My strangest Assignment yet

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

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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...

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

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...

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

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?

The Joys of Business Travel

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!