BRITS ROUND THE WORLD

In my travels, I was fortunate, or maybe unfortunate enough, to have considerable contact with British folks, commonly called Brits. Sometimes they were great to deal with, and some have become good friends. At other times though, they made me tend to agree with a lady friend of mine who once declared “Britain would be a pretty neat place, without the Brits.” So, anyway, for better or worse, here are some reminisces.

BRITISH OVERSEAS AIRWAYS CORPORATION

In the distant past, I was once a Service Representative for the Boeing Presidential airplanes. At that time I also worked a bit with British Overseas Airways Corporation, (BOAC), and found for the first, but not the last, time how interesting it can be to work with Brits.

It seemed that I had some junk tooling at Idyllwild, (That’s what they called JFK then), and thought that rather than scrapping it, I could unload it on BOAC. So I called them, and yes they were interested, and we agreed to meet at a certain time, to look at the stuff. Well, the Brit showed up, in coat and tie. I was dressed in old army BDU’s and pretty much covered with cosmolene. Wearing that costume, I could not convince the Brit that I was the senior Boeing rep, and finally had to go back to the hotel and change into a suit. After all that trouble, I couldn’t make a deal with him, and rather than give him the stuff for practically nothing, I scrapped it.

FINE BRITISH WORKMANSHIP

One day long after the above incident, a big ol’ British con man, or so he seemed to me, showed up at our offices looking to fill his plant with work. So there was a big meeting, which I was invited to attend, and there were introductions all around. When it came my turn, this guy, whose first name was Andy, unnecessarily explained to me that he had been the chairman of Rover. That’s interesting, I said. I once owned a Rover motorcar. “What did you think of it?” asked Andy, walking right into this one. Well I’ll tell you, I drawled. You can tell the high quality of a Rover motorcar, by the fine British workmanship on the parts which fall off. Needless to say, there was a long silence.

So, my boss eventually asked me, on my next trip to England, to take a look at Andy's operation, which I did. His driver picked me up at my London hotel and delivered me to the great man. The car was a Rover 900, briefly sold in the US as a Sterling. It was basically a Honda, with Rover coachwork, and had proved to be a real piece of junk. Anyhow, when I was ushered into Andy’s presence, the first thing he said was, “Well John, I see we got you here in a Rover motor car.” I replied, “That’s right Andy, but it had a Honda engine.” That exchange, incidentally, was all over England within a week.

SCOTCH WHISKY AND RUGBY FOOTBALL

British Aerospace, commonly called BAe, was a very large conglomerate in the UK. And for some esoteric reason my bosses tasked me with finding out every thing there was to know about BAe’s capabilities. I did this by spending two weeks visiting every BAe plant in Great Britain. And since their plants were scattered all over the British Isles, I decided to make this project kind of a working vacation. I thought that the best way to see the country in style might be by train, so I rode Britrail, first class, rather than flying. This turned out to be a neat trip and I had a lot of fun, learning a lot about British culture, along with finding out what I needed to know about BAe.

On part of that trip through Scotland, I also found out more than I really needed to know about Rugby Football and Scotch whisky. Seems we were driving down a back road, supposedly between two BAe plants, when this quaint local inn beckoned. So we slammed on the brakes, parked the car and entered. It was a scene right out of the movies. Dirt floor, smoky peat fire on the hearth, pensioners nursing their drinks, and more dogs than people.

A Rugby Football match was blaring on the telly, which seemed to have everyone’s attention, but as soon as we opened our mouths to order drinks, all attention turned to us, because it was obvious by our accent that we were Americans.

So for the rest of the afternoon, our newfound friends taught us the finer points of rugby football while introducing us to Famous Grouse Scotch whiskey, drunk straight up, with a beer chaser. Needless to say, there were no more visits to BAe plants that day.

LIVERPOOL AND THE BEATLES

This puts me in mind of another time in the UK when I was visiting a plant in Liverpool called AP Precision. As I remember it, and my remembrance is a little hazy, it seems that after winding up my plant visit, and partaking of a good dinner and copious quantities of drink with the President of the company and his lovely wife, the old boy bowed out, citing an early AM meeting, and left John, wife, and car to the delights of Liverpool. The rest of the evening is a haze of Beatles bars, good rock, more drinks, and the lady barreling pell mell the wrong way down one way streets in her big Austin Princess. Some of the sacrifices one has to make on the job, eh what.

QUEEN OF ENGLAND

I was hanging in London with nothing to do, one afternoon, so I decided to take a sightseeing tour. You know, on one of those big ol’ Leyland double decker busses The tour guide was as full of it as a Christmas goose, and as we neared Buckingham Palace, he went to great lengths to explain that the Queen got driven around in a black Rolls Royce, and this was the only car in the entire United Kingdom which did not require a number plate. (License plate) About that time we heard sirens, and saw a motorcycle escort approaching at a fast clip. And they were escorting a black Rolls Royce. And the black Rolls Royce had no number plate. By this time the guide was beside himself. “It’s a black Rolls Royce”, he shouted. “It has no number plate.” ” It’s the Queen.” Then calming down a bit, he exclaimed, “You see, we bring you everything on this tour”. Actually, the queen passed within a couple of yards of me, and I could clearly see her in the back of the limo, wearing a pale green dress. No tinted glass.

Anyway, fast forward to that evening when I was enjoying a pint in my local. As I was chatting with the Publican, her probably ten year old daughter came in. Mommy, mommy, she exclaimed breathlessly. “We saw the Queen today. She was at our school.” “That’s interesting,” I said. “I saw the Queen myself.” “No, you didn’t.” “ Yes I did.” We went round and round till I eventually mentioned that the Queen was wearing a pale green dress. Then my small friend finally believed me.

ASCOT

When I was working for British Aerospace, we were trying to ingratiate ourselves with a pretty senior Boeing executive. Seems this guy had close to the final say on a large work package Boeing was offloading and which we wanted badly. But we weren’t doing well at all with him till I had this great idea. I knew the guy’s wife slightly, but well enough to know that she was a true French Canadian, and a real snob in the bargain. I also knew that she pretty much wore the pants in that family. I thought that meeting some of the Royal family might impress her, and in a late night brainstorming session, we came up with the perfect plan. We would get the Queen to invite snob and hubby to share her box at Ascot. This really wasn’t as hard as it seems, as the Royals are really interested in helping British industry, and this was a really big deal.

So we flew hubby and wife to England on some pretext, and on the big day, there they sat with the Queen. From all appearances it was a huge success, and our boy was mellowing nicely. But then I got a phone call from my contact in the States, and became the bearer of really bad news. Our boy had been summarily fired. And I mean fired. Told to clear out his desk and get packing. So, all that work for nothing. We eventually, got the package anyway, so could truthfully report to the Queen that our joint efforts had been successful.

The only good that came out of this, at least with respect to me, was that upon the news that this guy was fired, Boeing stock went up three points.

MY CONSULTANCY

I had been hanging around Britain so much that I decided to cash in, and get into the consulting racket. Or as the Brits called it, a "Consultancy".

I started out with a couple of disadvantages, I couldn’t speak the language very well, and I wasn’t very good at driving on the wrong side of the road. And probably the worst disadvantage of all was that I was an American . 

But they were kinda in a bind, they needed someone who understood their American customers, and I was available.  So that’s how I came to be a lone American in this jungle of Britishness.

My first significant client was this big British conglomerate. I became their “tame” American, and was supposed to show them how to break into the American market. 

Anyway, I’d hang around the office for a couple of weeks, drawing my princely consulting fees, and perhaps picking up some Brit culture in the local pubs.   

And eventually I would come up with some marketing plan or other that I was sure would knock their socks off. I’d run it up the management line, usually not generating much enthusiasm, but with luck, might eventually be invited to present my scheme to the Supervisory Board.   

This was really a bunch of fogies, attired in dark suits and old school ties. Smoking stogies or smelly pipes, with maybe a Scotch or Sherry at hand.  An impressive bunch. Anyhow, I’d go into my Dog and Pony spiel, throwing in lots of Americanisms to convince them that I was the real thing. And assuring them that whatever I was pitching that day would loosen the American purse strings, and get tons of cash flowing our way.

This performance would usually elicit no questions, and when I finished, the room would lapse into stony silence.  Eventually the Managing Director (which is what they called the biggest big shot), would noisily clear his throat and allow that if they were actually paying me to concoct such drivel, I should probably be banished to the Colonies, and the Marketing Director, who had hired me, be sent packing as well.   

So I would slink off to the nearest local and commensurate with the Publican about the idiosyncrasies of Brit senior management while downing a pint or two.    

Not much would usually happen in the next few days, except for the office gossips wondering why I was still around. But then eventually, the Marketing Director would call for me and explain that the Supervisory Board had come up with this brilliant marketing scheme, and what did I think of it. Well, you guessed it, this was the same campaign plan that had got me thrown out the week before.   

After some head scratching I would allow that their plan might work, and after seemingly endless discussions, they would usually decide to give it a try. Sometimes we would be successful, and sometimes not, but overall our track record was good enough to get this company a fair foothold in the American market. And I made off with enough cash to buy a nice golf course home in a Palm Desert CA, Country Club.

   

So, everything turned out OK, and everyone lived happily ever after.   

LOST AMERICANS

Another time, when visiting a new client in Cornwall, I spent most of the day, wandering around Southern England in a daze, by train, plane, and automobile, as they say, looking for his plant. When I finally found the place, I explained that if he wanted to sell anything to Americans, he had better have a driver pick the guys up at Heathrow, and deliver them to the plant. My man’s answer, which was perfectly logical to him was, “Well, you found us, didn’t you?”

CULTURAL TRANSLATING

A lot of my consulting in Britain was doing what I called “cultural translation” That is, I would sit in meetings between the Brits and Americans, and explain to each side what the other side really said. I remember one meeting in particular which was a real challenge. It was held in Dallas between my Brit guys and some genuine Texas Good ol’ Boy rednecks. My work was really cut out for me on that one, as not only was nobody on the same page, they were not even in the same book. Fortunately for me, the deal fell through.

But I had a bit of trouble myself in the language arena, as the following tale will show.

When running my consulting business, I spent much of one winter inManchester, England. If you think that Seattle is dreary in the winter, Manchester is ten times worse.Wind, rain, and snow, all of the time

Although I knew the British words fairly well, my American accent would get me in trouble from time to time.  Like when I sat down in my local (pub) and ordered "a half of Bod".  I inended this to be a half pint of Bodington beer on tap, but guess what I got, a can of Budweiser.  When I asked the Publican what happened, he said he thought that I had said "I'll have a Bud". Who was it that said America and England are two countries separated by a common language? I finally got so that I would just tell people that I talked funny, because I was an American.

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CAN’T HIDE IN BRITAIN

One final note. Anywhere else in the world, if one is conservatively dressed, and has minimal language skills, one can pass oneself off as a European or whatever. But not in Britain. As soon as you open your mouth, they know that you are a “Yank”. This was brought to my attention one day, when I walked into the Surgery (dispensary) at BAe, showed them my employee identification and (unnecessarily, I found out) explained that I was an American. The doctor’s immediate reply was, “I never would have guessed”.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Working with Brits is interesting, and culturally challenging, to say the least.