Not ‘Centre Forward Shoot’ but ‘Shoot the Centre Forward’

When I was up in Glasgow a couple of weeks ago one of the people I was keen to see was my cousin Gordon and his mother, my aunt Helen. Gordon and I used to be like brothers, going fishing every weekend, playing football, doing the milk rounds and just hanging out with mates. At one stage, I lived with the Geddes family and I will not castigate my aunt in this blog for making me sleep in the hall cupboard – after all it was a large cupboard and the alternative was much less pleasant. Anyway, Gordon and I used to play football as often as we could and luckily there was a pitch right outside his front door in Thornwood Avenue, Partick. Every Saturday and Sunday we’d be down there, me with my silky midfield skills and Gordon banging in goals from all directions. If we managed to get into the same team, we were unbeatable. Although a brilliant attacking midfield player (if I say so myself), my asthma had left me short of breath on occasions and getting into a ‘proper’ team was not an option but Gordon was besieged with requests to play for teams, and he obliged, even to the extent that he played for the Catholic Churches League despite being a Proddie!

And so the other night when I was reading a paper which stated that in London, school or district football teams now have to have police and security people guarding them whilst they play because of the likelihood of violence, it reminded me of an incident when I was watching Gordon play, one cold, wet Saturday morning in a Catholic Churches League game.

I had arrived a few minutes after the game had started and as usual, Gordon was quite clearly the outstanding player on the field. His ability to pass players whilst running at speed was causing havoc with the opposing defenders and soon he’d scored a goal and set up another one. Not long after the restart when Gordon was running with the ball, he suddenly let out a yelp and stopped, losing the ball to an opposing player in the process. A few minutes later the same thing happened. When he had an opportunity to do so, Gordon wandered over to the touchline where I was standing and said, ‘some bugger is shooting me’.  I thought he was imagining things but decided to have a look at the crowd watching the game, mainly Catholic priests and other kids of about the same age as Gordon and myself.

Sure enough, the next time Gordon was on a mazy run, one of the crowd took out an air pistol, aimed at Gordon and fired. This time it missed but I moved in closer and the next time he levelled the pistol ready to fire I jumped on him. Well, all hell broke loose as about 6 of his mates jumped on me. I was trying to wrestle the air pistol from the guy whilst his mates were trying to drag me off him and beat me up. After what seemed like an eternity, I surfaced to find about 4 priests breaking up the fight. When they’d separated everybody into little snarling groups, one of the priests asked me why I’d started the fight. ‘Because that little !*%$£ has a gun and he’s shooting my cousin’. ‘Don’t swear at me young man’, said the priest.’ And you’re talking nonsense – none of my boys would do such a thing’. ‘Begorrah Begorrah’.

There was no reasoning with the priests so the only way I thought of resolving the issue was to try and get the gun so I could show them so I lunged at the offender one more time and all hell broke loose again. By this time, the game had stopped and the two teams had become involved with Gordon’s lot trying to get me out of the clutches of several guys intent on beating me to a pulp and the opposing team trying to beat up Gordon’s team. The priests were right in the middle of all this, screaming in Irish.

The game was abandoned. I waited for Gordon’s team so I had some protection and eventually they emerged from the hut which was the dressing room. As they wandered over, I waited for the plaudits to follow. What a hero. What a great guy.

And then Gordon said, ‘What did you go and do that for? We were winning two-nil. Now we’ll have to replay the game.’   

One cannot win – even in battle.

Remember, Remember, The 5th of November

It was Guy’s birthday on Wednesday. Guess who he was called after? Yup – you got it – Guy de Maupassant. Nah – it was that bearded fellow in 1605 who tried to roast a few parliamentarians.

We had a bit of a party for him but as it was the end of school half-term and most of his mates live miles away and it was absolutely pouring with rain, he only had one pal, Drew, over to help him celebrate. But that didn’t stop us adults having a ball. Any old excuse.

Nibbles and wine to start with followed by pizza and more wine. Some champagne and then fireworks and birthday cake, and then some more wine to end the evening. The fireworks were a scream. We’d bought them in summer but because there were no wet days we couldn’t use them so last night I dug them out and set them off on the terrace firing them at the French houses. You don’t really get good (I mean big) fireworks out here so the pack we had consisted of extra-small rockets, firecrackers and some Catherine wheel things and 2 roman candles. Strangely enough there were about 20 of the small rockets and in an effort to try and create a bigger bang, we taped several of them together. Big mistake. They simply caught fire and whooshed around making everybody run into the safety of the pool house. Ever seen 6 guys trying to get through a door made for one?

After that little escapade we retired to the kitchen where it was much dryer and a bit warmer and then we set J up big time.

A few years ago we built an enormous bonfire, complete with a Guy. As it was a bit damp in the days leading up to the 5^th I soaked it in a couple of gallons of petrol. The highlight of the evening, dare I say it myself, was when I would fire a flaming arrow into the bonfire from a safe distance. I visualised the arrow making a long flaming arc before hitting the bonfire at the base which would set it alight. Well, I completely forgot about the weight of the paraffin soaked rag tied round the end of the arrow and when I fired it, it simply flew a few yards and landed with a dull thud, well short of the bonfire. There was nothing for it but to retrieve the arrow which I did and hoping I was far enough away from the bonfire, I threw it in. Not quite as spectacular, but it had the same effect. There was an almighty explosion and flames must have flown 30 feet into the air. Anyway, the rest of the evening went off ok but several of our guests were taking bets as to when the Pompier (French Fire Brigade) would arrive. Luckily they never did, but it was that fear of the Pompier arriving in droves to put out the fire (they don’t have bonfires here) and giving me a big fine which started the little joke on J.

So we’re in the kitchen and I get Guy to call the home phone on his mobile from the lounge. The phone rings in the kitchen, I pick it up and say, ‘aah oui, oui, oui c’est moi, oui, oui’. By this time J is getting impatient as you do when you’re trying to work out what the person on the other end of the line is saying and she offers to take the call as it’s obvious I’m struggling with my French. She takes the handset and as she does, she says, ‘who is it’?. ‘The Pompier’, I reply and she goes pale. She takes the call in the lounge where Guy is sitting on the sofa talking into his mobile….but it doesn’t click. Her own son is berating her for firing off fireworks without a licence, kidding on he is the Pompier and J is all apologetic.

It was only the hysterical laughter from all the adults in the kitchen who were in on the dastardly deed, who made her think something was not quite right. Poor girl! 

PS - was it only me, who for years and years, thought the burning of a Guy on top of the bonfire was a celebration of his act of trying to blow up parliament as opposed to a celebration of him being hung, drawn and quartered? 

Go and Get a Bucket of Steam

Following on from yesterday’s blog where I explained how a stuck yoga position managed to help get me a job at Rootes/Chrysler, it was a strange feeling a couple of years later when I was one of the more experienced trainees watching the new recruits being put through their paces. Once they’d been hired, they immediately spent the first two weeks in the mechanical workshop under the tutelage of the more experienced guys – like me! Thereafter it was a complete culture shock for them – probably like going to boarding school and being a fag - without the ‘bending over bit’ I hasten to add.

Anyway, we made their lives hell. A typical trick was to send them off (to a known and pre-warned associate at the other end of the factory which was over a mile long) to get a bucket of steam and after an hour they’d come back, completely apologetic that they had failed in the task. ‘Ok then – go back to the tool store (same place) and get me a left handed screwdriver then’, was the next task issued. Again, they would return, all apologetic saying the tool store didn’t have any in but they would get some next week! Hilarious!

Now remember the saying, ‘what goes around, comes around’? Well, when I got to the Glasgow Transport Executive, I was totally stitched up……like a kipper in fact. I’d arrived there as some sort of hot-shot. A work study guy who had implemented all the newest production facilities in one of the most modern factories in Europe. Somebody who would introduce these 20^th century techniques to the dark, Victorian, 19^th century depots from which hundreds of Glasgow’s green and yellow buses exited every morning. I arrived on the Monday morning, suited and booted and was introduced to everybody in the department. I was given my free bus pass (I’m just waiting for my 2^nd one !) and my white coat and was advised that, although unusual, I was to go off to Anniesland Bus Depot where there was an urgent job waiting for me. They explained that although I had been brought in to update the methods and production techniques they used, I needed to see the old systems for myself.

When I got there, the depot manager explained the task - I needed to establish the time it took ‘old Jimmy’ to sweep the yard. No problem I thought……. until I saw the yard. It was about 2 acres in size. It was humungous! I was then introduced to ‘old Jimmy’ who was not too keen to have a white-coated, management, ponce (as he called me) following him about but I explained the principle of work study and we agreed to disagree.

We started. Old Jimmy sweeping away and going off to get his shovel every now and again which he propped up against the furthest away wall. When his shovel was full, he’d carry it off to the wheelbarrow which, strangely enough was parked against another wall. After transferring the dirt to the barrow, he’d then go and put his shovel back against the wall. After about 10 minutes of this I stopped him and asked why he had to prop his shovel up against one wall and his barrow against another wall. ‘To stop the buses running over them son’, he said. Diplomatically as I could, I said from now on he’d keep his shovel in the barrow and his barrow beside him. Once the barrow was full he could empty it. He growled something nasty, realised the game was up and then carried on in the prescribed manner. I was triumphant.

We carried on for the rest of the day, and the next and the next. I called the office to clarify how long they wanted me to stay there but my manager merely referred me to the depot manager who said I needed to work out a time for the whole yard. And so I carried on watching poor old Jimmy sweeping the yard, hour after hour, day after day….for two whole weeks. In rain and shine he swept. When it rained I watched from one of the parked buses, stopwatch going round and round the clock face in that monotonous way it did.

I returned to the office at the end of those two weeks to see everybody smirking. Laughing behind papers. Guffawing in little groups in the corners of the large, open plan office. I was called into the manager’s office and asked to show him my reams and reams of paperwork. ‘I don’t know where you’ve been’, he said. ‘We normally measure old Jimmy sweeping 20 square feet of yard and then multiply it up’, he said. ‘You should have been back here two weeks ago. Not a good start for a hot-shot would you say, Thomas’.  As I left and closed the door I could hear him in hysterics.

The picture is of ……..a left handed screwdriver !!!! No – it’s not a joke. Apparently they do exist now.

Interviews

Guy went off for his first ever interview this afternoon. I don’t know the result but I’m pretty sure he’ll do ok. I wanted to fix his hair before he went. I wanted him to wear shiny shoes and tuck his shirt in but all he said with an air of frustration was, ‘it’s a school placement Thomas not a real job’. Indeed it is. This year at secondary school all the pupils have to spend a week at a company or organisation getting exposure to a workplace. It’s obviously to prepare them for life outside school but we’re hoping that because he’s passionate about IT, he might actually be put on a register they (Unisys) keep of potential employees which would be great.

All week I’ve been firing questions at him, reminding him that in interviews first impressions are key. I’ve been encouraging him to do some research on Unisys on the web but whether he has or not is a secret he’s keeping. We’ll see how it goes.

It reminded me of my first job interview at Rootes. There were about a hundred 17 and 18 year old boys wandering around all waiting for instructions. Some were eventually herded into a workshop whilst others including myself were asked to wait in a large room and advised that it could take up to an hour before we might be called.  

One of the guys in the room said he’d heard about the Rootes interviewing technique and that they’d probably ask  if we could do, or had done anything unusual. We went round the room and all the guys said what they’d done and when it came to my turn I said I could do the Lotus position. Somebody asked me to show them and I got down on the floor,  folded my legs across one another and started to swing on my arms in a perfect Lotus position. The door opened and the Personnel Officer came in and before he’d even seen me, he called my name. I tried as best I could to unfold my legs but they were stuck. I couldn’t extricate myself from this damned Lotus position. Eventually, after getting no response from the others in the room, he came round to my side of the table, looked down at me swinging on my arms and just said, ‘I take it you’re Thomas Cupples‘? That was just the start of the process but after a few more rounds I got the job so it obviously didn’t count against me.

A few years later, after Chrysler had bought Rootes and had decided to downsize and get rid of me and all my mates, I ended up at another interviewing session for the then Glasgow Transport Executive (the crowd that ran the buses and tubes). The salary was good and I had formed a good relationship at night school with a guy who worked there. He informed me that the test and interview was a ‘doddle’ and that I should consider my chances of getting the job 50/50 as another night school person, a guy who also worked at Rootes was being interviewed as well. That morning I left Chrysler for my interview and my ‘colleague’ and adversary wished me well – his interview was in the afternoon. I arrived to be shown into this pokey little office where I was given a set of questions on Work Study Methodology (which was my job at Chrysler) and left on my own. I looked at the questions and frantically scoured the paper only to establish that I could not answer a single one of them. It was a different discipline of Work Study and I didn’t have a clue. I was aghast. What should I do ? Try and sneak out without them noticing ? I was desperately working out what my strategy should be when my mate from college came in and asked how I was getting on. When I confided to him that there wasn’t a single question I could answer, he laughed, pulled a sheet of paper out of his inside pocket, put it on the desk I was at and left. It was a complete set of answers.

A few minutes later, the two departmental bosses came in, picked up ‘my’ paper (I’d put the original one in my briefcase), looked through it and nodded to each other. They said all my answers were correct, there was no need for an interview and that they’d only one other candidate to see that afternoon. They’d let me know.

I hot-footed it back to Chrysler where my ‘colleague’ was waiting for me. ‘What was it like’. Was it difficult? Was the interview tough? I simply took out the unanswered test paper, slid it across the table to him and watched him go pale. He went off only to come back a few minutes later. ‘Where did you go to’, I asked’ ‘I’ve just phoned them and told them I wouldn’t be coming for the interview this afternoon’. ‘What did they say’, I enquired. ‘Only that it was good of me to call and they wished me well’. ‘Whoever gets that job bloody deserves it if they can answer all those questions’, he said. 

I left two weeks later. He didn’t come to my leaving do! 

PS - that's not me in the picture.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

I’ve been waiting for this moment all year. The final race of the Grand Prix season. I reckoned right the way back in March that the championship would go down to the wire and so it proved although it took some pretty dodgy steward’s decisions and some unfairly harsh penalties throughout the season (on Lewis Hamilton) to make sure the last race in Brazil would decide the world crown.

By a cruel twist of timings I had a birthday bash to go to this afternoon but luckily I had developed a cold overnight so could not go. Really I did. A real sniffler it is too, so I just loaded the fire up with logs and sat down to watch the race on the telly. I’d actually set up a TV in the bathroom so I could sit in the warmth of a really hot bath, soak my bones, sweat my cold away and luxuriate in J’s most expensive bubble bath and watch the newest of Britain’s world champions but the kids and J had used all the hot water up so that was a great plan screwed. Was this an omen?

J and the kids went off to the birthday party, I sat down in perfect peace and quiet with Shadow at my feet and the race started. It was all pretty mundane for the first few laps with the leaders all getting away without mishap except for poor David Coulthard whose last race this was before retirement. Some pratt took him out on the first lap, the first corner actually and the suspicion was that it was Nico Rosberg whose aunt is a friend of ours. Wait till I see her. What a way for a distinguished career to end. Taken out by a fair-haired, pimply Finnish youth who can’t drive yet.

Coulthard has always had a special place in my affections, not only because he is a fellow Scot but because when I visited the Monaco Grand Prix qualifying a few years ago with my sons, we ‘bumped’ into him just outside the motor homes. When he heard the Scottish voices wishing him well for the race he came over and spoke to my boys for a few seconds. My boys were delighted and more so when he actually went on to win the race the following day.  So David, have a happy retirement. You’ve been a credit to your sport.

But back to today’s race. Hamilton needed only to finish 5^th if Massa won to win the world championship. Massa streaked away in the lead with Hamilton 5^th – the perfect script. Then there were some pit stops which tend to mess things up a bit. Hamilton came out of his in 7^th place but rose to 5^th after some typically aggressive driving. Massa meanwhile sailed off serenely into the distance. Nothing but some heavy rain, which he hates, or a mechanical catastrophe would stop him. Rain however, was forecast 7 laps from the end of the race and sure enough it came down right on cue. The leaders all dived into the pits to change their tyres but some of the slower drivers thought they could get to the end without putting on wet-weather ones and stayed out. Hamilton was now 4^th and seemingly safe but just as another driver closed in to take his place….. incredible, incredible...... my satellite signal disappeared. It was raining here also and in a heavy downpour the picture breaks up and eventually disappears. Well, I tried everything. I looked for another ITV station and found one way back in the listings – Hamilton was now 5^th and still in it. Then this channel disappeared as well. As a last desperate measure I moved onto Radio 5 Live hoping they’d be broadcasting the race – they were, but as I  picked up the commentary I was aghast to learn that Hamilton was now 6^th. Something had happened in the seconds during which I searched the airwaves and he was now out of contention. The last thing I heard on the radio before I switched off in disgust was, ‘and Hamilton is now in an impossible position. There’s only two corners left….it’s all over. Massa’s won it’. I cursed and sat down on the sofa. I’m a very bad loser. A few minutes later I switched the telly back on mainly to see if the signal had returned and heard the commentators going mad – one of the drivers who had stayed out on dry-weather tyres just couldn’t get any speed and Hamilton passed him to take the coveted 5^th place. I was speechless but elated. Hamilton was world champion and rightfully so as far as I was concerned. The authorities had tried to screw him all year but he’d beaten them – nil carborundum illigitimi and all that! Pathetic, amateur stewards from countries who don’t even have cars had tried to screw him but he’d triumphed. Brilliant!

Finally, I have to say that Massa was very dignified in defeat. He’d worked incredibly hard all year but had just been pipped at the post and whilst he cried and cried he still managed to compose himself and pour praise on Hamilton’s triumph.