Nigel - An Interesting Lunch

It's a small world they say and sure enough it is. We’ve all got stories of bumping into the guy who lives in the next house in a far flung part of the world or my friend, Christine who found her long, lost, adopted son living virtually round the corner from her. But now that I’m a virtual recluse in the tiny hamlet of Tourrettes Sur Loup and my wife seldom lets me out, I don’t have these experiences. Well not many of them, but I had one last week which I wished I hadn’t. Let me explain with a rather convoluted story to get us there.

 Quite a few years ago when I was a Sales Manager in IBM, I was called into a company who were setting up a major new financial system in London. The guy who was the brains behind it was a well known City figure, a Mr Smithers-Blair, but well known in the sense that he rubbed the ‘establishment’ up the wrong way – he was christened the ‘enfant terrible’ of London. Anyway, the sale went well and a final, high-level meeting at their fancy offices across from Buckingham Palace was organised. I was to bring not only the guys who would install and support the system but, as a show of commitment, my senior IBM manager.

We arrived at their offices (actually a rather grand house) at 9am prompt where we were met by Mrs Smithers-Blair, a rather attractive, immaculately dressed individual who made it quite clear that as her husband was out of the country, she’d be running the show. We were shown into the board room which was floored in the most beautiful powder blue, thick, luxurious carpet. She went off to get the maid to make some coffee.

Upon her return, and as she entered the board room, she lifted her nose and said  ‘oh – what’s that awful odour?’ Sure enough, there was the most appalling smell and when we looked down, we saw a trail of dog poo all over the carpet. Indeed, there was lumps of dog poo all the way to the front door, so it was one of the IBM lot who had brought it in. We all started looking at our shoes to see who the culprit was, each of us hoping desperately that our own shoes were clean and then the culprit owned up. It was my senior manager.

Mrs Smithers-Blair then shouted for her maid to bring a bucket of hot water and a brush and instructed my manager to clean up the appalling mess. My manager, making full use of his position of authority,  turned to one of my support staff and instructed him to clean it up, which, brave lad,  he refused to do. In the end, with all of us wandering over to the table where coffee had now been served, my poor manager was left to get down on his hands and knees and wipe up the trail of dog poo.

Despite that little problem, the deal went ahead and the new financial system became a major success. As is usual in IBM, I was moved onto something else, but I kept a passing interest in Mr and Mrs Smithers-Blair, which was not too difficult as they were always in the news, particularly when their son, Nigel, got into one of his many scrapes, all of which were wonderfully documented in the papers.

Fast forward quite a few years and I’m sitting in the bar in Tourrettes when a stunning red Ferrarri, followed closely by a beautiful Mini Cooper, scream to a halt in the car park and four youngish guys get out and wander over to the bar. The Ferrari driver I recognise – it’s one Nigel Smithers-Blair, who just happens to sit at the table next to mine outside on the pavement. 

They sat down and within a few minutes were wondering why it took so long to get their bottle of champagne and why the Bar Des Sports did not stock Bollinger!

Never one to miss an opportunity, I asked one of the group for a light and we started talking. After a few minutes I let it be known that I actually knew Nigel’s parents from my IBM days, which did not impress him at all. We spoke about those days when his father had started that new system and how well he was doing now (making millions) but it was obvious that he was more interested in our rather attractive local bus driver than anything I was saying but eventually after she drove off without giving him a second look, he asked some questions about the village and village life (apparently he lives in Monaco). He was quite interested about living in such a small community and asked where the local club (nightclub) was. Now amazingly as it might seem, we do actually have a nightclub in the village which only opens a few nights per week, mainly in the summer and so I gave him directions and off, he and his ‘chums’ went, leaving a huge tip for the waitress and a business card for me.

About an hour later, the Ferrari and the Mini roared past me on the main street, their horns blaring and shouts of something or other coming from Nigeland his pals. I’m going to keep tabs on Mr Nigel – watch this space.