Once again my penny-pinching employers did the dirty on me. I applied for a refund the same way any other customer would but heard nothing for weeks. Then my latest boss (another great bloke and emphatically not a Lodge member) called me into his office.
The matter of my refund had been referred very high up indeed for a decision. He had received a phone call to instruct him to tell me as clearly as possible that “one simply does not claim against one’s employer if one expects to have any sort of future in the organization.”
My boss was as livid as I was. If I had just been ‘Joe Public’ the bank would have paid out without batting an eyelid. My stubborn streak took a complete U-turn. Now instead of wanting to prove my first boss wrong, I was determined to do everything in my power to get a different career as soon as possible.
But what line of work to go for? Something else in the finance sector perhaps?
The opportunity came to me from an unexpected source. My father had recently been made redundant when the Company he worked for had closed down one of its subsidiaries in a streamlining operation. Dad knew all the customers and the suppliers, so rather than work for another company, he decided to open his own firm doing what he knew best. He asked me would I be interested in joining him. What the hell, I thought. Can’t be worse than working for a bank now can it?
So I handed in my notice and embarked on a new career. No longer would I be a junior manager in a bank, now I would be… an ice cream man. Well my girlfriend already called me Mister Whippy (Why? Mind your own business) so it seemed kind of appropriate. The world was now my oyster. God help me.
Small business tip:
If you really want to make money, don’t work for a bank – rob it.
And remember to leave the bags of pennies behind or you just might get caught staggering away.
Chapter 2: Dubai – Don’t count your chickens…
So as I said, dad’s company closed down and it left my dad unemployed and the customers with no supplier. Some of the products dad used to sell were quite unique. Dad had been in the business for over thirty years. He had the recipes for all the products and the contacts for getting the products made.
But he could not do everything himself, man the phone, visit customers, run the bank account, pay bills, deal with the accountant and the dreaded VAT.
So when I joined him we split the workload, dad mainly doing the marketing and selling, me mainly handling the orders and the finances.
It was in the area of financial control that my years in the bank really helped. Many an otherwise sound company has gone bust because they allowed their customers to take too much credit. If you are a good boy and pay your bills on thirty days but you don’t get paid for ninety days or longer, the shortfall each month must come from either your own pocket or from borrowing. Borrowing costs money.
Also it is most important to keep an eye on stock levels and sales, particularly difficult to get the balance right in a seasonal business like ice cream. If you can’t meet demand you miss out on potential profit opportunities. If you overstock, it ties up funds you could use elsewhere or even worse with foodstuffs, they go past the sell by date and have to be destroyed. Or in my case fed to my Irish wolfhounds as a treat.
So we did our best to keep accurate records and try to predict which way the business would go. After our first two years trading we analyzed our progress and came to a disturbing conclusion. Although we were steadily expanding our customer base, the customers were buying less each year; dad had records going back over ten years. There was no mistake. The UK market for our goods was contracting. Perhaps that was why dad’s previous employer had decided to pull the plug on that area of their business.
So we had a chat and decided to try to get into exporting. But where to start?
Our biggest sales were in ice cream powders, which we had made to my father’s recipes. They were easy to use (just add water), easy to transport and had a long shelf life. Ideal products for export.
So we concluded that the country we should target should have a large young population and long hot summers. Long hot winters as well would be a definite plus. Oh yes, we need a country whose population had a disposable income that they might spend on ice cream and not just on trying to avoid malnutrition. So Sudan was out for about the next three hundred years. Saudi Arabia fit the bill though.
So we made an appointment at the local Chamber of Commerce hoping to get some help and advice. We got that and more.
By sheer coincidence they were involved in arranging and supporting a first ever exhibition of British products at a new exhibition center in Dubai, the oil rich desert kingdom on the Arabian Gulf. The exhibition was to be sponsored by the Department of Trade and Industry and they were to cover fifty per cent of the costs of attending by way of a grant. Manchester Chamber of Commerce promised that with the other funding they were trying to raise, the cost to the companies attending would be just spending money. In the end they were unable to make good on this promise, but the opportunity sounded so good that we signed up to go there and then. Three other local companies also agreed to go to Dubai; a famous mint sweet manufacturing concern, a toolmaking company and a company selling saunas. I remember thinking at the time that the sauna company was being a touch optimistic hoping to sell saunas in one of the hottest countries on earth. It didn’t give me any satisfaction when I was proved right.
A lot of preplanning went into the exhibition – having brochures and business cards prepared in Arabic, packing and sending the samples and equipment for the exhibition stand, getting the Commercial Secretary at the Embassy in Dubai to invite potential customers from countries across the region. Making the arrangements really took my life over for several weeks, which effectively meant half our workforce went missing.
To be fair most of the logistics and paperwork were taken care of by a specialist firm appointed by the DTI, with considerable input and assistance from our own Chamber of Commerce. The exhibition was to last five days, with a day either side to set up and then pack away our exhibition stand. All told we would be out of the office for ten days and my brother kindly volunteered to man the phones while we were away.
A couple of days before we were due to leave for Dubai we were invited to a pre-mission briefing at the Chamber, given by a lady with many years experience working in the region.
She was most informative, especially in the area of customs and culture. For instance only use your right hand when greeting someone, eating or drinking. The left hand is considered ‘unclean’ – a bit of a bugger if you happen to be left handed.
She taught us some simple phrases in Arabic: hello, please, thank you, how are you, that sort of thing. She warned us that although Dubai is one of the more progressive regimes in the region, the consumption and sale of alcohol was restricted to hotels and certain licensed bars. If you were caught drunk in public you were likely to be arrested by the religious police and then you would be in deep dinosaur doo doo. The best you could hope for would be a good whipping with a stiff rod in a public square somewhere and a jail term not to exceed the rest of your natural life. It was suggested that we go easy on the falling down water.
She also told us that when an Arab businessman shook hands on a deal you could take it to the bank. That turned out to be a right load of bollocks.
As the event was funded under the auspices of the DTI we were basically told our itinerary for the trip in advance, including which flights and accommodation had been reserved for us.
Our departure date came around at last and my father and I assembled at Manchester airport to catch the shuttle flight to Heathrow along with a team from the Chamber of Commerce and representatives of the other three local companies also exhibiting.
At Heathrow we changed onto an Emirates flight which would take us directly to Dubai. Emirates airlines – what a brilliant company! Loads of legroom on the plane, a choice of meals – all of them actually edible and actually matching their descriptions! They showed some recent blockbuster movies, which I hadn’t got round to seeing at the cinema, and there seemed to be a gorgeous friendly stewardess for every couple of passengers. The service was excellent.
You know those adverts on TV where the busy corporate executive gets on the plane, relaxes in his spacious comfortable seat with the flat screen TV on the seatback facing him, eats a sumptuous meal, and then does a load of work on his laptop (OK. Plays the latest edition of the SIMMs) until he falls asleep. Awakes to a smiling lady serving fresh brewed coffee offering a choice of breakfast. Then he gets off the plane and goes to his high-powered business meeting fresh as a daisy. You know the adverts I am talking about?
Well that is Emirates Airlines even in economy class. Honestly they are brilliant!
With the time difference it was quite late and dark when we arrived at Dubai International airport. There was little fuss getting our bags and us through customs and immigration control. The hotel had sent a courtesy bus to collect us and we soon found ourselves checking in at the Hotel Forte Grand Dubai.
Our party was greeted on arrival by porters dressed in Indian Mogul style white uniforms topped with red turbans. I checked in and followed a porter to my room. The room had every modern convenience you could wish for. A complimentary bottle of red wine and a bowl of fruit stood on the bedside cabinet alongside a welcome note from the hotel management. I lounged in a steaming hot bath for a while, and then helped myself to some bananas washed down with half the bottle of red wine, stretched out on the crisp white sheets of the king sized bed and crashed out. I could get used to this with a bit of effort, I thought before I passed out.
As I said the DTI wanted to keep all the exhibitors together so we had no choice in our hotel accommodation, otherwise we would have chosen someplace a little less ostentatious, shall we say, and a lot cheaper.
Now don’t get me wrong the hotel was wonderful, but you know why it is called the Forte Grand? Because that is roughly how much full English breakfast would cost a family of four – about forty grand. Pounds Sterling my friends. No joke. Let me tell you how I discovered this distressing fact.
My alarm failed to stir me when it rang at eight AM. I woke up late in the morning after a restful sleep. Having missed breakfast I ate some pineapple from the fruit bowl, made myself look presentable and wondered off in search of my father. I found him in the reception area chatting with two other members of our group. They hadn’t been up long either. Funny how taxing on the system sitting in seats and being transported around can actually be.
They were sat in comfortable leather chairs around a low dark wood coffee table. Each time the main door opened a gust of furnace temperature air hit me like a slap across the face. Clearly the others also felt it. One of them proposed that we cool down with a cold beer then share a taxi downtown for a look around. There was plenty of time before we would be allowed into the exhibition hall at 4 O’clock to start setting up our stands.
So we had a bottle each of ‘probably the best lager in the world’ and asked the doorman to hail a taxi. I offered to settle the bill – it was only four small bottles of beer for heaven sake, while the others negotiated a price with the taxi driver. I paid the waiter and was walking out to join the others thinking to myself how reasonable a hotel it was. Eighty pence for a bottle of beer, not too bad at all. I checked my change and redid the mathematics in my head. There must be some mistake. I went back to the waiter.
“Excuse me, there appears to be a mistake with the bill. I ordered four small beers but you charged me for Dom Perignon.”
The waiter, clad in the ubiquitous white suit and red turban, checked the bill.
“No Sir, sad to tell you that the bill is correct.” Dad heard my reply and he was sat in a taxi outside the hotel.
“Eight quid for a bottle of Danish tonsil wash? Are you out of your tiny mind? I was apoplectic. How could I ever get blotto at these prices? “Three hundred degrees Celsius in the bloody shade and sixteen pounds for a pint of lager! Fuck this I’m going home.”
“Sir I don’t set the prices in the hotel. Believe me Sir they don’t pay me enough to buy a coke in here either.” The conversation was now effectively over.
I headed for the taxi in a state approaching catatonia. The Guy in the Mogul outfit followed me to the door speaking discretely in my ear.
“If I might suggest Sir, there is a rear entrance to the hotel across the gardens at the side of the fitness center. Beyond that and across the road is a bar called Biggles Bar. I understand that they serve pints of very nice cold beer for a mere fraction of the prices in this hotel. Also I notice that Sir is not wearing a wedding ring. Biggles Bar is a favourite haunt of the bored Western nurses from the hospital across town. I am sure Sir would have an interesting evening if he chose to visit.”
What a top bloke!!!
I joined the others in the taxi and imparted this important information. The other two were on company expenses and didn’t care less if beer was eight pounds a bottle. Dad and I however, had not budgeted for these prices and I was already worried we would run out of cash.
The taxi dropped us downtown where we wandered around aimlessly for half an hour – just long enough to look like we had played two hours five a side football in a car wash. It was hot as hell.
So we fell into the first air conditioned hotel we could find and ordered a drink. This time one of our new friends paid, so I had a pint. The bill for four drinks came to eleven pounds. Totally unacceptable in a civilized society in my opinion. I was developing a nervous tick just thinking about it.
In the taxi back to Ali Baba`s cave, sorry the hotel (It really was worth every penny, don’t take any notice of me), I sat in the front and chatted up the taxi driver. I asked him how he coped with the high prices in Dubai.
“What high prices?” he asked. “ Dubai is tax free. Cheapest place in the world, especially for rip off goods.” Looking at him he was indeed clad from head to foot in Versace and wearing a huge Rolex watch. Yet inexplicably he seemed to be unable to afford razor blades. Perhaps nobody has got round to counterfeiting razor blades. I don’t know.
“Well food for instance,” I ventured.
“Oh yes, it can be expensive to eat out, but when I am on duty I have no choice. I have to eat at the restaurant at the taxi rank.”
“So how much does that cost then?”
“In English money, maybe as much as two English pounds. If I get good tips I eat a good meal. If not…” he shrugged to indicate that not all things in life were in his hands.
“As much as two pounds, hey? The robbing bastards. Where exactly is this place then?”
It turned out that the taxi drivers, who were in the main impoverished Jordanians and Palestinians, used to congregate at a Palestinian run transport café just ten minutes walk from our hotel.
A stroke of luck indeed.
Later that afternoon we set up our exhibition stand and returned to the hotel in an air-conditioned courtesy bus. As we got out of the bus one of the crew from the Chamber of Commerce came over to ask which of the hotel restaurants we fancied trying tonight – they were also on expenses. There were three restaurants to choose from: European; Oriental and Middle Eastern, all staffed by the most beautiful Philippine waitresses I have ever seen It was love at first sight – I do love foreign food. The waitresses weren’t bad either. Sadly all beyond the reach of a wallet such as I was carrying. I was only carrying a Visa gold card. The rest of the hotel guests were paying with credit cards made of precious metals that I had never even heard of. Platinum? Old hat mate. I’m paying with a Rubicon alloy red metal Access card. Anyway, we had seen the menu prices and knew we were not eating in the hotel. Quick as a flash, dad avoided any potential embarrassment.