Job

When I was travelling on the tube last week an elderly woman collapsed on the platform.  A group of people rushed to help her and a man further down the platform came forward to explain that he was a doctor.  I thought, “I wish I could do that”.

I have a dream that plays out along the following lines:

My wife and I are flying abroad for a holiday.  We're about two hours out of East Midlands airport and all of a sudden there is an announcement over the aircraft PA.

 

“This is the captain speaking.  Please do not be alarmed, but is there anyone on board who knows how to carry out a Business Impact Analysis?”.

There are a few gasps amongst the passengers.  Someone near to us starts praying quietly.  And then I stand up and announce,

“Don’t worry, I’m a Business Continuity Consultant”.

As I’m led through Economy into Business Class, I hear a woman give thanks to God.  In Business Class, two stewardesses are leaning over a middle-aged businessman.  His tie has been loosened, he is sweating and he has a flannel on his forehead.

I kneel next to the man and with a comforting smile explain that it’s all going to be OK.  I turn to one of the stewardesses and say,

“Can you please get me my case.  It contains a copy of the new ISO22301 documentation.  I’ll also need a pencil and paper, and a flipchart.”

Two hours later I emerge from Business Class through the curtain into Economy.  There is a hush.

“We’ve managed to establish the Maximum Tolerable Period of Disruption for his critical processes and he’s agreed his Recovery Time Objectives.  If we can schedule a Strategy Workshop in the next couple of weeks, he’s going to be fine”.

The cabin erupts into applause.  A stewardess kisses me on the cheek. One of the stewards slips his telephone number into my back pocket.  A small boy comes toward me clutching a teddy bear,

“Can you carry out a Business Impact Analysis on my teddy, mister?”

I ruffle his hair and give him my business card.  As I approach my seat I can see my wife mouthing the words “I love you".

The only two grains of truth in this scenario are that, if I keep working as a Business Continuity Consultant, my wife and I will always be sitting in Economy (Premium Economy at a push) and I'm pretty sure that my wife loves me.

I enjoy my work, but I accepted long ago that being a Business Continuity Consultant is not a glamorous profession.  There are some jobs where women want to have sex with you just because of what you do (curse you, firemen!).  Business Continuity is not one of these jobs.  It needs a more dynamic title for a start.  I want to be a 'Crisis Preventer' or a 'World Saver', not a Business Continuity Consultant.

But it's what I do. And whenever I feel as though my job couldn't be any less glamorous I comfort myself that at least I'm not still in IT.

Football

When I was eight, my dad took me to see Coventry City, my local team, play Sunderland at Highfield Road and ever since I have been a Manchester United fan.  The Coventry / Sunderland match ended a dull 0-0, I couldn't see much as it was all standing and I remember it being cold and wet.  Manchester United, on the other hand, had George Best and were about to win the European Cup.  There was no contest.

My experience was not untypical for boys growing up in Coventry in the 1960s.  I can't remember many of my mates supporting Coventry City at that time.  Post-1966, there were a few supported West Ham, and a handful followed Liverpool, but United were definitely the favourites at Wheelwright Lane Junior School.

We went to Highfield Road again to see Coventry against United the season after they won the European Cup in 1968.  We arrived three hours before kick off and already the ground was heaving.  It was so full that many of the children, including me, were passed to the front and put over the wall on to the side of the pitch.  I spent a blissful couple of hours inches from Bobby Charlton, Denis Law and George Best.

I know I fall into that easy stereotype of the United fan living a considerable way from Old Trafford, but I couldn't give a monkey's.  Once I was committed to the team, I was there through Thick and Thin.  Admittedly, since 1968, this has been mainly Thick, but I am proud to say I was there at Bristol City for the first away game when they were relegated to the Second Division.  Above all it's been a considerable emotional investment on my part and one which has been paid back with interest.  In fact, if United never win anything ever again, I am happy to live off that emotional interest for the rest of my life.

Whilst United are my team, I enjoy watching good football, whichever team is playing.  I've always looked forward to the start of each new season for the new challenges, the new players and the width of Jamie Redknapp's ties.  This season, however, I'm completely disinterested in the whole thing.  I'm sure this is partly down to the football overdose we experienced this summer from the Euros and Olympics, but I know that a big reason is my diminishing respect for the players, clubs and the football authorities post-Olympics.

For the past couple of weeks we've seen and heard inspiring stories of dedicated athletes who have made us feel proud.  Now it's all over we're faced with the return of Suárez, Terry, Barton and the rest of their obscenely-paid chums.  At Week 1 of the new season I really can't be bothered.

I'm sure that I'll soon get enthused again about football.  The signing of Robin van Persie has cheered me up no end, although I appreciate the irony of my mood being lifted by the signing of another highly-paid footballer.  In the meantime I'm really looking forward to the Paralympics.  I hope the wave of goodwill that will accompany these games embarrasses some of the football millionaires into changing their ways, but somehow I doubt it.

Stan

My dad was a great bloke.  It wasn't just me who thought so, it was also my schoolmates who told me that they wished they had a dad like mine. If you look in the dictionary for the definition of a great bloke, there should be the word ‘Stan’.  He was funny, kind, generous and the life and soul of every party.  He was someone who was prepared to go for the unconventional option, if he, his family or friends would enjoy it.

He died a couple of years ago of an aggressive cancer that was the first serious illness I can ever remember him having.  Even during his last days he still had more energy than I have on a good day.  Little everyday things will trigger a memory of my dad and he popped into my mind recently when we were arranging our holiday to Thailand later in the year.  He loved foreign travel and was delighted that my wife and I shared that passion.  In his later years, when his wings had been clipped somewhat, every holiday my wife and I arranged would be met with the response “how lovely” when we told him where we were going.  My mum, on the other hand, hated travelling any farther than Teignmouth.

When my dad left school he took an apprenticeship as a carpenter and joiner.  He became frustrated earning money for someone else, so he decided to start his own business as an exhibition contractor.  He travelled Europe with his job, often for weeks at a time and always returned with gifts to prove that he'd been abroad. I got wooden clogs from Holland, a set of communist badges from the USSR, some shoes with pom-poms on from Greece and lederhosen from Germany.  The lederhosen were particularly fine, but I can't remember ever putting them on even though my dad encouraged me to wear them to school to show my friends (I didn't think it was appropriate for a 17 year-old studying maths, further maths and physics). He would also always bring a Toblerone. In those days, the Toblerone to a young boy was a thing of wonder.  It wasn't something you ever saw down our local newsagent, it tasted fantastic, and for children who still had their baby teeth it was almost impossible to eat.

My dad took me with him to Paris on a couple of occasions.  The first time I was 12; I had never flown before and had never been abroad.  We did all the usual tourist stuff, but he also decided it would be good for his son's development to take him to the Moulin Rouge.  If you're not familiar with the Moulin Rouge it is what these days would be called a Burlesque. I remember it being quite classy and very exotic (one of the acts involved a dolphin), and I was most impressed that my dad took me, not to the early show, but the late session that started about 11 pm.

My abiding memory of the evening was that I was in an environment which was, in more ways than one, very adult and I was being treated like one by everyone around me.  I even had a (small) glass of wine for the first time.  We sat at a round table with a group of tourists and I was next to a slightly drunk, elderly American lady.  We had a very nice chat about life for a young man in England, but she kept asking me whether I minded seeing all these naked women on the stage.  On every occasion I responded truthfully that I did not.  After we left the Moulin Rouge, in the early hours of the morning, dad walked me through the streets of Paris and explained to me all about the ladies of the night that we passed as we walked back to our hotel.  It was only some years after that I realised that this was probably the ‘facts of life’ chat that all children get when they reach a certain age.

When I returned to school and told my friends of my Moulin Rouge visit my dad's position as a great bloke was unassailable. However, our French-born French mistress was horrified that my father had chosen to take me to a burlesque rather than the delights of the Louvre or the Musée d'Orsay.  These days any child that is taken to the equivalent of a lap dancing club and given wine is probably placed on the ‘At Risk Register’.

If I persevere with this blog (it’s all going pretty well so far; much better than the ukulele), there will be more posts about my dad.  I like to think I share many of his characteristics, although, in truth, my sister is much more like him.  Since he died there’s been a huge void in the family which will never be filled.  I miss him a lot and think about him often.  I thought about having ‘A Great Bloke’ on his gravestone, but my mum went for something a bit more traditional.  It’s a shame, because I think he would have liked it.