The tale of the surfing cow!

This story, true to the letter, characterises my life perfectly. You see, things happen to me. They always have, and I expect they always will. And whatever the situation, I’ve usually been willing to follow the paths that ‘things’ have laid before me. I have been accused of stupidity, irresponsibility and a good few other ‘itys’ resulting from my serendipitous escapades, but the resulting experiences have enriched my life….with one or two exceptions!

I own a boat and I love her. To me she is a fine sight, with her confident lines and crisp white finish. And she has performed her role honourably, as a small day-cruiser, fishing boat, and occasional ‘get-away-from-it-all-for-the-night’ recluse. She has a large outboard sea-engine that draws derisory looks from other boaters as it rumbles along, no doubt they see such a powerful engine as vulgar for the pedestrian river scene. But I don’t really care, because for all that engine has brought me near to injury on several occasions (more on this later), it has also been a life saver, as you will see.

Sadly, I have put my boat up for sale recently. I need the money, so that’s that! But I will shed a tear when she goes after ten years as my partner in crime.

When I last used her several months ago, I had no idea that it would be my final ‘voyage’, but the memories of that day are now all the more precious because of it. It was a fishing day. Just me and my boat, the river, and an occasional circus of ducks were all the company I was anticipating, as I headed up-stream, away from other boats and civilisation.

Early morning, light just breaking and a chill in the air, brought me around a bend to be confronted, some fifty yards hence, by a large Fresian cow. It was stood in the middle of the river, wide-eyes regarding me with suspicion, whilst snorting clouds of dewy breath. Given its predicament, it looked reasonably calm, and I felt no real concern about appoaching it.

The banks on either side were high and lined with reeds and hawthorn bushes, but a stream inlet on the right hand bank looked the likely way in for a curious cow. It seemed like an easy enough task to nudge her towards the inlet, so as a good Samaritan, I moved purposefully into position.Without notice she reared up, giving me a wide-eyed death-stare, bellowed in expletive-coloured cow-speak (or so I imagined), and head butted the side of my boat with enough force to do damage. I gunned the engine, shot forward and decided to leave the ungrateful beast to it. I think I even yelled back at her in expletive-coloured human-speak.

As soon as I had rounded the next bend, however, guilt began to set in. I called the lock keeper and established the name of the likely farmer who owned the adjacent land. A quick call to 118 118 and contact was made, ownership of the cow established, and a grateful farmer primed to rescue his waterlogged asset.

A couple of hours later, sat peacefully with rod in one hand and freshly brewed coffee in the other, my mobile rang. It was the farmer, who immediately asked how big my boat was. “Not large enough to hold a cow” said I!

It transpired that the cow had moved into some reeds on the far bank and refused to budge. A second intrepid Samaritan, by way of a canoeist, had attempted to persuade the cow out from its ‘nest’, only to be met with the same response lavished on me. Unfortunately canoes are not renowned for their cow rustling qualities, and the owner was pitched head over paddle into the river. He had evidently left the scene without so much as a goodbye!

I was asked to undertake the role of persuader. As the fishing was a bit slow and the drama of the situation appealling, I set off to the rescue.

Getting the cow out of the reeds by nudging her with the bow of my boat proved surprising easy, but unfortunately she then moved purposefully across the river and under the cover of a giant, overhanging Hawthorn bush. Nasty, spikey things Hawthorns, so I was quite wary about moving into the cow’s new sanctuary, where it could barely be seen within the shadowy depths of the tree. Try as we might, me shouting, the farmer above the bank hitting the bush with his stick, and his farm-hand honking the horn of a near bye tractor, the cow refused to budge. A bit of head scratching all round ensued, until I remembered that somewhere in the cabin I kept a relic of my sea days – a compressed air-driven fog horn.

Did it work? You bet! I leaned over the prow and got the horn as close to the cow’s backside as possible, then let rip. The beast lunged forward, then dove down under the bush and headed diagonally across the river at one very un-cow like pace. It eventually reached the sanctuary of another bed of reeds some 30 yards up river. This began to look like a long haul, as we still had several hundred yards of water to navigate until we reached an area where bank was kinder.

Time for a new strategy! It came in the form of a rope and a farm-hand, who knelt on my prow in a fair old Cap’n Ahab impression. After several aborted attempts, due to the cow doing a 180 degree turn each time we got close, we managed to get the rope around her neck and tied off to a cleat at the rear of the boat. A slow tug of war ensued, with the cow stubbornly dug in and me gradually applying the throttle. My engine proved the mightier beast on the day, and we were able to get the cow into the deeper water, where it had no choice but to cow-paddle after us as we headed towards our chosen port.

The farm-hand and I exchanged congratulatory back slaps, as we made our way towards the gesticulating farmer. We thought at first he was waving us in enthusiastically, but soon realised his animations were a little too frantic for that. Looking behind us, we were horrified to see that there was no sign of the cow, just a foaming bulge in the water above where the beast was meant to be. I cut the engine in a panic and the boat slowed immediately. After what seemed an eternity, the cow’s head broke surface and it took the deepest, noisiest gaaarrrooooop of breath I have ever heard.

Lesson learned, we moved gingerly forward, watching the cow for signs of any further submarining. It seemed like an age, but we finally got to the bank, where the cow was unceremoniously hauled out of the water by a harness attached to the tractor. End of the adventure, or so we assumed.

Minutes later, when the driver removed the harness from the cow, she lurched to her feet and head-butted him into the air. As soon as he landed, she set upon him with some gusto, eventually to be driven away by the farmer, a stick and a sheepdog.

The postscript to the story is that the cow was fine but the tractor driver was hospitalised with suspected broken ribs. I motored away with the gift of a crate of beer, and permission to fish from the very desirable private stretches of the farmer’s land.

Corporate in-hospitality

A couple of years ago I took a colleague and some clients fly fishing to a trout lake, near my home, in the Cotswolds. The venue was a much sought after water, where the fish were exceptionally large and the scenery spectacular.

All three of my clients were intelligent and successful businessmen, who had proved themselves up to the challenge of making the right decisions at the right time….or so you would think! My colleague was a large South African gentleman, who also claimed a high IQ.

We breakfasted at my house early, and arrived at the venue at seven thirty, with the intention of tackling up and making the reasonable walk from the lodge to the water by eight thirty. The air had a definite bite to it, water temperatures were low, but all in all the weather looked acceptable for a day’s trouting. We were excited!

Each dressed appropriately in waders, thick jumper, fishing jacket and hat, we set off from the lodge with two rods, tackle bag, landing net and flask in-hand. With all that gear, cumbersome clothing and inelegant footware, we waddled like large green penguins along the muddy track, chattering and chirping fishing gibberish, as our anticipation mounted.

The lake looked spectacular. There were a few anglers strewn around its edges, generating the enticing swoosh of fly lines being cast, and the occasional dimple of a fish rising on the water – pure angling adrenalin! It was quite a walk to the far side of the lake, which looked the ‘best side’ to our fisherman’s eyes. Consequently, the floating platform we encountered, with a rope spanning the water, looked a good option to make the journey easier.

We trooped confidently on, one at a time. The platform, which was about eight foot long and three foot wide, was attached to floating oil barrels, and it had a wooden hand rail along one side. We each clung to the rail with one hand and held our gear with the other, whilst waiting for the last of my clients to clamber on. At six foot three and twenty stone he made an immediate impression on the back end of our 'boat', whilst muttering “this doesn’t look like a good idea to me”.

My South African colleague, who has a sort of macho-ness about him, a characteristic I’ve noticed in a number of his countrymen, proceeded to haul on the rope and pull us across the lake with a vengeance. This wasn’t a good idea. The platform set off at pace it had never been designed for, and it began to rock. Imagine five men, none of whom were exactly slim in build, attempting to ride a giant skateboard on an undulating surface, each trying to correct their own balance in a way that fought against the others. And all the while, Mr South Africa continued his determined tug of war with the far bank, launching the platform further out into deep water.

Achieving stability was a scientific impossibility and the inevitable happened. The whole platform turned upside down, pitching each of us backwards into the freezing water. One client, valuing his fishing rods more than his own safety, was dragged under the platform because he had no purchase. As we dragged him out, he emerged with a triumphant cry of “saved them” and brandished his prized rods in the air. Meanwhile Mr South Africa, decided that as his feet could touch bottom, he would carry on across the lake to safety whilst holding his rod and fishing gear above his head. It wasn’t long before he disappeared out of site, only to emerge trying to breast stroke with waders full of water, amidst a cacophony of coughs and splutters. We were far too cold to laugh, but I did notice one angler fair choking on his coffee. I seem to remember wishing he’d follow it through!

Once we had pushed and pulled each other onto the bank, someone pointed out the sign - ‘3 people maximum’ - that was nailed to an adjacent tree. I got the blame for not spotting this earlier, as I had been to the lake before. Taking my punishment silently, I vowed to tell the truth of the story, and share the stupidity around, when the time was right…..so here it is guys!

Was I upset about my disastrous client day? Only temporarily, as all but one client saw the funny side and the other mellowed over time – he was the one that still got onto the platform having commented about it being a bad idea, clever chap!

The one part of the episode that embarrassed me, was trawling through my socks and underwear drawer to find enough garments suitable for distribution amongst those in need.

We did come back later in the day to continue our fishing and failed to catch a thing. I have been since told by the fishery manager that the number of fish taken that day was very low. The trout appeared to be a bit skittish…..I wonder why?


A date, a dinner and a disaster!

There is no doubt that most men are led by their genitals, and I was certainly no exception in my formative years. By my mid-twenties, I had progressed from the pub and plead approach to the more civilised world of dinner dating. But the underlying motives (I’m just being honest here) were the same – the chance to follow dinner with breakfast!

Unfortunately though, I always experienced the same unsettling dilemma. How to get full gastronomic enjoyment out of my supper, whilst being constantly distracted by the thought ‘will she or won’t she’?

Firstly, it required significant detective work during the course of the meal. For example, if she ordered fish, cabbage or a dish laden with garlic, did it mean that she was not envisaging any kissing of the French variety? If she insisted on only one small glass of Chablis for the evening, did it indicate that she had no intention of getting ‘fuelled-up’ for any gymnastics? And would it be inappropriate to steer her away from shellfish in case she got a ‘bad one’, leaving her incapacitated? But then, what if she ordered oysters? Would she be sending pulse-racing signals of her intention to play?

All this stuff whizzing around in my head, made choosing from the menu a stressful experience. However, if that were the only challenge it would have been almost manageable, but the situation was even more complex, because whilst dissecting her motives, it was essential to simultaneously develop my own strategy. Should I eat what she eats to counteract any breath problems, share in the oysters to show a bit of enthusiasm (even though I found them disgusting), or head for the protein to build up my red blood count? Questions, questions!

To make matters worse, it was necessary to manage the appetite-dampening effects of nervousness, adrenalin and hope. This is really tricky stuff. As a young teenager I used to get so worked up in the company of a desirable female that I would begin to feel a sort of sea sickness. This then developed into a phobia about a perfume that was popular at the time. It was named ‘Charlie’ I recall, and I was convinced that I was allergic to it. Putting these factors together, created dynamite. Whenever I felt that tightening of the throat I just had to flee the poor girls company, with no explanation, to find somewhere to be ill. Afterwards, I would be too embarrassed to return and usually just went home. On one occasion, at a disco, events took me by surprise and after a short dance and kiss of the neck, the inevitable happened!

I even went to see our grumpy old family doctor because of it, who stated in a rather Victorian fashion “guilty conscience”.

Looking back, I think it was all in the mind of a virginal fifteen year old, but it shows the impact that a bit of hormonal, adrenalin-fuelled excitement can have.

Dinner!

I was to have dinner with a rather gorgeous young lady, a Sloan type, who I’d met in a bar somewhere in the West End. Having weighed the situation up, I decided that the outcome of the evening was difficult to gauge, so I decided to put a plan in place that I’d been mulling over for some time. I would try and establish, early in the evening, whether a whole night together was on the cards. I could then relax and address my food choice accordingly. I actually convinced myself that she too might prefer this type of protocol.

The conversation, after drinks, went along the following lines. “I’d like to ask you a bit of a personal question” Her eyes regarded me with cold suspicion as she slowly and deliberately placed a morsel of canapé into her mouth. I continued “you see, I need to know what food to order - light, easy on the palette, or heavy duty, four course, settle in for the evening stuff”? Her eyes softened and she relaxed at his point. In hindsight, she must have been relieved by the harmlessness of the topic. She was about to say something, but as I held my hand up to indicate that more explanation was to follow, she began to study her menu. This was the cue for the waiter, hovering near bye to move in for Q&A time, just as I launched into my explanation.

I said “Knowing what I am to order, and being able to concentrate fully on dinner, is kind of dependent upon me knowing whether we are going to sleep together tonight, because…..” At this point she ceased all movement, began with quizzical open-mouthed expression, and progressed to a ‘I’ve-just-seen-the-inside-of-a-gents-lavatory-for-the-first-time’ kind of look.

She then got up without a word, retrieved her coat and left. There I was, alone with a smirking waiter for company, and no chance of a dinner or a bonk!

I think this was the start of my career in strategy, marketing and persuasive communications!Sure I had failed and made a bit of a tit of myself – still probably am by telling this story, but I have gotten to be quite good at constructing plans and pulling them off…mostly!

I never did solve my dinner dating dilemma, but as I am now a happily married man, the necessity has somewhat diminished.

If by any chance the lady in question ever reads this, I’m so, so sorry!

A day at the races

Is it just me, or is anyone else offended by the string of ‘we have the customer’s interests at heart’ type adverts that are currently being televised by high street banks? I strongly object to being patronised or taken for granted at the best of times, but especially by institutions who have treat their customers in such a shoddy way.

Rarely in my own commercial ventures have I had cause to praise my bankers. I have always found their attitude to be blatantly one sided, and often schizophrenic. One memorable example of this from my early business life, was when a bank manager advised my partner and I to ‘reward’ our success with company cars. He then proceeded to bollock us for being irresponsible with our commitments, when we had a cash flow blip some months later. In reality he was playing poacher and gamekeeper in response to his paymasters’ greed, who were then insisting that managers should also be salesmen. Ridiculous!

However, that isn’t the banking tale I want to tell, it’s just a rant I needed to get off my chest…thanks for indulging me!

There was a particularly enjoyable point in my business life when, for the first time ever, it was possible for my then partner and I to stand back and admire what we had built. It hadn’t been without its stormy times over the preceding five years, but that’s running your own ship for you!

By this time we had experienced the ‘charms’ of a couple of the high street banks, and had been with the incumbent for several years. One day, it occurred to me that the strength of the business would put us in a strong negotiating position to get a better banking deal. For the first time it wouldn’t involve business plan lies, a begging bowl approach and a grateful acceptance of an extortionate ‘over base’ interest rate.

Our then manager, let’s call him David, because that was his name, somehow rumbled my flirtaciousness with his competitors. He decided to woo me back into his fold with an invitation to a black tie, bankers dinner at the Grosvenor. I accepted because I enjoy good food (although usually with good company), and the speakers were Roy Hattersley and Howard Davies, which promised to be interesting.

I was seated at a table near the front, along with my manager and a group of senior, and already very drunk, individuals from the corporate banking world. It wasn’t long before a couple of our party were behaving in a loud and irritating way. They began passing unpleasant comments in earshot of the waitresses, and generally trying hard to convince everyone that obnoxiousness was in fact a sophisticated form of humour! I tolerated all this throughout dinner, but when Roy Hattersley began talking, and these idiots began guffawing and heckling, my temper got the better of me. I decided to do my bit for the working man!

The loudest of these individuals turned out to be the most senior, although I didn’t know it at the time, and I singled him out for attention. I told him to shut up and listen, as he might just learn something about a large proposition of the population that he depended upon to pay his inflated salary. It created an interesting tension at the table with David, my manager, no doubt looking heaven-ward and mumbling “but I thought I was doing the right thing”!

Once Mr Loudmouth had come to the conclusion that I was actually being serious, he pointed a wobbling finger at me and said something about me not knowing what running a bank was about, and how hard it was to be a manager. I of course replied with the obvious, “I would make a better f****** bank manager than you sunshine”. David leapt in at this point to calm down a situation that was clearly heading into violence territory.

For the remainder of the evening, the table was much more subdued, Roy spoke relatively freely, and I felt I had the victory.

That was that, or so I thought until two days later when I got a call from David, to tell me how I had ‘got to’ his colleague. But in the spirit of client relations, he wondered whether I would care to become a bank manager for a few days to test out my claim. I accepted instantly. The necessary non-disclosures were signed, my picture was taken for the bank’s internal publicity machine, and I turned up for my first day in the dullest suit and whitest shirt I could find!

It was actually very interesting. I saw how business plans and manager’s recommendations were evaluated by remote teams of up and coming managers. I was surprised to see just how much information could be gleaned about the health of a business, from the movement within the bank account. And it was a revelation how aggressive the bank could be on the hunt for a juicy deal.

Hunting a juicy deal!

On the last day of my new career, I accompanied David to see a client who had a large loan with a rival bank, secured against considerable land assets. His ultimate objective was to get the client, a well known racehorse trainer, to switch loyalties.

On arrival at the stables, after the pleasantries were concluded with the trainer and his accountant, my full status was explained to avoid any complications. The Irish trainer thought the whole thing was hysterical as I filled him in on the whole story, although David did seem to be frowning a fair bit.

The trainer and I hit it off instantly, and had great fun together for the rest of the session, constantly taking the piss out of bankers, accountants and their like. We had a tour around the stables, bearing nearly sixty horses, and then moved on to a discussion about re-negotiating interest rates on a small loan that the trainer also had with my bank.

Out of the blue he asked David if he was a betting man. With the trainer being a bit of a rascal, David knew that he was being set up in some way, so his reply was a guarded “it depends”. “Well I’m very much a betting man, so tell me, does Mike here have any borrowing with your bank”? David looked at me and I nodded with a smirk. “Okay then said the trainer, I’ll bet his interest rates are better than you are offering me, so I want what he’s getting or no deal. If he’s paying more than I’m paying now, I’ll take the hit”.The trainer looked at me and I said wickedly “two and half above base”. I didn’t add that mine was a secured loan, whereas the trainer’s wasn’t.

After a fair bit of hard ball and then pleading on David’s behalf, the trainer got his deal. He later told me that he knew exactly what the bank was up to, trying to seduce him with a small loan before going for the big one. He was just using the situation to leverage an unsecured deal he would never normally have got at that rate, and I was the convenient pawn. I just loved this guy, amiable on the outside, sharp as a razor inside.

At some point the trainer’s wife walked into the room, and I have never in my life been so speechless, until that is I met Miss World on the set of a Bollywood movie (a later story). Not just because of her beauty, but also because she was about a foot taller than the trainer, who had a sort of Charlie Drake-ness about him. David was very obvious, it was akin to the scene in Mask when Jim Carrey first meets Cameron Diaz in the nightclub, and first his jaw then his tongue hit the table. She invited us for lunch, and I accepted on behalf of the bank whilst ignoring David’s hissing in my ear about another appointment.

The trainer and I sat together, with his wife, at one end of the table, and the two financial bods sat at the other. The inevitable happened – the trainer and I proceeded to have an unofficial Irish – English drinking competition. Towards the end of the session, slurring his words, the trainer offered me a racehorse for thirty thousand. It had been bred by the Aga Khan, with the bloodline of Northern Dancer, and as a yearling was valued at half a million. He only wanted a modest price for it, because the owners had gone bankrupt and thirty thousand was what he was owed in fees.

I turned the ‘very kind’ offer down because firstly, I didn’t have thirty grand to spare, and secondly, I was a bit scared of horses. A particularly nasty brute, had bared its teeth and snapped at me like an ‘Alien’, whilst I had walked past its dark lair earlier on!

A few minutes later he dropped his price to twenty five, then eighteen, and eventually got down to ten thousand. All conversation around the table had ceased by this point and I felt compelled to say something. Off the top of my head, I offered to paint a portrait of his wife in exchange for the horse. I wasn’t serious, but when he spat into his hand and thrust it towards me, what could I do? I now owned a racehorse!

As we were leaving, the trainer said that we should speak in the next few days to sort out the training, and some races we could go to together. It would be great fun.

Immediately off the property I rang my wife and told her, very excitedly, that we now owned a family racehorse. There was silence at first, not from disbelief, because after a good few years together, she knew that anything was possible when I got excited. She was silent because she was trying to assimilate implications such as, ‘is he going to be bringing it back here’, before she said either ‘that’s nice darling’ or ‘you bloody idiot’! I told the full story and I’m pretty sure it was relief I heard in her voice, as it became clear the horse wasn’t to join her, the kids and the dog at home!

During this conversation I kept catching David out of the corner of my eye, trying to tell me something. Once I had signed off, he jumped straight in.“Don’t you realise why he agreed to sell you the horse so cheaply”? I nearly said it was because he liked me, but decided to just shake my head. “It’s because he wants the training fees! How much do you think it will cost you a month”? About five hundred quid was what I had in mind. “Two to three thousand”, said David, “much more when you go to the races. And don’t think you can make a profit on race winnings, because that’s highly unlikely in this game”.

I remember thinking ‘oh bollocks’, but decided to just chew on things for a while. I conducted a little brainstorm in my head, did a bit of a SWOT, and then came to a conclusion. I rang the trainer, who I think was expecting me to say I’d changed my mind, and told him that in hindsight, I felt he needed to address his corporate marketing to prospective clients. I said very dramatically, “you need a brochure”. And he agreed to that, rather than a painting of his wife.

I then rang my business partner and said “guess what, you own half a racehorse, and all its going to cost us is a brochure”! Job done, and what a great time we went on to have. We did win a couple of big races, one at Windsor, if my memory serves me well, and we took clients on a number of great corporate horsepitality jollies. I was even on C4 with the racing pundit who dresses like Inspector Gadget, and once paraded the horse alongside the Aga Khan, in the owner’s enclosure.

The horse story doesn’t stop here, and there is more to come in due course.

I wouldn’t have missed this experience for the world, and it came about by simply undertaking an unplanned journey, just to see where it went. So often I work with people who aspire to something new, but can’t bring themselves to undertake it, without knowing what the end point looks like. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that the end is just the start of something else, and it never looks like it is suppose to.