dead he was. He has had a growth removed from his lung and has just started chemo. Jack said he felt ok.

“What are you doing with yourself then?”

Jack leant forward to share precious information. Eyes sparkling with excitement he said he had started watching a livecam of a watering hole in Africa which he says is far more interesting than the shite from Attenborough. He described Hyenas piercing the carcas of a dead hippo that had bloated like a hot air balloon which exploded sending flesh flying everywhere and then they all ran around devouring it. Awesome. Real nature.

Feeling socially obliged to keep the subject going, I made an appreciative remark, “Imagine the smell”.

Everyone agreed. Death is not taboo here in the country. Steve, Jack and Rachel all have “long term life limiting conditions” that they refer to without being spooked. “Aren’t you dead?” is a common greeting. When I got to the pub after an absence of three weeks, Steve said “We thought we had to clear a space on the dead wall, but couldn’t be arsed to ask about you”.

I went on with my country wisdom, “Nothing smells as bad as a dead thing”.

Things die all the time up on Exmoor, including ponies and deer. They don’t get buried or cremated like you will be. They rot and get eaten by foxes, flies, crows, bacteria etc and the stench is gagging. If you are approaching a large mammal corpse, you smell it before you see it.

Raitch piped up about smelling the death smell every time she stopped at Bear Street traffic lights in Barnstaple. She said,

“I said someone needs to find that dead cat. It was fucking awful for weeks. People walked past it but nobody did anything, you know near that bench where the druggies used to sit”.

The bench was indeed known, not far from a pub used by the strong cider drinkers. Some words were exchanged about the pub and how rough it was when all the violent criminals of their youth used to hang out there. They are still there but they are now old and infirm and therefore relatively harmless.

“Anyway”, Rachel continued. “They stopped using the bench”.

So what? We thought.

“After they found the dead body”.

The reaction to this remark was: “typical, everyone leaves things to someone else”, said pejoratively like superior Surrey folk do if they notice someone walking past litter without picking it up.

Stan, a retired farmer in his mid 90s, rolled up in slow motion in his new Land Rover and took ten minutes trying to reverse into a parking space. We watched with interest. Steve said he only had his previous new car for a few weeks but as he couldn’t find out how to turn its lights on he traded it and got a different one. Stan speaks in a Devon dialect that I cannot understand a word of, not one, but eveyone else can. He doesn’t say much though. He has one pint of ale and goes home. Like all farmers he is naturally frugal but now he is getting on he is spending his money. Hence the new cars. This one’s a hybrid.

And, so the afternoon went on. A reference was made to Claire, a retired nurse who used to run the bar, but got fed up with being poor so she sold her cottage in North Molton for £280k and bought a better one in a seaside village in France for £60k and trousered the difference. She is happy there. Rural poeople who couldn’t afford to pay their bills, run a car and go for a pint voiced their sympathy.

I drained the last dreg from my glass and said I was off. It was 5:45. The evening shift would be arriving soon.

For what?

Chat.

That’s all there is. No tv, no factory made food (this is a pub not pretending to be bistro), no music, just people sharing a few words to burn the Sun down and fill a bit of another day.

It was like sitting in one of those Japanese POW stress position torture cages where you can never get comfortable.

We arrived 45 minutes before the Wright Brothers Memorial closed, which was long enough to tick it off. We walked the course of the first four flights, did a lap of the museum, got some T shirts and made it out before they locked up.

I fly gliders and planes but I sometimes get blinding migraines so I never became a solo pilot. When I was sixty I had a flight in a Spitfire. Taking the controls was unforgettable. This year I am seventy so my son suggested we visit Kitty Hawk. Making the pilgrimage had been on my bucket list for many years but that wasn’t why I was so emotional when I finally stood on that sacred ground. The reason was that just like Wilbur and Orville, I had taunted the laws of physics in a man-made deathtrap and was grateful to be alive. In my case, my son’s car. He makes Luke Duke look like a test examiner. As his father I can’t criticise or show fear. That would make it worse.

I guess he knows what he is doing. He emigrated to the US to work as an aerodynamicist in the motorsport industry. He works with teams from Nascar, the Indy series, Le Mans by running wind tunnel tests where they tie cars down and blast them with air moving at 180mph to check they won’t just take off and fly away. As we sped along the Freeway, making sudden high speed lane changes that break the boundary layer that stops cars from becoming aeroplanes, I prayed that Bernoulli was right with his flow equations. Now and again when I saw a police car, my son reassured me that everyone ignores the speed limit in North Carolina. I can confirm this. He has retained his English accent but in every other way he is becoming Ricky Bobby.

At our Airbnb, I was ready to sob and beg to have food delivered rather than get in the car again. But I didn’t have to do that. I played the dog card. I said it was more considerate. And it was. The dog enjoyed the ride from Charlotte about as much as I did. Now and then I caught him looking out the rear window, amazed at how quickly the world receded behind us.

After dinner, we walked along the beach but I couldn’t really enjoy the sunset.

I was haunted by the knowledge we would have to do the whole trip in reverse the next day. Direction not gear. Though I wouldn’t put it past him.

The apprehension wasn’t only about the death-driving. For some reason, common sense?, I felt we might break down. His car is 20 years old and has done over 200,000 miles, and we would be setting off for another 6 hours flat out in 35C heat. All that is bad. But the really superbad thing that was bothering the shit out of me was that the engine warning light was on before we set off from Charlotte and – it was still on.

Let me explain, for anyone who stops their car immediately when a warning light comes on, as the manufacturers tell you to do – or they will find you and kill you. Before he got his motorsport BSc and MSc, my son was an Audi master tech, servicing and maintaining the complex precision engineering that makes German cars so expensive and fast. He maintains his own cars to the same philosophy as every other mechanic.

He doesn’t.

He believes his car is too scared of him to break down. Engine warning light? Pah. Fix it tomorrow or next week.

Share

When we filled up to drive back, he told me (and the dog) he was confident we could make it without stopping again (or even slowing down, I thought). If anything, his driving was even more exciting. About five hours in we abruptly switched lane to overtake a huge truck that I was almost certain he intended to drive beneath and then we had to swerve towards the barriers, as the car behind didn’t let us in. He took this casually in his stride but for me he shock of nearly dying brought on a migraine, which was actually a blessing as I couldn’t see anything for the next 45 minutes. When it wore off, we were only 30 miles from home on a crowded six lane freeway approaching Charlotte. Speed was being maintained by threaded through gaps that weren’t actually there other than through the miracle of quantum physics.

Then it happened – a high-pitched warning sound and the engine warning light turned bright red and flashed like a beacon.

My son and I didn’t look at each other, we looked at the temperature gauge.

“It’s still normal” he said, completely unphased.

“It’s not now” I said.

It shot off the scale and we could smell burning. He switched the engine off to save its life and engaged in a very exciting sequence of coasting and weaving while looking for somewhere to stop where we wouldn’t be killed by one of the many people who look at their phones and text while driving in North Carolina.

I stayed calm. Now was not the time to ask why we had done 12 hours of terror driving with a warning light on. Obviously, should we live, I would bring it up in that irritating, know-all “grumpy” way that fathers are criticised for.

By a miracle, in my opinion but totally to be expected in his opinion, an exit appeared and just beyond it, a garage. He restarted the engine at intervals just long enough to get us there without melting it. It was 35C outside but when we opened the doors, heat rushed out.

Nothing was said. My son popped the bonnet, poured a bottle of water in the coolant tank and when it fell straight through to the ground he knew the problem. With a shrug of the shoulders, he came back to the car and took the dog out for a piss and a shit. I had been considering the same thing for the last five minutes.

While he was gone a southern lady pulled up and asked,

“Y’all ok? I saw yer and ah don’t like to leave y’all in trouble there”

I said “thanks, are you a mechanic?”

She said “Aww I’m just a backyard mechanic but happy to help”.

I said “my son is an Audi master mechanic”.

“How come y’all broke down?”

Good question. Never buy a car from a mechanic was my advice. Nice lady though.

“Don’t worry I have a plan”, said Doug when he got back. “I have ordered an Uber Pets, it’s on its way”.

Eh?

Yes, there is an Uber Pets. He knew the drivers name and the direction she was coming from. She was with us in a few minutes and got us home in 30 for $33. The driver was a large friendly lady who told us she had just been laid off by a bank. Despite this was very upbeat and chatty and keen to keep earning by doing Uber pets rides. A really nice person. Doug gave her a $10 tip. I gave her $20.

Lifesaver.

Back in the apartment Doug told me he would get a non-pets Uber to go back to fix and collect the car because he “knows what it is”. Once again, I declined the opportunity to say “You know what it is and we set off in a heatwave with an engine warning light on and only God’s divine intervention saved us from certain death?”.

What’s the point? He could argue nothing bad happened. In fact, he did argue nothing bad had happened. And, on reflection, he might have been right.

He casually got a frube out of the fride, ripped the top off, chugged it down and then fired up his computer, designed a replacement part and 3D printed it. Totally “chilled”. Watching him work, I sensed the changing of the generational guard. This is his way. This is how he does things. He is happy. He lives in a great place, works in a cool industry, he rides out car problems like a cowboy breaking in a mustang. Everything was where he wanted it in his world. Who am I to judge? Respect.

But, did it work?

Of course it worked. He’s a motorsport engineer.

Subscribe now

[Medium weight “man-killer”]

The chemist told me to come back in ten minutes and my prescription would be ready.

Statins.

No complaints. I’m old. I enjoyed my unhealthy executive life. It’s cholesterol payback time.

I went out and sat on a bench overlooking the market square. It was a sunny day in sleepy South Molton. The sun felt great. I looked at my phone. It’s North Devon. It’s ok. South Molton is a small market town. Poor but safe. There are no masked phone snatchers on electric bikes. The only hazard is people who want to stop for a chat. In London they say everyone you know will pass by if you stand in Trafalgar Square long enough. In South Molton just sit on that bench and they line up. And, as it’s the country, they don’t pretend not to notice you and walk past. They stop and they talk.

“Alreet?” (alright?) they might say.

Alreet, is an invitation to share news and hear news in return. You signal acceptance by nodding and saying “Alreet” back and then you start to “yarp” which is our word for idle rural banter.

My first yarp was with Alan a proper Exmoor farmer (small farm, “laid back” not intensive). I told Alan I was indeed “alreet” even though I had been knocking in some fence posts with a “post-knocker”.

He frowned. I told him that when the delivery driver dropped it off, he said the locals call it a man-killer.

He frowned a bit more. Then scratched his chin and shook his head.

“The heavier they are the faster they work, but them’s barstard things. They are for young men.”

I told him, not to worry as I limit myself to one post a day and “I’ve got all summer”. That’s a Devon rate of urgency I thought he’d like. But he wasn’t ready to move on.

“I never used to bang them in deep”, he said. And then he passed on a work avoidance tip; like a “cheat” in a computer game or a “hack” in a business system. I was interested. Banging in a post through stone and clay until one quarter of it is underground and then doing it again and again until you have a whole fence at the same height is very difficult. Anything less than level makes you a laughing stock.

“Bang them in until they won’t fall over in the wind then… run a string across the tops to create a level guide and cut the tops off with a chainsaw”.

He checked to make sure nobody heard him passing over farming secrets. Everyone passes that bench in South Molton. The coast was clear. We shared a lazy farmer chuckle. Life’s too short to worry about perfect fence posts. Alan and I might have grown up worlds apart but I think we are both from the boys who messed around at school club. Takes one to know one, alreet. I was impressed.

When he made his way along, the next person arrived and then the next and the next. I felt like a greeter with a line of guests. I spoke to George, John (twice) “you still here then”, David and Janet. And, had quite a long conversation with Garth who was walking with a “thumb-stick” that I took the trouble to admire. Up on Exmoor it is useful to walk with a stick even if you have the right number of fully functioning legs. On a thumb stick your thumb sits in a V at the top of the stick. (Top tip for townies: the V is not for trapping snakes. Don’t try it). Urban “outdoor” people with all the gear use those telescopic ski-poles but these days I keep my eyes open for a fallen branch that can be spoke-shaved, sanded and oiled that does the same job and looks much more rustic. I have a collection of rough hewn sticks and staffs. My son now calls me Gandalf.

Subscribe now

When I eventually made it back to the chemist Mary said “Where’ve you been Ken, I said ten minutes not an hour”, [laughter all around the shop]. Of course, the chemist knows my name and so does the butcher, baker etc and John and George who I spoke to earlier and were now both in the queue waiting for Covid jabs.

I took my place and entered into a conversation with Jake, a six-year-old-boy dressed in a rabbit onesie carrying a toy tractor, who told me he was there because he had an itchy ear. I assured him the chemist would sort that out in no time and complimented him on his outfit. I could tell he had already informed everyone else in the queue.

Anyway, shit, an hour…?

Wasted?

No.

How can time spent with people who know your name and want to know how you are, be wasted?

Anyway, as everyone knows around here, that bench is the only way to find out about important stuff like: how to avoid dying knocking in posts with a man-killer and the secret of selecting the right branch of Hazel, Ash or Hawthorn to make a banging authentic Exmoor thumb-stick. If you want to find stuff out, forget ChatGPT sit on that bench. It wil turn up.

Share

In rural areas death is a conversation opener right up there with the weather, potholes or the price of diesel. Mention death stuff and people find it easy to join in. So assisted dying was an obvious subject for the Poltimore Arms Monday night Drink Tank. These meetings bring ordinary country folk together to solve the big questions, over a few beers and free sausage rolls.

In the country death is a constant companion. Part of everyday life. On the local hill farms death is how they earn their living. They get paid when they send lambs to slaughter. Cows on dairy farms go to slaughter after three years of milking and male calves (steers) are castrated and live a carefree life for two years until they stop putting on weight and are sent to market. Commercial laying hens have a working life of about two to three years. Birds for the pot are ready after six weeks. Death is a way of life.

Townies like you and me are removed from this carnage, so when we hear the stats and think about it, we can’t help identifying with all creatures great and small and thinking their lives are mini versions of our human selves. Not so in the country, if you move here you better be ready to live with death.

It’s not to say country folk treat death coldly or superficially. Farmers have feelings. They have relationships with animals. They see the stress in their flocks when they go to market. Most farmers I know take animal welfare seriously but they operate small independent farms not the factory farms that set the low market price that small independents struggle to match. If the cost of feed or fuel or wages goes up the farmer has to absorb it. The supermarkets wring every drop of blood they can out of farmers. To survive many have a second job, or take out huge loans, or lease expensive equipment over periods longer than a human life, which is how it turns out for some I can think of five suicides in the last ten years. The most recent was a sheep farmer who rang home from his mobile to say which field his body could be found in. And, there are plenty of ways to top yourself on a farm. Shotguns, poison, rope are close to hand. We don’t get stabbing and shootings, like you do in cities, but with country hazards and all the normal ways to die, death never comes as a shock. In fact, the Pub has a dead wall, where photos of regulars who are no longer with us can still smile at you and there is a line queueing up to join them. Rural populations tend to be older so someone is always in the process of making it to the wall battling against a terminal condition.

[Poltimore Arms customer waiting to go on Dead Wall]

Subscribe now

In a rural pub there is no shyness about referring directly to imminent personal oblivion when asking someone about their health. It’s one of those rural quirks you get accustomed to. It’s odd. It’s not contempt bred by familiarity; people are aware of suffering and tragedy but they don’t try and pretend it doesn’t happen. Grieving still takes place. There won’t be a dry eye in the pub when hearing of the passing of a farmer‘s favourite dog. Even if the farmer did kill it himself at the end of its working life, everyone will show genuine compassion, tempered with the practicalities. Death happens. Life goes on.

Assisted dying in rural areas is often regarded as a “good thing“. To illustrate the point let’s talk about the deer population of Exmoor which is now over 5,000 and has increased to the point where it is destroying the habitat. No doubt animal rights activists would prefer not to cull them, even if it is necessary to save the environment for deer and other creatures to live on. Locals will tell you that culling is performed by licensed experts who kill cleanly and usually instantly with one shot. Then they invite you to consider nature’s way of ending life. Without assisted dying, deer will face a horrible end. It might be from an infected and untreated wound, or a parasitic infection. Maybe they reach old age and their worn-out teeth can no longer graze, or they are young calves or old deer who do not have the fat to survive the winter. And, when death comes, it is slow, painful and, in the final days, usually alone dying from starvation.

So, ironically, country folk with guns are reducing the net number of days deer spend suffering. This is a strong utilitarian and humane society case, which sets us up nicely for the classic assisted dying confrontation between those who lobby for the sanctity of life and those who prioritise welfare, especially when suffering is a factor in the decision.

What makes our pub Drink Tank so much better than academic debate is the “goss”, the human-interest angles. Drink tankers don’t refer to experts, they launch straight into personal stories. Smiley Dave, reminded us of his agonising spinal condition, which was even more unbelievably agonising after he had an unsuccessful operation to treat it. After that, painkillers granted no relief and the 24-hour pain was excruciating. He fixed us with a look that said “I mean this“, then said “I mean this, if I had a button to press to put me to permanent sleep, I would’ve pressed it”. But he didn’t have a button, so he had another operation and that cured him. He is pain-free now and does all his usual hobbies cycling, walking and making and shooting replica Civil War muskets using his own manufactured black powder and ammunition. He was saved by the ban on assisted dying,

One nil to the sanctity of life team.

Then someone told the story of Gerry‘s father who had enjoyed a long and happy life until he became terminally ill suffering terrible pain. Gerry and his brother obeyed his father‘s wishes and flew him by private jet to Switzerland where he could end his own life legally. It was blessed relief, but it made Gerry and his brother criminals in the eye of the law as they had helped somebody to commit suicide, which is an offence. That’s why they hired a plane, so they could conceal the real purpose of the journey. A very sad story and an upsetting ordeal for his sons, but no question an act of love and compassion.

A goal for the welfare philosophers. One all.

As these talks take place in a pub with ale being necked, they are diluted with humour and banter. Dick asked for nominations for those people whose death the Drink Tankers would be most inclined to assist with. Fortunately, there was a wide spectrum of famous and local figures including politicians from left and right and the usual stars and celebrities.

With the light hearted death interval completed, the debate concluded with a real-life scenario. A local father and son who come out once a week for a couple of pints, told us that their wife / mother had been given six months to live two years ago but was still alive, bedbound, needing 24-hour care and in permanent agony. They were themselves suffering torture by proxy, unable to help someone they loved and forced to watch the horrors of the sanctity of life argument. Without doubt her misery would have ended long ago had it not been for the miracle of modern high-tech medicine which keeps people alive by prolonging their suffering. The great thing about a proper community pub is that drinking partners really do care about each other. Everyone was right there putting a metaphorical arm around them sharing their agony.

The evening ended with a vote. The Drink Tank supported assisted dying as long as the right safeguards were in place: doctors agree the condition was terminal, there had to be significant pain, there had to be no external pressure, the person themselves had to administrate the final act, and they could change their mind at the last minute, as many times as they liked. All this was very sensible and proof, once again, of the wisdom of the peasant in the field.

[Poltimore Arms Natural Disaster - Covid Nightingale Bar blown over by wind. Nobody died]

But that wasn’t that.

When I went to the pub that Friday Steve told me that the wife/mother in the testimony that swung the vote had died the next day. He said we had to consider our position. Surely, it wasn’t coincidence. Should we confront the father and son? Tell the police? Sell the story to the Sun? As I was the organiser he said there was a case against me. I told him it took part in his Pub so his fingerprints were all over it.

The legal liabilities started to feel spookily like the time a leak in the roof caused the ceiling in the side bar to collapse and a dead body fell down with it. It was early in the evening, about 4:30 pm. Only Steve, myself and Claire were in the pub at the time. The body was actually a collection of bones. But Claire, who was a retired operating theatre nurse, recognised a rib and hip bone and said we should call the police. Supping our pints, we gravely considered the legal situation. I was pretty certain there is no statute of limitations relieving you of the obligation to report an unexpected dead person falling through your ceiling, even if they were obviously dead before they hit the ground. Steve said it was indeed his intention to report it, but not until next morning as the dead body was clearly beyond any form of help and he didn’t want police crawling all over the pub when people were trying to get on with their drinking. Claire declared the side bar a crime scene, but told everybody who came in the bar, so (obvs) they all went to have a look, which completely trashed the evidence as farmers, builders, minor aristocracy etc picked up the bones and delivered their ignorant verdicts while being photographed with them.

Locals who knew the history of the pub said that above the ceiling was an old hayloft and the side bar used to be a stable when the pub was a coaching inn. The dead body dominated conversation.

How did it get in the ceiling?

How long had it been there?

Who discovered it? - (usually the most likely suspect).

What was the cause of death?

Steve dialled “the nines” in the morning and sure enough, a few days later, a crack Devon and Cornwall police representative wandered in and bagged up the bones for forensics. It turned out to be a 200-year-old bird, though why it was in the ceiling is anyone’s guess. Not many people were impressed by Claire’s knowledge of anatomy.

With reference to the assisted dying scenario, our discussion about implications was pure banter. The sad passing away was obviously one of those inescapable coincidences where the odds are even longer than a nuclear power station blowing up but they still come in, which leaves you really wary of going near nuclear power stations.

—-—————-

Note: if you like deer to be humanely killed and not suffer the horrors of death by nature, and you want to preserve the natural habitat of Exmoor, there is always plenty of it on sale in South Molton. We have two independent butchers and they have blackboards that display the names of hunters and farmers where meat has been locally and responsibly sourced. BTW if you are worried about the risks of sclerotic, sedentary townie death from blocked arteries, venison is a red meat that is very low in cholesterol and is delicious in pies, lasagna, stews and burgers.

Walking towards my twentyplus-year-old Land Rover Defender, I thought it looked very much at home parked in South Molton High Street, then I wondered why the rear number plate was propped up on the front windscreen. I took it down and upon closer inspection found a piece of double-sided tape stuck on the back of one corner. The back of the Land Rover possessed the double-sided tape for the other three corners, but not the number plate. Mystery solved. It had fallen off. Up to 50% of malfunctions involving Land Rovers, relate to “something falling off”. Fortunately, the locals are used to it and someone had thoughtfully picked it up and put it on the windscreen.

As I was in town, I went straight to Exmoor Hardware, a store that sells everything practical, and demanded the most powerful double-sided tape they stocked and a pair of scissors. I know the owner and he knows me, so he was reluctant to sell me industrial strength sticky tape as used by carpet layers and other highly trained professionals, but I was insistent.

Within an hour I had the number plate reattached to the vehicle. It took an hour because the tape was indeed sticky, in fact so sticky that I was repeatedly; stuck to the tape which was in turn stuck to the number plate but not the vehicle or stuck to the vehicle but not the number plate or stuck to itself or stuck to myself and not the number plate or the vehicle. With beginner’s luck I was performing a pitch perfect rendition of the classic circus Charlie Cairoli slap(stick) routine where two clowns can never put down a sticky object because it is always stuck to one or the other of them or to something else and one of them. We don’t get many street mimes in South Molton, so passers by stopped to watch. Nobody stayed for the whole hour.

When I finally had sticky tape on all four corners of the number plate and four corners of tape on the rear of the vehicle, I mated them together in slightly but obviously the wrong place. It now sits at an angle to all other horizontal reference points, like the back window, the bumper, the rear cross member, the taillights, the road, the horizon etc. And as it was monster heavy duty sticky tape - that was that. It is now there for the rest of history. It stuck like a weld. There was no adjustment. At least it was on, or so I thought.

When I set off that sense of absolute certainty changed. I became obsessed with the vision of it falling off again and checked the rearview mirror every five seconds to see if it was bouncing down the road behind me. When I got to a red traffic light, I got out to check it and sure enough it was rock solid though I was immediately struck by how lop it made the whole Land Rover appear to be falling over. To prove it was solid I pulled at it until if I had pulled any harder the whole of the back of the car including the door might have come off with it, which is always a possibility and probably an inevitability - at some point. For instance, I have heard about rear doors of Land Rovers falling off at inconvenient moments. If it happens to me, I hope it happens when I am driving, and it takes out a Waymo or an e-scooter terror rider, neither of which we are ever like to get in South Molton.

AI means Artificial Insemination in rural areas. The subject crops up in this ethnographic action research study of real-world peasant Anglo-Saxon pub conversation between mainly non-graduate rural workers. The objective is to produce a record of what a proper pub is really like.

Warning: as such it contains peasant language and attitudes that some might find offensive, (at least I hope so). So you know, prepare to be shocked. This is how real people speak. Blame them not me.

================================

We were sitting outside the pub on a warm summer’s evening when a colourfully painted van pulled up.

“Who is it?”, says, Steve the pub landlord who is registered blind.

“He’s not from round here”, says someone. (Probably in reference to a line from “Hot Fuzz”, a favourite film in rural areas).

Steve says, “Well I like it. It’s colourful”. He is not totally blind. “I wonder what he does?”

I looked at the picture on the back of the van of; two cows gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes and the company name which said “Samen”, and guessed, “I reckon its artificial insemination”.

“That’s Henry”, said Steve. “He’s from proper up North, he’s got the accent and everything. He drops in a couple of times a year. I don’t know what he’d been doing, but last time he was here he stunk the place out of cow wank, the dogs wouldn’t leave him alone”.

Henry walked over and said in fluent Yorkshire, “alreet?” and went straight in the pub, to clean himself up and pour himself a pint as there was no way Steve could be arsed to get up and pour it.

The farmers kicked off animal wanking talk, “turkey wanking is actually a job with a name”, said one of them.

“What is it?” I said.

Steve looked at me, “turkey wanker”, he said and shook his head as though I was some sort of office boy white collar idiot.

“Well, I think you’re a wanker”, I said.

“This pub is full of wankers”, said someone else, “Jonathan is a retired wanker, Jed is a builder wanker, Billy is farmer wanker, Becky (who had arrived late because she was recording the milk volume from that days collection from her Dad’s dairy herd) is a cow wanker”.

Henry came back. Everyone looked at him but, in that Yorkshire Aspergers way, he didn’t notice. He had poured a pint of John Smiths in his glass too fast so it had a little bit of beer in the bottom and a great big overflowing foamy head.

“Beer wanker” said Steve, and then, “Where’ve you been today, Henry?”.

“I’ve been all over today, Somerset, Cornwall, Devon, 200 miles. I’m staying in hotel run by ‘t queers”. [Note: This might be the most important point in the whole study. This terminology is Henry’s not the authors and it is important to add that nobody took this reference as insulting, abusive or offensive. The Poltimore Arms provides a safe and inclusive space for all, including “queers” of all descriptions. In a real pub, what sounds like a term of abuse is ok if it is actually a term of endearment and inclusion. It is normal for people to be referred to by a strong identifying characteristic; Steve the Landlord is known as a twat and has a beer brand to prove it.

Dangerous Dave who is sadly no longer with us was known as “Dangerous” for the obvious reason. Clare the pub barmaid who is quite short is referred to as a trip hazard. A retired former jockey who is also well below average height is routinely called “sonny” as in “I’ll need to see some ID sonny”. The point is that offensive language in the right context is not offensive. When the nation loses real pubs, which it does at the rate of eight a week, it loses this facility for taking the sting out of language and situations through the familiarity and affection of banter. That is a serious loss].

“I wouldn’t miss coming here, best pub in ‘t country. Like being back in time”, said Henry through his foam-covered mouth. He’s right about that. No TVs, no music, no Internet, no food but you can come in on your own and be immediately welcomed and invited to join in the chat. Following Steve’s lead the regulars ask you your story. “Everyone has a story” says Steve.

Subscribe now

As someone with knowledge of living up North, I felt a duty to begin - in dialect.

“Which part of Yorkshire art thou from Henry tha’ knows?”. I said, welcolmingly.

“Tadcaster”.

“How did you get into bull wanking?” said Steve. (FFS, at least I tried).

Henry told us when he was 49, the fourth son on a big farm, he was looking after a dairy herd of 400 cows and woke up one day and thought this was all he going to do with his life. Every day the same. Making his Father rich and bringing his son up to take over “t’ cattle” and he thought – “you are 49 and you need to do something with life, like”. He paused for acknowledgment.

“And you thought - I know what I’ll try bull wanking”, said someone.

“Reeeet I deeed at that.”

(Yes, I did).

“It’s been brill-yant. I went to Holland ‘t learn trade. In five years I’ve never looked back. And it’s good money. Last year I got van painted (nods of admiration) and I paid £2,500 corporation tax. That’s more than fookin’ Amazon. I think it’s important ‘t pay tax”.

Steve hid metaphorically.

“You’re talking to the wrong bloke there” said Billy pointing at Steve who was bankrupted for not paying tax. “How much corporation tax do you pay Steve?”

“Never mind that”.

And, so it went on for three hours. Henry was the latest Poltimore Arms entertainment. I said to Steve, “this pub is like the Truman show. It’s not real. I bet there’s a team of twenty scriptwriters working around the clock thinking it all up”.

We moved inside about 9 o’clock and the six of us “yarped” (talked) on randomly around a blazing log fire. It might have been summer but the nights are still cold up on Exmoor when the Sun goes down. With the cold on everyone’s mind Brett said a brand-new tractor costing £100k had caught fire and burned out earlier in North Molton High Street. The driver hadn’t cleaned out the air filter, which you are supposed to do every three hours if you are cutting sileage, and the heat had sparked off the dust from the hay.

“Tosser” said Steve.

Henry looked over, “not you”, said Steve, “no offence”.

Andre Rieu was mentioned so I shared the story of driving to see him live in Maastricht.

“You drove from Ash Mill to Maastricht to see that wanker, no offence Henry”.

“None taken Steve”.

“No. I stopped off in Essex to pick up my Mum”.

[Andre Riu mosh pit. I had to take my Mum]

Then, we had a long discussion on politics.

“Are you from the red wedge Henry?”.

“We have a rule in Yorkshire we don’t talk politics in pub”.

“We do here” I said. “Steve’s a politician”.

Steve stands for parliament at general elections with me as his agent trying to keep things vaguely legal and organised such as sending leaflets to the right constituency, which we got wrong last time.

Henry told his story about voting for Margaret Thatcher because the unions were out of control and were letting down the miners.

“Arthur Scargill didn’t give toss about miners”. (Titter titter).

But he wished the unions would come back now as “it’s gone too far ‘t other way”. Bill, who used to be on the national committee for ASLEF, said he warned everyone but nobody listened. He retired early on a champagne socialist pension and became a gentleman farmer. Bill drinks red wine, not beer or cider. His hair and beard makes him look like Wild Bill Hickok, which prompted me to mention the actual Wild Bill Hickok impersonator living in Rose Ash who put in an appearance at book club when we read “Left my Heart at Wounded Knee”. He attended in full costume and told how he had been booked to lead the carnival parade in Cardiff where they made him ride a horse which he had never done before but it bolted and joined in with the police horses who were splitting up the Millwall and Cardiff City fans who were enjoying themselves at their annual punch up. Who knows what the fans thought when Wild Bill Hickok came charging at them a hooping and a hollering.

“That happens to me on my horse” said Steve.

And he told us about a dressage lesson (he was training to compete for the UK in the paralympics) where his horse had galloped at a fence and slammed on the anchors at the last minute making him fall off over the front. He said a party of school children who were watching burst into applause. Steve said his horse catches him out every time. He’s blind so he can’t see where they are going.. etc etc.

Anyway, that’s about all I can remember. You get the idea. Who needs social media?

Subscribe now

Great Western Railway operates a Pullman dining coach on some services between Paddington and the West Country. It’s not the Orient Express but it’s close enough. When I commuted to London on a Tuesday morning I had a superb cooked breakfast. Coming home on Thursday night; a four-course dinner, with fine wine, entertaining company, proper linen table cloths and cutlery. It is silver service with well informed and welcoming table waiting.

Most customers (passengers) travel as singletons so if you give it a try you will probably end up seated with three strangers. Normally, four English people have no trouble spending a three-hour journey not saying one word to each other sitting side by side around a table that is only big enough for two. They can even manage to get their books and laptops out and avoid physical or eye contact. But with the table set for dinner, clanking with crystal clear wine and water glasses, side plates on white China with the GWR logo, polished cutlery, it is impossible, even for the English to pretend nobody else is there.

Pouring water breaks the ice. It’s real ice. In a jug.

Names are swapped.

That’s enough to begin with. No point being over communicative. Everyone studies the menu. It’s well presented. Leather bound, nice Times Roman font. Poncey descriptions with faux French words. I know what I am having without looking. Soup, steak and coffee, no dessert. I start with a beer and wait for someone else to cave in and suggest sharing a bottle of wine.

For a while I had a regular dining partner in Ken the root canal specialist who went to London three days a week to drill out rich peoples gnashers in Harley Street. If two new people joined us, we soon got them going. This was 2016 to 2019 so my standard intro was to say, “In or Out?” and wait for it to click. I was referring to Brexit. A dish of politics best served cold, but by saying it with a wink and a smile we had a ready-made subject that everyone knew about and had an opinion on. In the first-class coach it was mainly remainers. Ken was a remainer. I was a leaver. We had some lively and good-natured discussions.

On other occasions: I had a meal with an artist who was a board member of Great Ormond Street hospital, Jose Feliciano’s agent, three international rowers including Constantin Louloudis the Olympic gold medal winner, a high court judge and lots of businesspeople. The only ones I haven’t liked are the City finance types, probably yachties on their way to Salcombe (Surrey on Sea). On the most significant occasion I put a copy of “The Road to Somewhere” on the table while I hung up my coat. The lady opposite said “What do you think of that?”.

I was still in the first fifty pages but said, “The best book on Brexit so far” and she told me the author, David Goodhart, had a holiday cottage near her in Cornwall.

[“The Road To Somewhere”, Goodhart (2017). These are spares I bought to give away].

What a coincidence. She was a retired quant. A statistical trading banker. Obviously brainy. Our table had the usual great fun on the train and walking to the car park at Tiverton we swapped details. She must have passed my details to David because next day he emailed to invite me to a Pizza cookout at my dining partners house. I couldn’t resist. It was about 30 miles across the border from Devon. When I got there I was a little hesitant but Satnav insisted, it was the right place. It was a castle. In the back garden was a log burning pizza oven and a small gathering of people who were of a different class to me. I have been upwardly mobile professionally but socially I never really converted. I got off to a bad at my son’s prep school when I went to a James Bond themed parents social wearing a wetsuit, when all the other blokes were in dinner jackets. Sending yourself up is not a middle-class sort of thing, In fact humour is not their thing, I never went to another function. Not my crowd.

Subscribe now

By accent, manners, clothes, height, relaxed confidence I was several divisions out of my league but, as always, such people have impeccable social skills and know how to speak to someone, even a pleb, who they don’t know without taking the piss or sounding hostile or condescending. I can’t do that. So, I generally shut the fuck up and observe. The other guests included a sculptor “(what, that’s a job?”, I thought), a famous economist (“Don’t tell me that’s a job as well?), a famous FT columnist and now a teacher, a scattering of teenage children, my Pullman dining partner and her husband. We stood on a terrace with the estate wrapping around us from horizon to horizon as very polite teenagers served delicious pizza they cooked on a clay oven they had made by hand.

Then we went indoors to the music room, which could have fooled me as it looked more like a concert hall. A teenage boy wearing a white flat cap back to front sat at a grand piano. The walls were hung with flipcharts of mathematical equations – financial I am sure. The kid struck up a tune. He was very talented. He could play with both hands at once. I thought he had a fantastic memory and said so to the person sitting next to me,

“Have you noticed he is playing it without reading the music”.

“That’s because he makes it up as he goes along” [you idiot] I was told.

After that someone said,

“We are going to the lake for a bonfire and singing”.

By the time I had broken off a conversation with someone who wasn’t going, they had all gone. I went outside but there was no sign to the lake. Where the fuck were they? I wandered around the grounds and found it, but they weren’t there. I stood around waiting. Nothing. A Land Rover pulled up.

“We wondered where you were”.

“I thought you were going to the lake” I said, pointing. The driver laughed.

“That’s the pond, hop in”.

We drove to the lake. Note: a lake is bigger than a pond but smaller than a sea. I was getting an education.

The bonfire was roaring, and the singing had started. Grown adults singing songs with no swear words made me feel awkward. They were good. Like a choir. I half expected Julie Andrews to be on guitar. They even sang songs in other languages, taking it in turns to start and then the others joined in. Someone said,

“Ken, you haven’t sung a song yet”.

“Too fucking right cos, I don’t know any” I thought but did not say.

Under pressure I was about to start singing “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”, the West Ham United song, when some kind soul spared my embarrassment and took the lead. It was a fantastic warm balmy summers evening where the light doesn’t fully leave the sky in the west country even by midnight long after the Sun has set off over the Atlantic Ocean. I enjoyed it. More genteel than normal for me. A glimpse into the virtues of civilised behaviour.

David’s book remains the best I have read on the division between graduate professionals (like me) who have benefitted from knowledge work, globalisation, EU membership and cheap Polish plumbers and the non-graduate hourly paid classes (like my family and friends from where I grew up) who lost out. The Anywheres and Somewheres as David describes them. In fact, the graduate class remains so deluded about why leavers voted for Brexit that I designed a wargame based on the book to “play” the scenario, thought it was never produced.

Since meeting in this odd way, David and I became friends. We were born just a few weeks apart in 1956, and though we grew up in very different circumstances we agree on the causes of the UK’s political and cultural divide. I have been pleased to help with two more books exploring this important area of social and economic change. For someone outside the literary / thought leadership world it has been fascinating to read drafts, make suggestions, offer opinions and even see my name in the acknowledgments. I now know why a high-quality book takes years to complete. Respect. The experience inspired me to write myself. Unfortunately, I haven’t got the temperament or attention span to stop playing for laughs or do proper work, so this (above) is it, but, if you look hard there is usually some serious stuff in it.

Subscribe now

The Land Rover Diaries takes place in North Devon where I moved in 2015. I had wanted to live there from the age of five when I first saw those horizons of endless beaches and rolling hills. At fifty-eight circumstances were favourable. Most importantly when I told the oil magnate who owned next door of my intention to move he immediately bought my mansion to stop a footballer buying it. I had cash in hand.

Then what?

Let me tell you. “Escape To The Country” can be much simpler than the BBC suggests. I drove to Devon and spent two days looking at properties on my own without Mrs Charman and found a couple that seemed ok. The next week Mrs Charman came to look and we bought the one she liked. (I liked both). Forget about buying dream and forever houses. An ok house is good enough. The important thing is to get on with it. That’s because what our stupid egotistical western culture doesn’t get, despite Nietzsche pointing it out, is that even with a 100 year life expectancy you are statistically nearly dead at birth. Earth has 4.5 billion years to go. At best you are a blink. Don’t waste time. Get on with it.

Subscribe now

As per Escape to the Country, I recommend using - criteria. Ours was, within 30 mins of a station, with a two hour journey time to London. I also wanted a secluded situation with five acres of land to mess about in. I didn’t want neighbours (for their sake not mine). We needed outbuildings for junk and cars, bedrooms for guests and an older property that we could do up. North Devon is chock full of that.

This move was made while I was working full-time, mainly in London. I travelled up Tuesday morning and back on Thursday night. Much more pleasant than spending two hours each way every day, between Wokingham and Waterloo, standing room only. Stuff that. I wanted a better life.

We bought a rundown farmhouse and agreed to let the occupier run her business from the stables while we renovated the property. She was a miniature horse breeder by which I mean she bred miniature horses and she ran “Princess Parties” for little girls as her main source of income. After arrival, her customers dress up as princesses, then brush the hair of real miniature horses and go for rides around the paddock in a princess carriage pulled by unicorns – which are faked up miniature horses with glitter on their faces and a prosthetic horn stuck to their foreheads.

Bizarre?

NO. Not if you are a little girl, it’s not.

While the house renovation was going on I camped on site for a couple of days a week, taking one dog, a mattress, and a BBQ. It was a hot summer. I sat out in the garden as the Sun set over the Crooked Oak valley, watching swallows darting and diving and farmers bringing in the harvest, while I ate sausages and quaffed six packs of Fosters. A dream came true. Fond memories. Idyllic.

I soon got to know the locals and witnessed a few princess parties (TBH they looked a bit creepy). Then, one night after a BBQ where I got as idyllic as a newt, I woke up about 3am needing a pee. The floorboards were up so instead of going all the way to the toilet, I made for the back door prancing along the exposed joists like Olga Korbut, and when I opened the door to pee in the garden, there before me, standing barely two feet tall and staring straight at me was … a unicorn with what looked like a toy traffic cone on its forehead and glitter eyes. Not for the first time I promised never “to touch another drop” before cancelling after figuring out it was an escaped princess pony. When I rang the owner next morning, she made me go and look for it. Nobody was surprised when I asked if they had seen a miniature horse in a unicorn outfit with glitter on its face and a traffic cone on its forehead.

The previous owner also had a Dalmatian dog which was a frequent visitor. He wasn’t aware it was now my house not his and used to come flying in. Literally. Flying. The builder’s had relocated a door to somewhere else and replaced it with a window. Not a problem for a dog (creature of habit). He just jumped through the window. It was a surprise at first, but I got used to it. Seeing a spotty dog flying past my nose as I was eating my corn flakes was an authentic quirk of country life. Exactly what I was there for.

On another occasion “Basil” a working sheepdog and absent father to many local puppies wandered in, walked up to the table, looked me in the eye, cocked his leg and had a piss up the table leg. He just about avoided my boot on the way out.

The house is in a small hamlet about 30 minutes from the coast and ten minutes from Exmoor (just outside the National Park planning zone). The neighbours are friendly. A mixture of people who have been here forever and “incomers” like us. The whole village gets on and gathers for events. Unlike living in a city or the suburbs, we know each other’s names and we do that stopping the cars in the lane thing where you wind the windows down and have a chat and hold up following traffic. In London delaying traffic like this would get you shot or at least stabbed, but everyone understands around here.

The nearest settlement with shops is the small market town of South Molton. The cattle market and pannier market is on Thursdays. A pannier market is a covered market where hill people used to bring stuff they made into town in panniers (bags) on pack horses. They still do this but with Land Rovers and tractors. You can buy baskets, dead animals, cheese, bread, pies, antiques (junk) etc.

Everyone seems to know each other. On my first trip to see it the High Street was grid locked because someone had double parked. A queue about 250 yards long was completely stationary and … not rioting. People had disembarked and were having a chat. When one of the search parties found and told the culprit (obviously everyone knew whose car it was) an oldish red-faced lady carrying two bags of shopping came puffing up the hill, not propelled by waves of hate but greeted with warm derision “I thought it would be a woman” said the bus driver leaning out of his window, laughing. Of course, in London he would have been arrested and sacked for saying that. She wasn’t “offended”.

These days I know the names of the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer, ladies on the till in Sainsbury’s, the window cleaner. chimney sweep, road diggers, community shop workers and on and on and on. This hyper-sociability was a policy decision. When moving I made a personal resolution to get to know people and talk to them. Even strangers. Talk? Weird? I know. But I wanted to find out if I could do it. Like most people in the UK, especially high income, socially superior middle-class people, like me, I had grown used to avoiding conversation and pretending not to notice people on trains, in lifts, queues etc. I wanted to know if there was anything in this talking just for the sake of it thing. Would it be worth it? The verdict? I think you know. During Covid, millions in the UK discovered (and have now forgotten) the virtues of community interaction when they went outside to “thank the NHS” with their saucepans or when they said “hello” to complete strangers when they were allowed out for their 20-minute walks. It is a much healthier way of life. I discovered there is no such thing as a “pointless conversation”. Even talking drivel about the weather or time of day makes a human connection that could be measured as electro-chemical-biological impulses if you had an MRI scanner attached to your nut, which in a way you do. It’s called your brain. Idle chat is not idle. It unites people in mutual respect and regard. Talking about “nothing” is not a sign of needy social weakness or an admission that you are a nobody with nothing more economically important to do. Being civil and friendly wraps both parties in a blanket of human warmth that melts the ice of hostility and rejection.

And once you become a part of a real community strange things happen. You don’t lock your car door in the supermarket car park. You don’t lock your house door at night. One day, I went into a home-baked pasty shop and when I tried to pay with a £20 note the proprietor wiped her hands on her apron and said “Can you mind the shop while I go next door for some change”. Try that in one of the UK’s shoplifting urban utopias.

So that’s where and how I live in the home of the Land Rover Diary. But don’t think I have gone soft. Don’t think I spray bucolic bonhomie around when I am in London. Rural warmth and courtesy are ok in the country but not back in London. In London I emit the same indifferent, brooding hostility and contempt as everyone else. I don’t want to get stabbed or sectioned for saying “alright?” to someone.

Escape to Devon is my advice.

See below.

Share

Subscribe now

How did that happen?

Well, it started on a bench. For a serial entrepreneur being on the bench is after you finish one venture and before you start the next one. It’s a dangerous time. I don’t do ideas so it’s a waiting game. I wait for word to get around that I am on the bench so that people approach me. Most of the approaches are crap. Maybe they have a business that is already going wrong and they want me to help. Or they have an idea but it is not a business and has no money. It could be a franchise pretending to be a startup.

My world is enterprise software sold to global firms to handle accounting, HR, customer relationships etc. I join new market entrants whose objective is to elbow an innovative new product into the gorillas’ tea party and, if we succeed, Oracle, SAP, Workday, Salesforce or some other megatech acquire us for a good price to stop us being a nuisance. We entrepreneur’s might want to carry on and go the whole way, but VC shareholders take the money and run. I join these companies when they are established in their home market and looking to branch out in the UK or Europe. I fund that expansion for a share in the “liquidity event”. It’s high risk but rewarding, millionairre not billionairre level. From start to finish none of these gigs has ever taken a whole five years. On one occasion it was less than six months. When the sale is made, I might have to work a year in the new parent company but usually not. They normally have their own people with gigantic egos who know everything and aren’t going to risk creating an internal rival who might put a boot in their face in the race up the greasy pole.

So, there I was on the damn bench waiting for a passing new enterprise tech startup. It’s dangerous because you get bored and do odd stuff. Other people I know, who also play in the startup game, have done bucket list type things such as learn to fly, try to become a professional singer, or go on a world surfing tour (like in “Endless Summer”), that sort of stuff. Normally, I fart around on the golf course, buy gadgets I don’t need, annoy people online, nothing constructive. I hesitate to call this a character fault. Without risk and the threat of failure I just can’t seem to get going. At home I am told to “stop just hanging around… littering the place up”. I am warning you, if you are like me this is when you need to be careful. Avoid impulsive temptations to invent an artificial high risk, high reward thing to feed your need for danger (the actual biological state tied up with the endocrinology of adrenaline, fear, excitement, elation etc).

With the golf ball thing I might easily have been killed. It started about 2am one night when I was drifting round the Web, bored brainless looking for trouble and thought “I know what, I have never bought anything really stupid on eBay, let’s see what there is”. As a golfer I typed in “golf” and it came up with a list. One of the categories was “golf balls”. These are a fairly high-cost consumable if you are a rubbish golfer. A decent ball costs £3. I can easily lose ten in a single round. Some new golf balls come all the way from China to the UK and don’t survive one hit. Many of them drown. This eBay seller was advertising 16,000 “one hit” golf balls that had been abandoned to the cacti and rattle snakes in the rough of Phoenix golf golf courses in pristine condition for $8,000. They had a UK market value of between $25k to $30k. The price included cardboard boxes to send them out to people who you could sell them to in batches of 50 or 100.

I had nothing to do. I had money. Why not? Buy it Now. Kerching.

Of course, I didn’t pay. there and then. I am not that stupid. The seller instantly popped up asking for his money. I explained I was in the UK and needed to see the merchandise before handing over the cash. No trouble he said and gave me his name and address: John Lindauer, somewhere near Phoenix, Arizona. “See you tomorrow John”, I replied, bought a return ticket online and went to bed. Over Corn Flakes next morning I told Mrs Charman I was off to Phoenix to pay $8,000 for 16,000 used golf balls I had just bought on eBay. “That’s lovely dear. Shut the door on the way out” she said, or something similar.

Share

When I got to Phoenix (Business Class of course, costs offset against future profits) I rented a Mustang with a V8 and go faster stripes. I had my golf clubs with me as Phoenix has 200 golf courses, and I thought. why not sample a few. I checked into a hotel full of people limping, bandaged up and being pushed around in wheelchairs. Was there a rodeo in town? No, it was next to a hospital where rich people came for operations. They used the hotel before and after surgery. Bizarre.

Next day I went to a bank and asked for an $8,000 banker’s draft. This is a cheque that can be cashed by anyone who presents it. Much favoured in criminal circles. A suspicious bank teller weighed me up. I weighed the suspicious bank teller up.

“I must ask you what this is for Sir”. She said and called her supervisor over.

I was ready for that. “Ah, let me explain ”. I said. “It is to pay for 16,000 used golf balls that I bought last night on eBay”.

As nobody could make something up that ridiculous the nod was given and the cheque cut. They seemed happy to have me out of their bank. I put it in my wallet and made a mental note not to lose it.

When I put John’s address in the Satnav I discovered, though he lived in Phoenix, he was about an hours’ drive away in Indian country. That’s not a colloquialism. He lived in Indian country. On a reservation. In the desert. A doubt flickered. I put it out. I had looked him up on the Internet and he seemed legitimate. Well not completely legitimate in the technical dictionary definition of the word as he had been convicted of election funding irregularities when standing for Governor of Alaska but apart from that he was clean; an Economics professor and a businessman who owned newspapers and radio stations. His daughter “Susan”, on the other hand was doing jail time for treason, having taken it upon herself to try and broker a peace deal between G W Bush (President, USA) and Saddam Hussein (President, Iraq) at a time when G W was dead set on teaching Saddam a rather large lesson. As this was a totally private venture, which Susan had not been invited to do by the State Dept or anyone else, the FBI picked her up and she was convicted.

John Howard Lindauer - Wikipedia

Susan Lindauer - Wikipedia

I found this back story both charming and fascinating in a uniquely American way and was looking forward to discussing golf balls and global conflict with the head of such an interesting family. But on my way to the meeting point, as the miles flashed by (V8 speed), I found my doubts returning.

”Anyone can say they are John Lindaeur” said a doubting voice.

A less convincing reassuring voice replied, “Of course he is John Lindaeur. Why would anyone just say they were John Lindaeur?”.

The first voice spoke again. “This sounds like one of those internet scams where someone in Nigeria wants to transfer £100m to your bank but you have to go out there first with £20k in cash and when you get there they whack you on the nut, nick your money and the Nigerian police don’t want to know as you were only there to steal Nigerian money”.

This line of reasoning was most convincing. I got on the phone to home where it was about 6pm.

“Look I am in the desert on my way to pay for these golf balls”, I said casually, “If I don’t ring back in exactly one hour you need to know this is where I was and call the police immediately. Have you got that?”.

I can’t be certain Mrs Charman wrote down the details. She claims she did, and she did say “Be careful”, though I got the feeling she was thinking more about the bother of the paperwork if I was murdered, abducted or some such, than my safety. Actually, that’s unfair, she probably wasn’t thinking that, but I wouldn’t have blamed her if she wasn’t. I get into scrapes and I usually get out of them so why worry?

For some totally irrational reason taking this precaution calmed my nerves, and I enjoyed the local scenery: sand, cactus, road signs with bullet holes, tumble weed etc. All very interesting to an Englishman from peaceful Home Counties Berkshire. High Chapparal was filmed around here, I thought.

Then with the Satnav warning me we were ten minutes away a miracle happened. The desert bloomed and signs appeared announcing a luxury golf development with millionaires’ mansions lining the course. Ah, I thought, John’s a golfer. It all makes sense now. It was a gated community owned by the Apache’s or Souix, Comanches? I don’t know. One of them. The housing was certainly impressive. Big.

I pulled up at John’s. It was obviously his as it had a five-bay garage with teams of Mexicans sorting, cleaning and bagging golf balls.

In that way that only an American Professor who has been Chancellor of a state university and ran for state Governor can pull off, he wished me a warm and hearty welcome and invited me to inspect my balls, (so to speak). We went straight to the garage. There was no doubt about it, this was a legitimate operation. My balls looked good. I waved my hand. “Everything is in order John” and handed over the dough. John trousered the cheque and invited me to join him for a BBQ steak lunch overlooking the green and fairway next to his house.

How civilised. He told me about his life and how he had been a visiting Professor for a while at Sussex University in England. He explained his business model for buying up newspapers and radio stations in small towns to leverage the advertising price to local business. Very smart. But something was nagging away at me. I had to ask.

“John. You are clearly a rich and successful man, so why do you employ people to wash and package golf balls in your garage and sell them on eBay?”.

He looked at me as though I was a first-year undergrad economist with no brain.

“Because I can make money out of it”.

He explained that greenkeepers from all over Arizona pick up lost golf balls that golfers leave for snakes, scorpions and razor cactus, and sell them to him for cash. He sells them on at a premium. It’s a high margin, low effort business. I nodded understandingly and reflected silently that I couldn’t think of one UK academic who would ever do it, but on the other hand they wouldn’t own newspapers and radio stations or stand as a mayor (the nearest we get to State Governor). Much as I wanted to probe him on election funding misdemeanours and the story behind his daughter’s well-intentioned but misguided peace efforts, I chose not to spoilt the moment.

With the deal done I drove on to Sedona and played golf for a couple of days in scenery that was possibly the best surrounding any golf course I have ever seen. I lost quite a lot of ammo, but it was comforting to know 16,000 more were in the post.

The end of this story contains the lesson. The golf balls were duly shipped and for about two weeks I made a good margin selling them on eBay, but then got fed up standing in the queue at the Post Office to post them. The gig was over. Seventeen years later I still have about 10,000 left. They made the trip to Devon when we moved, and I put them in the stables. I use them for practice in my back field. Some find their way into next door’s cow pasture and Jason the farmer is kind enough to chuck a few back when he cuts silage. I tell him not worry, I am unlikely to run out.

The lesson is that: to an entrepreneur with the risk gene and nothing to do, this mini-project sounded interesting and exciting right up to the point - where it worked. Then it became totally boring, and I went back to my normal routine of sitting on the bench and waiting for a passing enterprise tech project. All told I am probs about $6k down if I include the cost of the trip to Phoenix and the write down on 10,000 balls still in stock. Was it a waste of time and money? That’s debatable. I win a few quid here and there when I trick people into playing “Let’s see whose bought the most stupid thing on eBay?” And, I have a great story to tell at dinner parties etc that makes people look at me as though they think I should be locked up or not trusted with sharp objects. On this last point they are wrong. I accept my behaviour was not “normal” for normal people. But it was normal for those of us with the key qualities of impulsiveness, confidence, adventure, creativity, adaptability, innovation blah blah that you need to take on and make a success of a startup, most of which are much higher risk than buying 16,000 used golf balls off a convicted felon in the Arizona desert.

Share

The title is from James Thurber, who started a classic short story about his dog in the New Yorker with,

“I ran across a dim photograph of him the other day. He’s been dead 25 years. His name was Rex (my two brothers and I named him) and he was a bull terrier”.

Our English teacher read “Snapshot” to a class of teenagers and cast a spell over us. My snapshot is of Brian. I named him. All our dogs start with a B. It is a practical tradition. We have had Becky, Bodie and Boo. B is a hard consonant. Consonants are sounds you make through physical contact in the echo chamber of your mouth. Vowels pass air over the vocal cords in your throat. Names starting with a consonant come out louder which is better for shouting when you want to attract a dog’s attention.

Brian was a controversial choice. Brian, sounds like a middle-aged man with a pipe and slippers but our Brian was a Rhodesian Ridgeback, “big, muscular and beautifully made”, like Thurber’s Rex though unlike Rex not a “tremendous fighter”. Brian was peaceful, completely chilled and he moved slowly, like a mighty river in old age. He never saw cause for violence. He never chased a cat. He didn’t take part in playfights. He never played tug of war with his lead. If other dogs, were playing too rough he would stand between them. There was no questioning his authority. He didn’t bark or growl. He pushed them apart. At 50kg if Brian leaned on you, you fell over. If he stood on your foot (accidentally) you yelped.

Sadly, I said goodbye to Brian last Christmas. He had been ill for two weeks. At ten years, he was mature but not that old. I knew what was happening. I put a mattress on the floor and slept downstairs by his side. Brian and I often dozed off on the sofa. He was insistent on relaxation. I couldn’t resist. This was different though. We both knew he was fading away, off his food and listless when he passed blood the Vet examined him and told us the diagnosis. He didn’t have long. After that he didn’t want to go for walks but he still got up when asked. He was always willing. Right by your side. There to please. The day before he left us he had a brief revival. He found the energy to get up and asked to walk around the fields. I followed him. It was a sunny, warm winter’s day. He took his time. He sniffed around the paddock, trotted into the orchard, took a sip from a puddle of clear fresh rainwater, soaked it in, looked up, breathed in the air, and when we climbed the hill to his favourite field he wriggled on his back as he always did and gently gripped my wrist in his huge jaws when I rubbed his tummy just like he would do on a summer’s day after the hay was cut. Later that night as I was stroking his head, his big brown eyes opened, and looked straight into my heart to say “it’s ok, you can let me go”. If love between a man and dog means anything it was meant in that moment. Generosity ran deep in Brian. He was comforting me. Dog? What kind of word was that for this noble beast.

Now he has gone we can measure his displacement. He was big. He took up a lot of space. The world is smaller without him. His dog beds scattered around the house. The kitchen had a bed, the lounge had a bed, my study had a bed and our bedroom had a bed. After we moved to Devon he insisted on sleeping in the bedroom. Whether to keep us safe in a strange new place or to be near us for his own peace of mind, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. It was his decision. His bed was by my side where he wanted it. For five years he slept there, and his heavy rhythmic breathing soothed me back to sleep if I woke up disturbed by a nightmare or the racing thoughts, that are a feature of life in a volatile, high-pressure occupation.

Subscribe now

He had a few interests. As already mentioned, he was a devoted companion. Sleep was important. Food was a fixation. When his food was being prepared, he would dance around in joy. In the afternoon he campaigned for dinner from about 3:30. It wasn’t due until 5:00 but he was the eternal optimist. Every day he would come in the study and stare at me. Then set off to the kitchen wagging not just his tail but the back two thirds of his body inviting me to follow. This would be repeated until I caved in or spoke to him sharply. “Not yet Brian”. Then he would surrender. For a few minutes. Then start again. It was hard to shut the door on him. He was so polite.

At human mealtimes, he was even more attentive. His shoulders were as high as the table, so his chin rested perfectly on the tabletop. From there his head stayed still while his eyes swivelled to monitor proceedings, patiently waiting for the moment when someone was approaching the end of their meal. People who slowed down or stopped were prey. He would note their position, dive under the table and surface between their legs to request the leftovers. Quite a shock for new visitors.

In public places we never put him on a lead. He completely ignored other dogs and animals. Sheep walked alongside him, and he wouldn’t bother them. However, there was one occasion, just one, where he took off after a deer and ran it to ground. The deer gave up and laid down. Brian just stood there waiting for us to catch up and see. He never bit a living thing in his whole life.

Probably Brian’s worst memories were from wearing one of those cones on his head to stop him gnawing at stitches on his leg. His size dictated a cone for a small horse. It was huge. He could pick up sounds miles away in whatever direction he was pointing, but the worst thing was the destruction he wreaked by turning his head. This included knocking over an antique Grandfather clock that ended up in splinters having ticked and tocked through the Napoleonic, Crimean, Boer and two World wars and crossing the Atlantic twice as it was handed across the generations. Not any more. Maybe Brian thought it had killed enough people.

There was another traumatic event involving headwear. Having been left indoors one day, he searched the house for food. His keen sense of smell led his nose into a mop bucket, pursuing a biscuit or some such. His head must have pushed through the draining strakes but they wouldn’t let it back out. When we returned home he did not leap up to greet us as normal, but when his name was called a mop bucket turned towards us with a dog sticking out of it. He didn’t repeat this mistake.

In public places he always stood. He never sat. He was either on four legs or none. If the ambiance was light and the conversation long and lilting, he would close his eyes and doze off. Most notably in the Grampus a centuries old smugglers pub on the Atlantic coast in Lee Bay, North Devon. After a three hour walk up and down the coastal path, I was slurping down a pint and a bowl of soup. Brian was by my side, his head perched on the table. He was tired and his eyes were closing and then they did close. Maybe because of his size, everyone in the pub was watching, hypnotised by his swaying as he swayed and swayed again and then fell asleep but caught himself on the way down. He did not hit the ground, but it was a damn close-run thing.

Brian enjoyed our move to Devon. We walked the beaches, cliff tops, Exmoor, Dartmoor, the Tarka Trail and others. He sunbathed in summer and firebathed by the log burner in winter. It was a wonderful life but he left us too soon on the day before Christmas. Our dogs “go to sleep” in our hands, who could leave them to their last moments with a stranger. It’s a hard task. If it exists and I get to heaven the first question I will ask is why didn’t God make dogs that live as long as humans?

But we can’t leave it like that. Life without Ridgebacks would be too hard. I now have a new male dog “Mac”, (the “B” naming convention has been abandoned). Like Brian he is a gentle giant and already a constant companion and at my age he will probably be my last. Lifting 50kg dogs over fences and stiles is a younger person’s game. My time with Mac will be even more precious, but Brian… miss you mate, take care up there.

(Mac)

(Peformance Art during Covid at the Poltimore Arms)

Steve lives in a remote pub on Exmoor. He would never have survived the trip to London without a carer. He is registered blind and has recently given up chain-smoking and drinking ten pints a day after nearly dying from two pulmonary embolisms after smoking cheap Chinese tobacco bought from a bloke he didn’t know in the pub. He was the only one to smoke it and no one else got a pulmonary embolism, so we think the two things might be connected. But hey ho, he just about survived and is now completely off cigarettes and the booze (sometimes).

(Upgrade to First Class. Coffee is free)

Steve’s pub is unique. No telly, no music (unless you want to make it there are plenty of pianos), no food, just conversation. And unlike that pub in Manchester that has banned people who come in on their own, everyone is welcome. There is no point bringing your own company and sitting in a corner as everyone is expected to join in, especially if you are on your own. This pub preserves the dying art of pointless conversation. Some topics are easy. Obviously, everyone can do the weather and “how are you?” but in a rural area it helps to be able to nod along to “I’ve lost my sheep” and “My tractor caught fire” and “My growing weeds subsidy cheque is late”. We also have rich second homeowners, minor aristocracy and remote IT workers who have their own variations of life’s interests and challenges. Trades people, peasants, Fleet Street journalists, global business execs, minor criminals, tourists, people walking or cycling from Land’s End to Joe O’Groats (the Pub is on one of the main routes) all pass through. Where else could you find yourself sitting at the same table as a naked psychic (she was off duty) and a cow inseminator (artificial)? All participants join in the banter. It is banter because Steve insists on banter. Nobody takes themself seriously, everyone takes the piss (politely) and is not offended and there is no prejudice. Nobody raised an eyebrow at the man with a fine pair of female breasts, skinny jeans and a full beard who arrived by Taxi and was immediately embraced. I have had a serious conversation with a farmer who was wearing odd Wellington boots (not strange but odd) his boots didn’t match, he had a left and right boot on the correct feet but they were different makes. And, so what?

I have been the political agent for Steve in two general elections. On the last one we really upped our share of the vote because this time we sent our leaflets to the right constituency. Apologies to voters in Bideford but Steve, as you now know, was standing in Barnstaple. Our bad. But an easy mistake after a few beers. In Covid we built a Nightingale bar.

(Nightingale Bar mk1)

Pub regulars sponsored and supervised the building of an aeroplane at our local state tech college. The pub also has a polo team, all of whom are regulars riding on hired horses with no previous polo knowledge.

(Publican and polo club owner)

All of this is proof of what ordinary folk are capable of with the right Pub landlord. So, it was great that his role as a performance artist was recognised with an invite to be an exhibit at an art show where artists bring their own work to display. With his trip paid for by the organisers (who drink in the pub when they visit their country house) and their very kind offer of free food, beer and lodging it was irresistible. I volunteered to be Steve’s carer not out of kindness, I wanted to be there to watch. How would such a crude and blunt sod of the Earth blend with cultured artistic city folk?

Share

We got there early in the evening and burnt some time in a couple of local pubs. No surprise when nobody, not even bar staff, wanted to talk. This was hipster Camden. People just talk to the people they arrive with. And there was no diversity. It might be Guardian Reader Central but all around us it was wall to wall young Russell group professionals. There was no chance of getting stabbed.

(Who would not want a pub conversation with this man?)

Back at the gallery Steve was shown a chair to sit in and a place to hang a picture of himself in his polo gear laying on the pub bar, which had been painted by a local. Unlike the other paintings, the subject was recognisable. Unfortunately, it looked like Steve.

(Performance Artist)

We watched as artist after artist walked past with hammers. They all had hammers. Except one who had an electric drill. They were friendly and polite and dressed like artists but they were wandering around “tooled up“ which is an expression police and people of a certain class (mine and Steve’s) use to describe the criminal offence of “going equipped for breaking and entering“ but actually they were just banging nails in the walls and drilling holes to hang their pieces. One even put a four-inch nail through a banana and nailed that to the wall. Wine and beer were served together with pulled pork, brioche buns, salad and foreign cheese. Steve was introduced by the host which established his credentials as a performance artist. He toured the room asking questions, describing his pub, necking beer (lots of it) and was very much appreciated. As a performance artist he was also indulged, for instance when he ate the banana and nailed the empty skin back on the wall this was seen as innovative, when actually he was just hungry - for attention as well as food. He is a born showman.

(Eaten banana)

I was the straight man, staying sober dressed in navy blue cardigan and trousers and a light blue Oxford shirt, with my Oxford college tie and comfortable highly polished brogues. My plan was to present a stereotype appropriate to my chronological age and it worked perfectly. People thought I was a responsible citizen caring for a rural nutter. Giving people simple visual signposts helped me disappear. One old looney at an art show is more than enough. My disguise opened the door to hearing interesting insights into the lifestyle and challenges of being an artist, which is a variety of human I had no previous experience of. Steve observed that art is a middle-class game as very few people earn enough from it to pay their rent, so they must have some other form of income. I agreed. I suggested he was an artist, a performance artist, and the pub is his other source of income.

It would be impolite to divulge the personal secrets and identities of artists who had no idea I was on a reconnaissance mission but it was a fascinating and long evening that did not finish until 2am. Behaviour did not descend into the chaos that it does in the pub on a really late night. When they had all gone, leaving their hammers behind, Steve and I had access to the studio flat, he lost the toss so he slept on the floor. By then he had necked enough ale to sleep hanging on the wall if I could’ve found a nail big enough.

Art?

It was a fine evening with nice people but despite a career that saw me climb from the gutter to the top of the castle, enjoying the rewards and lifestyle of a successful upper middle-class professional, I have never been civilised enough to spend time and money on arty stuff that doesn’t “do” anything. Much as I enjoyed the show it didn’t change me. It’s a personal thing. Was Becket right in Waiting for Godot, to suggest art (and tennis) are just human distractions from the fact that life is meaningless and we are all going to die? Is the great art of the Rennaissance in churches and cathedrals a bribe to secure eternal life for its sponsors? Or, in a lighter vein, is art explained by Veblen’s theory of “conspicuous-consumption“ that says rich people are programmed to spend money on things that have no purpose or utility other than to show other people how much richer they are. A Rolex tells the same time as a Mickey Mouse watch but time is immaterial what it is really doing is telling other people “I am richer than you”. Going to the opera to hear people screeching, watching blokes with no trousers jump around a circle of women dressed as swans, buying a cow preserved in formaldehyde? Art for art’s sake?, or is it rich people showing off, like having a pub polo team, I said to Steve.

(Our pub)

Getting there wasn’t straightforward. Even Kant struggled to square the circle of whether humans have free will. But where Kant Can’t, the Drink Tank Kan - It took three hours of logical analysis and constantly talking right up to the edge and talking back again but the ruling was unanimous.

To get there we had to deal with the challenge that,

1. IF you believe that the Universe follows the laws of physics (as the evidence of Apple’s dropping on Newton’s nut suggests)

2. AND THAT the Universe started with a single event

3. THEN everything is linked in a causal physical chain reaction

4. SO THAT every subsequent event is determined by everything that preceded it which means that if the laws of physics are correct,

5. THEN everything that has ever happened, including human thought and consciousness

6. IS predetermined

7. SO, there is no free will

8. This is called DETERMINISM

In philosophy this thought process is called logical analytics and it makes the brain hurt.

Somewhat amazingly the tankers followed this logic but at the same time expressed very strong feelings against Determinism because they/we felt we/they have personal control or at least some influence over our own decisions. Obviously that freedom is limited by external forces, we can’t just jump off a building and use free will to fly for instance but we can use free will to decide which route to drive to Ilfracombe or to buy another beer and other stuff.

On the other hand, Tankers don’t exercise free will over everything they tanking do. When they sneeze or wipe a bead of sweat from their brow they act automatically without free willing a conscious decision.

Our wise leader and pub landlord, confessed that after his recent self-assisted dying attempt and resurrection, when he came back from the dead, he had no desire to smoke at all, which wasn’t his decision or free will, so some other force had taken control. Other tankers agreed he does indeed seem different and someone claimed to have seen him get out of his chair and do some actual chuffing work, even though he can’t be arsed to get up and open the window to let his own chuffing cat out (as another someone else said when they opened the window).

(Mug shot of pub landlord and other mugs)

The evening was punctuated by long pauses of deep and quiet thought as participants went cross eyed with the pain of mental constipation as they tried to squeeze out fresh thinking. Such as the acknowledgment that free will is subject to outside influences including but not limited to: the nature you were born with, the environment you grow up in, the manners and rules you learn, the religion you might follow.

(Pub music room)

One well-dressed Drink Tanker who has sampled and been chucked out of many religions including the Moonies, Harold Krishna, an odd sounding Thai one, and others said they all tried to control his free will but failed.

Then there is the influence of human emotions such as greed, lust, anger, laughter,…,… that all create conflict in the inner dialogue of decision making and meddle with free will.

Subscribe now

The idea that we have independent free will came under constant pressure but in the end, despite acknowledging that all events, including the decisions we take are indeed influenced by preceding events the tankers voted that free will does exist and we are therefore accountable for our actions and behaviour - which provoked further long pauses of uncomfortable contemplation, after which there was a general observation that it would be quite useful to blame something else sometimes.

But the idea we have free will won through, as it did with Kant, who said that independent rational thought was the supreme and unique achievement of humankind and without it we would be no different to an inanimate rock (which might be true of some people we can think of).

Fired up by their armchair and bar stool philosophical powers, the Drink Tank swept through a series of other moral philosophical thought experiments.

The trolley car scenario - your trolley car has no brakes and is heading towards three road workers who it will kill but you can switch it to another track where it will only kill one person, what should you do? The tankers flicked the switch and saved three road diggers but killed a professor on his way to work who had just thought of the cure for cancer, which provoked further Socratic dialogue.

Tankers - but we didn’t know that?

Socrates - if there’s stuff you don’t know who gave you the right to interfere with fate?

Tankers – We were minimising harm and suffering

Socrates - Is that a moral obligation?

Tankers - Yes

Socrates - So why didn’t you spend the money for that beer on saving starving children in Africa?

How long is now? - after a lot of dispute it was agreed that time is not a constant flow, it is a particle wave and at any point in time there is one very small particle whose turn is to be “now” that exists just after the past and just before the future. It could be very small, even smaller than a Higgs Boson which is too small to see and only exists for a moment. Everything in the Universe is particles, even light. Nothing exists in the space between particles. The Universe is 98% nothing by area and some people are using some of that space between their ears.

Do animals have free will? (obvs not sheep).

Subscribe now

Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and Schrodinger’s Cat - If a table is made of atoms whose electrons and neutrons are constantly moving around, would it jump off the floor if they all by chance moved in the same direction at once? And can the table be in two places at the same time? (subatomic superposition and randomness). The cat was outside so an actual quantum physics experiment using a real cat to settle the two things at once thing, wasn’t possible.

Can there even be a random event? No and Yes if you understand Quantum Physics.

By 10pm the sausage rolls were all eaten which proves they are food for thought and influenced by the external forces of mental exhaustion and the time of night the tankers deployed their free will to go home content in the knowledge that they “lead a good life characterised by virtue, wisdom, and self-knowledge, achieved through rigorous self-examination and philosophical inquiry. And that by “living virtuously, guided by the reason and moral principles, essential for happiness” they were leading “a life well-lived”, as Socrates recommended.

(As usual, everyone made it safely home which proves a little knowledge is not a dangerous thing).

(Can’t remember why we put the piano in a van… better acoustics?)

Share

“Propellorheads” is the flying club where we will test fly the plane built by us old boys and state school students from our local trade apprentices college. The airfield has a short grass runway and two hangars, which look exactly like old barns. They are old barns. About ten aeroplanes belong to club members, and unlike the internally hoseable flying toilets operated by EasyJet, these planes are loved by the people who operate them. Each plane has its own space in a hangar. As we are new, our space is at the back, so we have to move all the other planes out of the way before we can take ours outside to fiddle around with it.

In a society that is obsessed with gender identity, a Propellorheads hangar is better than any chemical test or physical examination to validate the claim to mandom. Science can be safely thrown away. This totally definitive test exposes stereotypical male / female behaviour, which has these days replaced biology for many people as the determining factor of gender. It’s a tricky business sorting this out, as Nicola Sturgeon, the Supreme Court, Graham Linehan and J K Rowling have all discovered. The problem is that some people (not many) deliberately misrepresent their gender. In these cases, the Propellorheads hangar test solves the problem. It is infallible. It shouts male or female. No impostors. Put any human being inside the hangar, stand back and observe.

Aeroplanes dominate the scene but then your eyes pick up that each plane is surrounded by junk. Some stuff you would expect tools, oil cans, fuel cans, wings, engines, propellers because they have an aviation connection. But look at the way they are arranged. The occupants seem to have left in a hurry. Paint tins and glue pots have brushes left in them. Spanners are still attached to bolts. Items that have been dismantled lay frozen in suspended animation patiently waiting to be remantled. Things are strewn across the floor. Discarded nuts and bolts lay between them. The floor surface varies. Dusty concrete is provided free in the rent, but some members have added carpet for… a homely, domestic touch? No. Not that. Wrong. Carpet is strictly functional. Everything is functional. This is a man place. Carpet is there because if you are working down there on the ground, it is nicer to kneel or lay on. It is not coordinated carpet. It looks like offcuts someone pulled out of a skip, which someone probably did. Carpets? If our gender identity test specimen looks around for a hoover that’s another giveaway. A genuine man knows there isn’t a hoover because there isn’t a need for a hoover. A carpet can absorb as much dirt or oil as fate chooses to place on it through the entire history of the Universe. No need to disturb it. It has an infinite carrying capacity. There’are also no cushions.

[If you can name twenty objects in this photograph and explain why they are there, you are irrefutably a man]

As always, where men are free to nest away from female supervision, other junk finds its way along. Something of the wider interests of club members can be deduced from their accessorising. It comes as no surprise, to a genuine man (with or without a willy), to see essential items that a fake man might think has no reason to be in a flying club. Examples are a cricket bat, an air rifle, sea fishing regalia, a sideboard, and two sawhorses with a slab of plywood placed over the top of them in the style of a table, with every square inch of its surface covered with what looks like junk. A genuine male (even one without biological male parts) would know there is no possibility of moving even one tiny item on that fake table so much as one millimetre and getting away with it. This junk is actually not randomly abandoned. It is systematically abandoned and stored in memory, probably by someone who departed suddenly because they “didn’t realise it was that late”. Anyone who attempts to tidy up, put away, clean, organise or leave it in any way other than its time and space frozen state, is indisputably, and fundamentally not male.

Then, to catch out impostors someone else in the hangar has a tidy space with a sparklingly clean and clear workbench (rather than a half-arsed improvised plywood table). Don’t be fooled. This is no evidence of feminine infiltration. Some men, especially ex-professional aviators, or retired aircraft engineers from the armed services, are obsessively organised and tidy. Some even place uniquely numbered-stamped metal tokens in the space where they have removed an item (a spanner from a toolset) and then use their token reference system to find the correct place to put the item back, and they will always put all their items back and leave nothing out before going home. They also do things like check the tyre pressures on their car more than once a year. These men are not fakes posing as men or men repressing their inner female. They are on the spectrum. They are relics from the days when it was an accepted scientific fact that more men than women were on the spectrum and being on the spectrum was OK and did not need mind altering medical interventions. These men also catalogue and classify things such as books, record collections (they still have them), steam engines they have observed etc, but and this is a gender test “but”, they would know not to mess with another man’s mess. They might have contempt for it, but they will observe the fundamental male human right to mess.

Share

Finally, the smell. Anyone who cannot instantly decode and list its constituents as; engine oil, thinners, petrol, damp, coolant, Swarfega, solder, is not a man. It’s not easy. It all hangs together in a blended fug that is probably cancerous, but so what?, this is a place where schoolboy fantasies about the Battle of Britain hang in the air. The valorising of risk is another test of male culture. If you sat club members in a circle and asked them to suggest a subject to discuss, they would look totally mystified. Such a question would imply there is another subject to discuss. In a flying club, there is only one subject: flying. As they talk their hands fly around to portray planes doing manoeuvres and the discussion invariably progresses to mishaps, near misses, being caught in bad weather, flying in low light, flying without a radio, encroaching into controlled airspace etc etc. Stereotypical females do not have the same interest as boys (male ones) in the thrills and talk of physical danger, dares, recklessness, or the same temptation to exaggerate and embellish reality as part of their tribal ritual. I have never sat in a circle of women in a pub, but my hunch is that if I had, I would hear no end to the matters they can talk about other than the one they agreed to meet and discuss.

Anyway, the IOC, FIFA, and everyone else who needs to establish whether a person is genuinely male by assessing stereotypical male behaviour - hangar for hire.

Final note: this happy memory is attempting to be mildly funny so try not to be offended if it sounds anti-woke. Maybe even think kindly of us. I loaned £50,000 to this project for state school kids and some brilliant retired engineers gave up their time and helped some takented teenagers build a plane and then we sold it and I got £48,000 back. Win. This is the view that state school apprentices of all genders, saw of their home county of North Devon. And, just like the Wright brothers, some of them had never flown before taking to the sky in a plane they built themselves.

Subscribe now