Tom Guru, Management Consultant

Analysis Paralysis

2011-06-30T16:24:00.000+01:00

Have just come out of a client deck review. Despite the name, it has nothing at all to do with shipping, the 'deck' in question being industry speak for presentation.

I have a big presentation coming up with a colleague, Carl. I think it is fair to say that Carl likes PowerPoint, I mean, he REALLY LIKES PowerPoint.

In the good old days BPP (before PowerPoint) you knew in advance how your day was going to turn out in a deck review because the presenter would walk in with a stack of paper or Acetate slides under his arm. Immediately you could tell whether it was going to be endurable or not. Best Case scenario would be 20 slides. This is best case but also fantasy case because NEVER in the history of Consulting has there been a 20 slide presentation. Consultants talk of them but only in folklore - "Yeah, at my mate Guy's firm, they have a policy of 20 slides or less" or "I once went into a pitch with 2 slides and got the gig". Beware anyone who tells you such things, they are dangerous fantasists and not to be trusted. Best case scenario could also, surprisingly, be more than 100 slides, this because it meant you would have plenty of time to call your bookie on imaginary toilet breaks, plus there would almost certainly be sandwiches.

Nowadays, we have thumb drives, which, although technologically marvellous, give no clue as to whether sandwiches or Turf Accountant consultations would feature in your day.

So today we were treated to a 'Carlathon'. Hours of inane turgidity, coupled with insanely unnecessary screen transitions ( after a certain time, the site of bullet points cascading unnecessarily onto the screen one at a time drives one to thoughts of suicide or murder - whatever would relieve the situation quickest!) I have known Carl for three years now and would say that, underneath it all, he is probably a nice man. Intense to the point of monomania, hideously intense, pathologically humourless, and the proud holder of a Master's Degree in the bleeding obvious, but essentially harmless.

The first two hours were taken up by 'Analysis'. Now, I am not saying there is no room for analysis, my industry is built upon it and our clients certainly need more of it (to protect themselves FROM themselves often) but there is analysis and there is 'Analysis'. Carl's brand is to (as mentioned before) state the bleeding obvious repetitively in ways that make you wonder if Carl is stupid or whether he just thinks you are, example "Our client wants to increase sales" - No?, Really!?

The fun dimension to this is that the client himself has a penchant for retaliating in kind. We are now having an email 'Slide Blizzard' where the client's slide changes and Carl's changes to the changes are whizzing through cyberspace but not, regrettably, colliding with each other and sinking into the ether. (Why do they call it 'Ether' - is it because so much of what is done on it sends you to sleep?)

Carl has just said he has some some more thoughts (more? I don't seriously think he has had ANY yet) and that we should "pull an all-nighter" to "put this baby to bed". Does anyone know if Bookies are open 24 hours?

Concorde

2010-01-27T08:02:00.005Z

Travelling into Paris Charles DeGaulle last week I had a brief moment of alarm (there is nothing particularly unusual here, travelling to Paris frequently alarms me). The cause of the momentary panic on this occasion however was, during the taxi from the distant runway (and, boy, isn't it distant? Although it is not as bad as the new one at Schiphol which is, I'm sure, actually in Belgium - we had to re-set our watches as it is actually in a different time zone to the airport!) I saw out of the corner of my eye, a semi-airborne plane directly at right-angles to us.

The plane in question was of course an Air France Concorde which, like the BA one at Heathrow, is on display in a semi-airborne pose in the airport's outfield. Which raises the question (no, not THAT question, i.e. why did they retire the most wonderful piece of technology invented in my lifetime) but the question of why display the aircraft there - where no one can really see it, or stop to gaze longingly at it?

They have one at Manchester, and the Mancunians had the great sense and self-awareness to realise that a Concorde out in the open in Manchester would turn into a huge pile of Orange dust in a heart-beat given the 'Excessive Humidity' (in other countries they call it rain) for which Manchester is famous, and so they, very thoughtfully, built a shed around it so it would be indoors.

This is the point though, the Concorde at Manchester can be viewed, up close and personal as the modern magazines like to say. You can gaze lovingly at it (OK, perhaps it's just me), go on it - people even GOT MARRIED on it.

That must have been a strange affair don't you think? A wedding on a grounded Concorde in a shed in Manchester. Do they do the speeches over the tannoy? Do they bring the champagne out in plastic beakers served on a trolley? Do they do a safety briefing beforehand? "In the event of a panic-stricken Bridegroom, Oxygen masks will appear automatically from above your head". Surely it will restrict the dancing? Concorde had famously narrow aisles (not much room for an inebriated Uncle to swing a 6 year old girl around). So, in the interests of scientifuc experiment, if any readers are planning on having their wedding on a Concorde, the present Mrs Guru and I are available (purely in the interests of research you understand) - you just wouldn't feel 'propery married' unless it was on a grounded supersonic airliner in a shed would you?

Mind you, at least it would be indoors and not stuck out in the middle of an airfield rearing up at slightly confused middle-aged executives, and for that, I am most grateful.

Thank God it's Monday!

2009-11-09T13:43:00.004Z

It was with some relief that my derriere hit my office chair this morning as I have just endured a weekend of my dear Lady Wife's 'socialising'. Please do not get me wrong, the present Mrs Guru is a sainted woman who is universally adored by all - THAT is the problem.

She tends to 'adopt' waifs and strays and was an avid Social Networker long before Bookface or whatever it is called came along. Usually this is of little consequence to yours truly. I get regaled with stories of how 'this person said such-and-such', or that someone else's husband may (or may not) be about to be entertained at her Majesty's pleasure (British slang for put in Prison), but in the main, it is fairly painless for me (after this long in my current firm I have perfected the art of LOOKING like I'm listening when actually I am doing no such thing).

This weekend was different though, because this weekend was the occasion of THE BARBECUE. I use the upper case characters advisedly. THE BARBECUE is a ghastly occasion where yours truly barely warms the insides of sausages whilst simultaneously cremating their skins, and all from a position hunched under the partially open garage door (protection from the (inevitable) rain storm you see).

In other parts of the world, Australia for example, Barbecues are a natural part of life, no big deal, a minor occasion, a chance to socialise and relax with friends. In Britain a Barbecue is part Tribal Ritual, Part Salmonella Infestation and part Rain Dance (it has been scientifically proven that the British could, at one fell swoop end all famine. Merely take, say two dozen British men out to the Sahara and either scatter them across the terrain with Mobile Barbecue units, or else dress them in White and make them play Cricket. In either event, torrential rain is guaranteed within minutes - this is foolproof, it has NEVER failed yet). It is also, and this is a very strange thing, some kind of male right of passage.

British men, I suspect ALL men although I am not qualified to say so, get very strange around a barbecue. I think there is something about a barbecue that taks directly to the caveman part of our brains (something that the current Mrs Guru believes to the majority part of our brains and which is situated somewhere beneath our navels but above our knees). Men cannot resist the lure of the Barbecue. At first I was standing station, under the garage roof, trying to keep sleet off the burgers, when I realised that I needed to go inside and get the sausages. I must have abandoned station for almost 45 seconds - in any event, I deserted for far too long because when i got back there were FOUR men stood where I had been, all hunched under the garage's open door, all vying with each other to prod the burgers with a fork.

I, of course, was miffed, it was MY house, MY barbecue and MY burgers and I had been shamelessly usurped. What is it with these people? They must have been watching my every move, waiting for me to desert station before pouncing like, as Scott Adams would say "Frat boys on a Drunken Cheerleader". In such situations it is very important that one exhibits a little dignity, shows a little class, unfortunately, my subtle attempts at calm, controlled reassurance "Thanks Gentlemen, I'm back now" were met with stern stares, I swear, one of them actually GRUNTED (if he had only said "Me like Fire, Me play with Fire" the effect would have been complete).

After some unseemly jostling, a couple of the guys were persuaded to step aside (never ceases to amaze what you can do with a carefully placed elbow), the runts now out of the picture, the rutting contest was now being played by yours truly and two others. I am sorry to say that things got a little unseemly, there were bouts of British Middle Class rage (e.g. "I say old boy, steady on, you nearly put that fork in my eye", "oh sorry, dear Chap, didn't see you there" (whilst repeating the same gesture)). It got a little unseemly after that! The rest of the event passed off fairly peacefully if with not a little tension. There were plenty of female mutterings, nothing I could exactly pinpoint, just muttered comments like "worse than the kids", "how old are they?" and my favourite "his son's just the same".

On the plus side, this event MAY have persuaded the Sainted Mrs Guru to think twice before organising a similar event in future. Unfortunately, the two beaten finalists have had the last laugh, one has invited us to a DINNER PARTY and the other, clearly a very mean man, a DINNER DANCE. Does anyone know if they sell knuckle-dusters on eBay?

Tom

International Meetings - a recipe for embarrassment

2009-10-30T20:07:00.006Z

Just back home from another week's slog, slaving away at the coalface of Business Process Improvement. Once more was able to continue the recent trend of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, on this occasion almost sparking an International incident as well along the line.

I was leading a workshop on account prioritisation, fairly dry stuff you might imagine but I was soaring like an eagle, using rhethoric, allegory, puns, metaphors - you know "making it live". The trouble was that my delegates were seated in a huge 'U' shape before me. It was a cosmopolitan, pan-European group of senior managers from a majot vehicle group who had absconded to Sweden for a little R&R (thinly) disguised as a 'Strategic Marketing Retreat'.

So there I was, a colussus in my field, straddling my subject with flair, panache and not a little style (think of a younger, not dead Errol Flynn and you will not be far off) when I noticed that the two French guys were whispering to one another for the entirety of my presentation. I know the French have a reputation for this sort of thing - I realise that the Hundred years war was never officially ended (and therefore we can conclude that it ain't over yet) but this, I felt, was pretty poor form, even for those schooled in the Gallic method of presentation skills.

Drawing upon the skills and technique of Mrs Thackeray my Junior School teacher I paused, mid sentence and stared at the two offenders, at which point they promptly broke off their muttering s and, for perhaps the first time, looked directly at me. Good, I had their attention at last, I thought "what would Mrs Thackeray have done next?" - quick as a flash I got my answer and I went for it, I raised an eyebrow!!

Satisfied in my calm, quiet yet clearly supreme authority, I continued whence I had left off, only to find that, almost immediately, my Gallic interruptors were at it again, muttering and now even glancing at me whilst continuing to talk away behind their hands.

I paused again, and again - this process went on for some time until fuming now, I reached for the final, most potent club in Mrs Thackeray's bag "If you have something to say, I think it only fair that you should share it with the whole group", I smiled benignly and raised BOTH eyebrows this time - hah, THAT ought to do it. There was a baffled pause from my French colleagues so I entreated them some more, "Please, tell everyone what it is that you two are chatting about" - Wow, Mrs Thackeray would be proud, she taught me well. Finally, one of them broke the deadlock, "Well Monsieur Tom" he started "I am translating your words for 'im, I am 'is interpretor". We broke for coffee then, it almost choked me.

My strangest Assignment yet

2009-08-18T13:44:00.000+01:00

When one has spent a few years as a revered Businessman and pillar of the community, it can be tempting to assume that one has, to a certain degree, seen it all. I have long thought that one of the (few) advantages of the odd sprinkling of 'Salt' in the overall "pepper' of one's hairstyle is that it confers an air of wisdom, of gravitas, of having been around the block a few times and successfully found one's way back.

So imagine my chagrin last week when I was put onto a new client assignment, that of organising an Open Day FOR A CREMATORIUM.

Forgive my naivete dear reader, but it rather took me aback to get such an assignment, but no in all seriousness (to be fair, Crematorium staff do not go in for jokes too much for obvious reasons), there IS to be an Open Day and the client wants our firm, i.e. yours truly, to spearhead the planning and organisation of this 'not to be forgotten experience'.

It gets odder, it appears there is a 'Crematorium of the Year Award' too and my client has finished second more times than he cares to remember and wants to use "Initiatives" arising from the Open Day, as a major part of a Strategic 'Push' towards the top spot he so craves - is it me?? I have a real worry that the client is going to invite me to next year's award ceremony if he is successful in his quest - how wierd would that be? What awards do they have "Best Garden of Remembrance, Best Cremation? Flue of the year? What award do you get? I imagine a little golden coffin, perhaps with a golden star on the top.

So we had our first 'Kick-off' meeting at the end of last week, I am to work on this project assisted (I use the term advisedly) by my new Junior, Lance.

Now I don't want to be too scathing about Lance, after all, he is some (poor) mother's son but really! He wants me to 'Connect' with him on Bookface and says he wants to 'Tweet me'! I thought he had a speech defect, treat me to what? But no, apparently he wants me to start a Profile on something called Twittering so he can send me 140 character snippets of what he's up to. "140 characters"? I told him, "I want full page reports of what you are up to not tweets or whatever" - this, it has to be said, did not go down well, I believe I heard the word 'Luddite' muttered more than once.

So we had the Kick-off, an experience that was simultaneously bizarre, unreal and mind-fizzingly mundane. Lance suggested we have an 'interactive experience' which, against all odds, the client seemed to quite like! What sort of interactive experience you would want of a crematorium one can only guess at. I clung to the idea that it was all just a poor taste joke and thought I would enter the spirit (no pun intended). I suggested we should do a SWOT analysis (the consultants' favourite knee-jerk) which was eagerly accepted as a serious contribution. What would one say are the "Opportunities" for a Crematorium, perhaps there would be a homicidal maniac move into the locality and start a homicidal killing spree? That should drum up some business. What about 'Threats', perhaps people would start leaving their departed loved ones out for the bin men instead of going down that old tired model of burial/cremation. Question, would they do it on a Grey Bin day or a Green bin day? Green surely? Grey would be too disrespectful don't you think?

Buoyed by the positive response to my SWOT idea I got into the spirit of the thing rather, although I did get some funny looks when I suggested we have a bouncy castle and face-painting! To show his total lack of an irony gene, Lance made the comment that a bouncy castle would be inappropriate and in any event could not take place because the only appropriate site had already been claimed by the 'Build your own coffin from household refuge' Exhibit.

Perhaps there WILL be room in that Grey Bin after all...

Meetings as a displacement activity for real work

2009-05-20T11:59:00.000+01:00

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We had a 'Team' Meeting this morning. I put the word 'Team' inside apostrophes because we only actually EXIST as a Team in the mind of the Senior Partner (I wonder if he likes to think of us as a team because it saves him having to learn our names!).

Today was one of our twice-yearly 'Development Retreats'. This is a two day junket at a really nice Country Hotel somewhere in the Midlands where we get PowerPointed at by the firms' Head of Corporate development. All the while, the Senior Partmer looks on from the sidelines with the air of a semi-malevolent Patrician. He doesn't actually take part in proceedings, but watches what he like to refer to as 'His charges' being put through their paces.

Now, if I seem ungrateful and negative, I apologise. The venue is superb, there are no clients in the room but there ARE free coffee and pastries - in my world it doesn't get much better than that!

The training itself is in something called Myers-Briggs Type Personality Indicators which is actually interesting, or rather Would be interesting if the firms Head of Corporate Development was NOT leading it. The poor man had a sense of humour bypass, presumably at birth, he is the kind of individual who could go to a cocktail party where the only guests were Chartered Accountanst and Actuaries and have the other guests saying "I don't know, he doesn't have much of a personality".

His presentation skills are, what is the PC-Training word for it? Ah yes, his presentation skills represent a developmental opportunity for him. He drones. He repeats himself. He repeats himself (sorry, it's catching) and he suffers from an affliction that High Masters of the Communication Arts (such as yours truly) refer to as 'Mixed Bullet-Point syndrome'. I knew about his other shortcomings (they are, after all, legendary in the firm), but this last case is new, or, that is to say, one that I have not noticed before today. Let me demonstrate Mixed Bullet-Point syndrome to you (so that you might get irritated by it too - no need to thank me).

There are three defining characteristics of Mixed Bullet Point Syndrome;

1) Lists are not sequentially numbered corectly
b) This makes them irritating such that the audience (if they have been imprisoned in a room with the writer for too long) starts to fantasize about killing the presenter, and
4) Attention is drawn away from what the slides say by the wondering of such imponderables as "What happened to number 3"?

It transpires that I am an ENTJ. Not yet had my full de-brief on what this means but they seem to be implying that I am gobby, opinionated, like to be in charge and think that I am constantly surrounded by idiots. Wow! It's good this system, I think I'll pay more attention this afternoon.

It would be a great job, if it weren't for the clients...

2009-01-14T15:29:00.000Z

Just returned home from a final client meeting (with the emphasis on the word final). I fear I had what I am coming to describe as a 'Jack Nicholson Moment'.

The project was a nine-month sojourn around some very nice parts of the world. It was a Marketing positioning research project to find the ideal indication for a new skin cancer drug. Although skin cancer is far from nice, the project had, until last Friday, been very good for me because I had to interview world leaders in the field to determine the best market for my clients' new drug. Luckily for me, the world experts on skin cancer reside in nice sunny countries and so, dear reader, I have been merrily trotting around Florida, Sydney, and (for reasons unclear even to me) Coventry!

Still, all was well, the physicians had been very generous with their time and had all agreed on one irrevocable conclusion (a feat in itself since, usually, if you have three surgeons in a room that is enough for five opinions), there was a very clear space for my client's product, No, there was a screaming need for my client's product - Good Times!

It came down to testing which of two possible types of Skin Cancer the product should be marketed for and the results were, as I say, overwhelming. Indication A got 9 votes, Indication B got Minus 8 votes (they actually thought it would cause harm).

So, full of the calm bravado that the soon to be doomed often display, I presented my findings to the client. At the end, I sat down, awaiting the certain applause and ready to bask in the shower of adulation they were sure to heap upon me.

"We kinda (they weren't American but seemed to want to talk like they were) hoped it would be indication B" the CEO said. "Well I'm afraid it isn't" said I "but the great news is they would all use it yesterday if it were available for indication A", I grinned my best Tony Curtis grin in triumph. "Well, we REALLY need it to be indication B" was the sad reply.

We see-sawed with this for about fifteen minutes when (exasperated now, Tony Curtis grins a dim distant memory), I raised my voice "Look, it is what it is, it's good news why can't you be happy with that"?, at which point, things went VERY Pear-shaped. The CEO it was who finally triggered the moment I went critical and waved 'Goodbye' to my career - triggering my 'Jack Nicholson in 'A Few Good Men' moment' when he said (after only 25 minutes of this nonsense) "Look Tom, don't get mad, WE ONLY WANT THE TRUTH". I know, I guess you are ahead of me, I should have paused, done some dep breathing and relaxation exercises, my therapist would probably tell me to think of Mountain streams or fluffy kittens or something - instead I heard the veritable Mr. Nicholson's voice booming from my mouth "THE TRUTH?...YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH". The meeting ended shortly after.

And THAT is how you get from Tony Curtis to Jack Nicholson in only two moves.

The Senior Partner wants to see me in the morning - I wonder what it's about?

Tom

Retail therapy in the Middle East

2008-07-01T13:08:00.000+01:00

Have just recently returned from a Business trip to Dubai and have an experience to share regarding the retail habits of a colleague. The colleague in question we shall call Kostas Kostagiorgiou (although we know who you are really, don't we George?)

Kostas hails from a Mediterranean island, famously partitioned years ago and with a striking appendage coming off it - Italy!, no, joking, of course I am referring to Cyprus. When I was a kid, I used to think that Cyprus was shaped like a giant Rhino's head but now, with the clarity that maturity and age brings, I see that if you look at the map upside down (as if you were flying from North to South), you will find that Cyprus is in fact Syria's speech bubble (Google Map it, you'll see what I mean).

Anyway, it seems that Kostas has a money allergy, prolonged contact with the stuff burns his skin so to overcome the possibility of extended contact he has developed a coping strategy that we doctors like to call "spending every penny he's got" (and quite a few he hasn't got as well).

Where better place to scratch your retail itch than Dubai, famous for its huge Brand name designer Malls, its Gold souks and of course the 'knock off quarter' where counterfeit products come in various sizes, shapes and logos (tip for the first-time buyer, always go for 'Genuine fakes' they are so much better quality than 'Copy-copies').

So it was with some trepidation that I accompanied him on a trip to buy up North Eastern Dubai. We got a taxi (no mean feat in Dubai) and set off, I swear I could hear his wallet twitching in the cab.

You will have read that Dubai is constantly undergoing massive reconstruction and this is true. Just because a road is there when you set off from your hotel there is no guarantee it will still be there on your return. Rather like the staircases in the Harry Potter School Hogwarts that keep shifting, you can never guarantee that the route you took last time will be the one you take this time, consequently, even the Taxi drivers stop every 100 metres or so to draw chalk marks on the wall to help them find their way back! In fact, on this occasion, the traffic was moving so slowly that we were able to sketch watercolour City- scapes which we played in reverse to navigate home (rather like those huge cue cards they use in TV).

Finally we arrived at our destination and Kostas set about weaving his magic, in just five action packed hours he had emptied most of the stores into an ever swelling collection of bags. This was all fine and dandy, as I explained, Kostas likes a little retail therapy to calm his nerves, it was only when I saw WHAT he'd bought that I started to worry!

There. amongst the collection of Gucci bags, Montblanc Pens & Dolce & Gabbana belts was A CHAINSAW! I kid you not, an electric chainsaw. "Kostas" I said, slowly and deliberately, as if talking to the hard of thinking, "Why did you buy that?", the reply was instant (I should have seen it coming) "because it was there and it was a good price" - so there you have it, the Edmond Hillary approach to power tool purchasing. "How do you imagine you will get it home?" I asked, "Hadn't really thought about that" was the response.

This got me thinking about airline security, clearly there is no way they would let Kostas carry a chainsaw in his carry on luggage (even Ryanair wouldn't let him if he offered a fee) and most of us would say it is a good thing that carrying a chainsaw on board with you is frowned upon, yet here's the thing, it actually doesn't represent any danger, it only has a three metre flex!

Can you imagine the scene, Kostas as the world's most hopeless terrorist "Excuse me Stewardess, can you plug me in?, no up front please MUCH nearer to the pilot".

Anyway, astonishingly, he got it home without incident, he put it in his check in bags and it went through all the scanners without raising an eyelid. Perhaps most Cypriots travel with Power tools? perhaps it is another example of my cultural un-intelligence that I find it odd. Still, because it WAS a good price and because Kostas did not have to pay a surcharge/fine/Bail bond/Lawyer as expected, he will be acquiring money again now and the rash will be starting. I wonder if he will buy my Dubai City-scape watercolours?

If Men are from Mars...

2008-02-25T21:57:00.000Z

I had never really bought into this notion that the Brains of Men and Women were wired fundamentally differently, as seems to be the assertion in the tabloid newspapers on an almost daily basis. But recent events have, however, caused me to at least pause to reconsider my position.

The first occasion happened a few weeks back, there had been a programme on TV (I forget which channel, it was something like GB Gold TV Replay +1 or something similar) where a man and a women, who were both far too earnest for comfort asserted that the popular book Men are from Mars etc was essentially correct only didn't go anywhere near far enough. I let the programme wash over me rather and didn't take its central thesis too seriously because the nauseating presenters' attempts and first building and then dismantling Sexual Chemistry were starting to irritate me (I don't think they even managed to get to Sexual Physics, let alone Chemistry). The show did however, give me something to consider as I ambled down to the local to take part in the weekly pub quiz.

When I was about 200 yards (sorry, don't do Metrics) from the pub I saw two women peering into the window of the antiques** shop next to the pub. As I approached I heard one exclaim to the other "Ooh Sandra, come and look at these lovely spoons". It was at that moment that I realised that, although Men and Women LOOK like they are of the same species, that this is simply a delusion. The idea that a spoon could be Lovely is a concept as alien to most men as the title star of that Sigourney Weaver film where she sweatily climbs into a spacesuit wearing those little pants (men of a certain age will all know what I mean).

The second occasion that I realised that although the two genders walk side-by side on the planet but inhabit vastly different worlds, came last weekend in the kitchen of the Guru household. Our kitchen had a Microwave oven, fitted into a space above the oven, and, unfortunately, last Saturday expired, it has warmed its last sausage roll, you might say it had shuffled off its own coil (sic). No worries, I thought, I would just pop off to our local out of town Electrical Superstore, get a replacement and pop it into the hole and Robert would indeed be my auntie's husband.

Imagine my surprise then, at the exchange which took place between yours truly and Mrs Guru, the summary of which follows;

Mrs Guru asserted that, since there was now a gap above the Oven where the recently departed Microwave had resided, it was time to reconsider the entire cooker/oven/hob concept. It appears Mrs Guru has long hankered after a Range-type cooker (perhaps she wants to tie her hair back, wear a pinafore and bake bread - although she has never mentioned it). "Oh" was my witty and urbane response to this news, Ranges are a darn sight more expensive than Microwaves and my Senior Partner at the firm does not appreciate the true value of yours truly in keeping the commercial wheels on the enterprise in quite the way he should. However, that was just a warm-up, it was about to get a lot worse!

The Range would not fit in our kitchen as things stand, but would fit beautifully if the kitchen were to be extended into the dining room also. I was ready for this and rapidly riposted that this would mean that we would have no Dining Room, a major inconvenience and also a way of destroying the asset value of our home when we decide to sell (THAT's why they pay me the big bucks - speed of thought under pressure). Mrs Guru responded with the phrase that has always given me chills "I've thought of that" (I shudder as I type this) "we should get an extension built".

And THAT dear reader, is when I realised that we may live amongst each other but we are totally different species, a broken Microwave becomes the (pressing) need for a major home extension in two easy moves (via a Range) - this is how Nuclear wars start!

I wonder if they'll repeat that TV programme, I think I need to study it now - does anyone have a TV listing for GB Gold Homes Classic +1 channel?

Tom.

**Junk

Foreign Travel, More on Airlines & Healthcare

2007-06-20T04:00:00.000+01:00

I am writing this blog from Asia as I have been presenting at a major health care conference here. Now the conference was fine, well attended and organised - I'm sure heralded as a great success by everyone. Yours truly was given the role of 'last speaker in a very long day', a very sought after slot, surpassed only by the coveted 'first on after a damn good lunch' position. I was presenting on branding, a subject close to one's heart and something that, ordinarily, I would have nailed, however this time, fate conspired against me and the source of the problem lies with my old friend, air travel.

Readers of this blog will be starting to realise that air travel is a part of my life that I have mixed feelings about (as in sometimes, I only despise it!), but there does seem to be a trend emerging that every time I get onto an aircraft, events or circumstances conspire to ensure that, as we say in the Consultancy business, "outcomes are compromised to the point of sub-optimisation" (NB Consultant's maxim "Never use one word when ten will do"). On this occasion, the problem is deafness.

Now I have always gone a little bit deaf on aeroplanes (everyone does don't they?) but on this occasion, the effect has been spectacular. We had barely left the runway at Schipol (I don't do Heathrow - but that will be a topic for another day) when there was a pop in my right ear and, that was that. Silence, silencio, rien de sound - aural nowt! Usually this reverses on landing so I was not too distressed. (This will actually soon become a boon since some airlines are piloting a (daft) scheme to allow people to use their mobiles in flight. Can you imagine? Manchester to Kuala Lumpur, 13 hours of being welded into an over large baked bean tin with wings, strapped into a seat next to some prat yelling "Yeah I'm on the plane, just going past Bangalore" - Oh god!) However, on this occasion it did not reverse. Going through customs I had to cock my head at a ludicrous angle like some kind of demented parrot, just to hear the customs official ask me if I was a drug-trafficking human slaver or not.

That was on Sunday, on Monday I was due to give my presentation and could not actually tell whether I was whispering or yelling like a TV evangelist (or worse still Donald Trump - have you seen the US version of the Apprentice? If not, you have no idea just how GOOD Alan Sugar, sorry "Sralan", actually is). Luckily, as this was a health care conference and one of the delegates was a client, help was at hand. A lovely lady, she manages one of the hospitals in town and speedily referred me to an ENT specialist. This was great and involved her in putting herself and her staff out for me quite considerably. I am very grateful to them all for their efforts but it did start a rather frantic race against the clock which one's blood pressure has still to normalise from, and resulted in me shouting at some strangers in Starbucks!

I raced to the hospital, leaving the convention centre at 2 in the afternoon (due to present at 5, so no pressure!). The ENT surgeon saw me really quickly but said he would have to make incisions in my eardrums (not as nice as it sounds!) but that, since this was a private facility, he would give me a local anaesthetic first which would take one hour to work. In the meantime, the anaesthetic would make me A LITTLE MORE DEAF and that I could go downstairs to the Starbucks and have a coffee while we waited.

This I did but on getting to Starbucks I was now so deaf I could not even hear my own footfall. I ordered a Cappacino, by which I mean I TRIED to order a cappacino. It was obvious from the body language of the "Barista" that I was not speaking too loudly (he was virtually bent double over the counter trying to hear me). As I am a world-renowned expert in non-verbal communications, I was quickly able to deduce that I needed to speak up a little bit and so I made a slight and subtle adjustment. He recoiled as if shot...everyone did. I looked behind me, it was carnage! Someone had dropped a tray on the floor, small children were crying and hiding behind their mother's skirts - it is just possible that I had over-adjusted just a tad on the volume front! I was asked to leave. Never actually been barred from a coffee house before so that is another first for the personal CV.

Finally went back to the doc and had the procedure then rushed back to the convention centre with 5 minutes to spare. Presentation was a bit of a blur but I think the audience didn't notice the pale pink liquid that gently seeped from the presenters' ears every time he looked up from the lectern.

I wonder if they'll ask me back next year?

Birthday shopping

2007-04-22T21:49:00.000+01:00

It was my birthday on Friday - you forgot, it's OK! The entire Guru clan decide it would be fun to go to the Trafford centre to buy my present. I should state that the clan consists of the current Mrs Guru and three daughters. Knowing that, it will now take you just one moment to see that I am hopelessly outnumbered, that any two of them could take a vacation and I would still be outvoted! Come to think of it, even Millie, the 'Peter Pan' of the Retriever world, is a bitch (in multiple senses of the word) so actually three of them could take a vacation and I would still be the minority. So, it was against this Banana Republic, democratic backdrop that 'we' decided a trip to the Trafford Centre on a Friday would be just the ticket!

I tried to claim that I had an important client meeting to go to and so would, regrettably, and with a very heavy heart, be unable to join the retail fun. I so nearly pulled it off too until my secretary rang to wish me a happy birthday whilst I was indulging in my favourite birthday pastime ( a trolley dash around Staples since you ask - that's sad and pathetic you say? so you're so perfect are you?) and confirmed that "No, I'm looking at his schedule right now, Tom ALWAYS takes his birthday as holiday" (that blows next year too then I guess!).

So we arrived at the place, after only a very reasonable 2 hours of crawling along the M62 (I think speeds above 25 miles an hour are probably bad for us in some dark and sinister way so I am grateful to the Department of Transport for ensuring that my feeble and rapidly ageing frame was not to be subjected to the sorts of 'G' forces that speeds of, say 40 miles an hour, would have exerted upon it).

Have you been to the Trafford Centre? First thing, it's enormous, it's probably one of those structures that can be seen from the moon (or at least Widnes) it has doric columns and Greek cherubs on the outside and no end of very miserable people on the inside. I swear, in 4 hours the only time I saw anyone smile was when I caught my own reflection as a toddler dropped his ice-cream over a banister and on to the head of a very bemused chav beta male below. There seems to be some retailing compulsion gripping the British. We shuffle round these places (the new cathedrals) looking for stuff to make us feel better, only trouble is, any joy is fleeting and then the bills come in! Anyway, enough with the social commentary, as I say, the reason I was given for the trip was to buy my birthday present, which appears to be some sort of code for "Let's all buy shoes because we need a new bag". Those of you who are gentlemen may not have understood that last sentence but rest assured, you did read it correctly.

Buying shoes with Mrs Guru has been a task that I have not endured for some time now. For some reason, she felt the entire experience was somewhat less enjoyable when I was around. I find this odd as I very quickly grasped the concept of it. Accompanying Mrs Guru on a shoe shopping trip is actually like a kind of elaborate treasure hunt (Dan Brown, if you are reading this, please feel free to use this as subject matter for your next novel, it has more twists and turns than the 'Da Vinci Code' but is similarly complex and won't land you in court. Essentially, shoe shopping with Mrs Guru is a treasure-hunt where you go in the first shoe shop you come across after leaving the car and find a pair of shoes. You now follow the following process;

1) Try the shoes on
2) Say "they are really comfy, were just what you were looking for and are the perfect size"
3) Put them back on the shelf
4) Walk out of the shop
5) Visit every single other shoe shop in Christendom
6) Return to first shop and buy the shoes (if they haven't been sold in the meantime)

When I was newly wed, I thought this was an annoying and immensely frustrating practice, but Mrs Guru's careful and patient coaching down the years has helped me to to see that this is actually perfectly natural, and indeed the only way to get a pair of shoes. Nowadays however, I long for the joyful, simple charm of that method! Now there are offspring involved and the complexity has been ratcheted up significantly. Now the process requires more planning that Airbus uses to build the Superjumbo jet (then again, most people's bathroom habits involve more planning than the Superjumbo launch!).

I watched in abject horror as they, in turn, pushed, pinched coerced and just plain shoved their feet into stupefyingly tiny shoes. Shoes that had points like winklepickers but which started almost from ankle level. I cast my mind back a few short years, to the scouring around Lancashire looking for a shop with a 'Clarks' foot measuring service. Of paying wayyy over the odds for shoes that were guaranteed to not pinch those teeny tiny delicate little toesies "Do you have this sandal in a 3H?" Now, those same feet were being subject to forces more powerful than anything seen on earth (apart from the Tokyo underground train service obviously). Essentially, this process continues for a few hours and is punctuated by trips to designer knit wear stores to play the interactive fun game they have there. You know, the one where the assistant sneers at you for coming in and then follows you around the place. For your part, you must get out and unfold as many jumpers, sweater, cardigans, 'knitted tees' (whatever they are) as possible and they have to sigh or tut and fold them back up the very second you put them down. An assistant that was 'marking' me timed her move badly and ended up re-folding a garment I had not actually let go of yet, what followed could best be described as 'unseemly'

And yet, I shouldn't complain,the entire process was over in less than 91/2 hours (god they stay open late!), only cost £1,200 and did achieve it's primary aim, of getting my birthday present, and so, if I sound in any way bitter or ungrateful, please forgive me, I am not, a £20 WH Smith voucher is always going to be something I can make good use of! Until Next Time, Tom.

Preparing a Proposal

2007-04-15T22:40:00.000+01:00

Have spent the last four hours preparing a proposal for a new piece of work with the firms most important account. Correction. Have actually spent three of the last four hours trying to get PowerPoint to do the things it is supposed to do without malfunctioning, crashing or presenting me with that irritating Paper Clip thing. What the hell is that thing anyway? Why does Microsoft imagine that I would follow the advice of a paperclip anyway? I mean, is that even likely, is it remotely rational?

The thing that really gets my goat about software designers (other than the fact that they are all younger than me and earn six times as much) is that they are all so melodramatic! Half way through slide 46 my laptop decided it had had enough of this world and froze. After frantically bashing the 'Enter' key (why do we do that? We know it won't work) I got a message telling me that a 'Fatal' Error of type 23087 had occurred and that my PC would now shut down, hitch to the airport and retire to Bermuda until it felt better. Why are PC problems always 'Fatal' or ' Catastrophic', why can't they say 'a mildly irritating thing has happened and I'm shutting down now, sorry you haven't saved your work for two hours, but, hey-ho, no one ever said life was fair". Moreover, are there really a minimum of 23087 catastrophic things that I can do to my computer? Why do they tell me the number? Is it in any small way possible that I could ever be so much of a trainspotter to actually memorise them ("Oh thank god, it's type 23087, that's not such a bad one, I'm so grateful it wasn't type 23,086 as that one is a total home wrecker").

I don't actually think the error numbers mean anything at all. I'm pretty sure they are just produced by a random number generator anyway. I think I can prove this. When you phone an IT help desk, having gone to great lengths to document every single keystroke leading up to the problem and then writing out long hand the bizzaro error message and number, you aways get the same response from the pimply foetus on the help desk "Have you tried turning it off and then turning it back on again"? I don't know which makes me more angry, the fact that I am paying £1.25 a minute for such lame 'technical support' or the fact that it invariably works!

Finally defied all the odds and got to the end of the proposal and tried to send it to the client but the gods of IT are not done with me yet, oh no. First of all it was rejected by my firms mail server as being too large (lots of sexy graphics in it, e.g half moons, crescents etc - no one ever knows what they mean but they look good) Am now trawling through the thing trying to make images smaller so it will be small enough for the server to deign to send it, latest casualty was a fabulous image of a pyramid with 5 layers to it that looked superb (it didn't actually make any kind of a point but that isn't really important, it looked complicated and impressive and that in my game is what counts).

Whilst doing the research for the proposal, I found myself hopelessly distracted. I read recently about a phenomenon called WILFing. I think the WILF part means "What am I looking For"? I had thought it nonsense when I read the article but have in fact just spent two hours doing it myself. I remember, when preparing the proposal, I definitely opened a Firefox window to Google something specific, trouble is, an hour later I was reading an article by a relative of Ainsley Harriot's on the importance of aerating lawns, which itself lead to a very interesting article on why Bats hang upside down and another on the different fonts used on the old sixpence coins - all very fascinating but totally not what I went online to look for. I still can't recall now what it was I was after.

Time to go now, early start tomorrow, I'll just read this email that has come in.

Oh no, "Your email entitled 'Proposal' was rejected due to error number 23086 and just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, here comes a paperclip to patronise you until you are sorry".

The Joys of Business Travel

2007-03-26T22:20:00.000+01:00

Just back at my hotel after a client meeting in Amsterdam. Now I'm not one of those who goes mad for a spot of International roaming but I didn't mind it in the old days. That is to say, in the GOOD old days, the days before of the 'No-frills' airline.

Because of "Economies" (the Latin word for cutback I'm sure) we are now obliged to travel in this godawful manner for all business trips. So there I was this morning at 6 am on a bus (they don't let you walk down a nice heated airbridge to the plane oh no) to a QuesyJet flight from Liverpool John Lennon Airport. Can I just say here, what a wonderful idea that was, to name a regional airport after one of its favourite singing sons? I think London should follow suit, they could call Heathrow 'Chas' and Gatwick 'Dave'.

Well I was the only person on the bus (and hence the flight) who was actually travelling on Business. There I was, best suit and tie with my nose directly adjacent to the armpit of one of a very loud and raucous group of women who were all wearing Tee-Shirts with "Barbara thought we were having her 40th in Sunderland, but we're off to Amsterdam, Yorkie Girls on the p*ss tour 07" emblazoned on them. Now that is a lot of words to fit on a Tee-shirt, regrettably both Barbara and the rest of the Yorkie girls all had the physique to accommodate such marathon syntax easily!

I wasn't prepared for the boarding procedure, I remember doing a case study on Southwest airlines (who pretty well invented the No frills concept in the US) once, so deep down I knew about the 'no-assigned seats' rule, what I wasn't ready for was the mad scramble across the tarmac as the bus doors opened. It was every man for himself, a war zone, elbows were flying, there was kicking, punching and eye gouging, small children were trampled underfoot in the rush! Looking back, I feel a little sorry now, perhaps I should have eased off a bit but it is terribly important that one is able to get one's Swiss Laptop bag safely stashed in the overhead bins!

Anyway, I quickly got my comeuppance a couple (she was wearing designer clothes, yards of cleavage and belly showing, this pale pink in the cold morning air and at stark contrast with a face that was a colour known to Dulux colour charts as 'Dale Winton Orange', he was short, round shaven-headed and clad in a football shirt and WAY too much Burberry. The sprog had one of those names that is pointless and bound to irritate (Callum or Cody or something similar). Thing is, the kids spent the entire journey turned round and stared at me over his seat top for the whole journey. I swear he didn't even blink, not once, the only time he moved at all was to wipe his nose on the seat back (Advice, next time you are on a QuesyJet flight, if you are in seat 22E, do NOT put your head back on the head rest!

Finally got to Schipol and landed at that wonderful new runway they have there, the one that is actually in a different time zone to the rest of the airport. After a 20 minute taxi, I swear you could almost see the airport! Waited an age for passport control while watching some poseurs going through the retina scanning line (no queues, no need to show your passport, straight through, no messing - god they looked so smug!). After waiting an age for my baggage, finally managed to make it to the station and the client. Now back at the hotel contemplating a depressing room service menu (they actually call the food 'Fayre' with a 'Y'. Just realised, I have to repeat the entire journey experience tomorrow, oh god, perhaps I should phone down for some hemlock!

Sunday Night

2007-03-25T22:20:00.000+01:00

Typical Sunday so far. Forgot the hour went forward (or did it go back?) and got up late, couldn't decide whether the meal I was supposed to have was breakfast, brunch, lunch or afternoon tea so ended up having neither. Spent the day walking Millie the stupid dog, trying to avoid having it dislocate my shoulder whilst chasing after ducks. Millie has the worst sense of smell of any creature on the planet. I once read that a dog can smell and spoonful of salt in a bath tub full of water - oh Yeah? If that's the case, why do they shove their noses right into one another's bottoms eh, you'd think it would take their heads clean off!

Millie is a disappointment all round, is supposed to be a retriever but never actually grew into being one. It is so embarrassing walking it when people ask "How old is your puppy" and you have to say "Three actually".

The very WORST part of dog walking though (other than the obvious one of picking up the poo ( tip for new dog owners, only ever do this DOWN WIND)), is coming across tweedy, middle-aged f-idiots who look at you and say "Oh, are you Millies Dad"?, to which I invariably reply "Yes, can't you tell, she has my eyes", (memo to self, tweedy, middle-aged doggie Frau's do not do irony).

Now sitting in the lounge watching Jane bloody Austin because Mrs Guru got first dibs on the remote. It's not that I dislike Jane bloody Austin (although I do), it's just so irritating listening to the needlessly long dialogue. Why are all the sentences so long?! "Oh Mr Darcy I declare that my friend Miss Bennett was recently, and most unexpectedly talking of you when I blah, blah" - was Austin paid per word or something? I mean bloody hell the entire thing could be over in a fraction of the time, have they never heard of brevity? If a bloke had written it, it would be all over ages ago and I could now be watching Peter Kay who is on the other channel!

What is it about Sunday nights? I have NEVER liked them, right from when I was a kid and it was Black and White Minstrel show on TV, Sing something Bloody simple on the radio, bread and butter for tea then bath and bed! Even now I get that 'school tomorrow' feeling!

Have a client presentation tomorrow, will spend much of the morning in a glass-lined goldfish bowl pretending to be a conference room fielding inane cliches such as 'what are the deliverables on this project?" or "What are the leveraged synergies associated with the downsides"?