by Nick Molloy
The first week was hellish and introduced me to what was to come. Passive was the market leader in their sector, but had been milking a cash cow for too long. The market was changing and Passive hadn’t adapted. I was to be part of a crack team that had to secure new business. This meant constant cold calling in an attempt to build relationships and win business. The rejection was persistent and constant. It was something I wasn’t totally unfamiliar with.
At the end of the first week, I moved into the flat overlooking the train tracks. Despite it being a real dive, the feeling I had when I stepped through the door for the first time is one that I will probably never experience again (I have felt it once more since which I will come back too). An incredible feeling of power and self satisfaction came over me as I walked around the near empty rooms. This hovel was my space. I wasn’t sharing it with other students who would leave the kitchen in a mess but have an equal right to do so. I wouldn’t have my mother telling me that I must turn the light out because I was wasting electricity. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted without comeback or retribution for the first time in my life. That feeling will be hard to top.
Zoe joined me a week after moving in. At the time, she was unclear whether she was going to join me or remain in Scotland. I hadn’t seen her for months. I had made it clear that I was unwilling to remain in Scotland. Both myself and Matt had similar sentiments about working North of the border. Nationalism up there was rife and this often over-spilt into openly aggressive anti-Englishness. After fours years we had both had enough of the snide comments and references to the battle of Bannockburn. The so called intellectuals at university even resorted to writing snide comments on library walls asking for rematches of famous battles. I used to clash constantly with Scottish nationalists, particularly in history tutorials, where I would draw out the comparisons between modern Scottish nationalists and the early days of Benito Mussolini’s fascism. I would invariably win the argument and gain another enemy. It became so bad that one tutor, who I got on particularly well with, banned any such talk in his tutorials. The last Scottish nationalist stormed out of his class in a bluster after inviting me to step outside. I accepted but he stormed off telling me to ‘grow up’.
Anyway, I wasn’t prepared to stay and work in Scotland. The national mood was such that I couldn’t bear every third of fourth person that I met. When I met her, Zoe had always been very patriotic and resistant to living in England. It nearly became a deal breaker. Anyway, I was the first of us to begin work in earnest. She was yet to find a placement in Biomedical Science and followed me to London in search of something in that field.
For the first few months we were losing money. Zoe took a job at British gas in a call centre whilst she applied for suitable jobs. I wasn’t earning commission. The costs of living far exceeded my basic and her meagre wage. I had to take out an overdraft in addition to my loan.
I spent many a long hour in work trying to get to grips with my new world. I really was thrown in at the deep end and had to learn fast. My marketing degree was woefully inadequate for the real world of business to business sales. The constant threat of the axe hung over us all. Another graduate in the team was the first to get the chop after only four weeks. I formed a very good relationship with Chris, one of the guys in the new business team. He was a fair bit older than me, at 34 to my 22. However, he had many years of experience in sales and was not afraid to pass on the benefits of that experience. A healthy banter also arose between us and certain other members of the team. In fact, as we got to know each other better, the banter became absolutely vicious, each of us taking delight in the apparent misfortune of the others. Nothing or no-one was sacred when it came to the barracking.
After about two months I went for an interview with a sports marketing company as I thought my days with Passive might be numbered. I didn’t get the job and it was probably a blessing in disguise. Things started to turn and I began to make my first placements. Greg, my boss, was fairly young. He was simultaneously both unable and unwilling to pass on the fruits of his industry knowledge. I was learning by making errors (a good, but long and hard way to learn) and picking up general sales techniques from Chris. However, once I got through the initial period things began going very well for me. In fact, much better than for everyone else (Chris excepted).
By the end of my first year I had earned just under £35,000. At this point I applied for another job in sport (managing a fitness club), but clashed with the regional manager. Again, I think this was a blessing in disguise. By the end of my second year at Passive, I earned £78,000. I was their most successful salesman at this point and was appointed sales manager. In my third year, I earned £120,000 and was their most successful sales manager. Many changes had occurred by the third year. New business had become the most successful and rapidly expanding sector of the company. Chris had been appointed divisional manger. However, the new business division had won few friends, myself in particular. At the time Passive was listed on the FTSE 250. It was a very corporate company with a corporate image and corporate values. Successful new business people, by contrast, fit a completely different profile. By their very nature they have to be outgoing, aggressive, relentless, be inquisitive to the point of almost being argumentative and this combined with a thickness of skin that would make a rhinoceros proud. They don’t make good yes men and arise licking doesn’t come all that naturally to them.
Passive had a love hate relationship with the new business team and particularly me. They loved the money we were generating, but they hated our individualistic outlook. Team players belonged in the corporate side of the company. New business wanted driven, money hungry individuals. As a sales manager I began to cultivate clones of myself. My cloning worked well for the third year. I earned far in excess of anyone else and speaking meritocratically, should have been set for better things. However, we do not live in a meritocracy and petty jealousies are often the order of the day.
Certain senior personnel within the company took offence to my success and attitude. They thought I had an attitude problem. My results suggested they had a perception problem. Anyway, they proceeded to attempt to renegotiate my contract without my consent. If I were to tell you the precise details of what ensued, the publisher’s of this book would be having kittens at the prospect of litigation. Needless to say, I didn’t agree to the contractual change and it cost Parity £40,000 in court.
After the court case I wrote a three page letter to Passive extending the olive branch of friendship and suggesting that they make me a member of their board. It contained numerous references to frozen food (one of the directors came from that industry). It thanked the directors for attending my leaving do (the court) and went on to mention such gems as how easy it was for all the lollies in the freezer to become deflated and defrosted and how hiring people from Birdseye could stop the rot. Most of the killer one liners came from my then ex boss, Chris. He had turned up to testify at the tribunal. We were faxing each other back and forth before the final draft. One fax came through from him and I immediately called him up on the telephone. We were both laughing out loud before uttering even a hello. Anyway, I faxed the final draft to all their offices. Obviously, I didn’t receive a reply, but it was extremely satisfying. Also, I proved about twenty people wrong who said that I couldn’t take on a massive PLC in court and win.
Chris was still friendly with a then ex Passive director who had left acrimoniously. He told him about the final faxing episode and chuckled “the evil bastard, I bet they rue the day they ever met him. Off course, he’ll never work in the industry again.”.
‘Paul, I don’t think he wants to work in the industry again. I think he’s got bigger plans’ replied Chris laconically…..
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Normally Aberystwyth would be way too far to consider going to for a strip job. However, I’d had a top tip from a mate that Scotland was the hot place of the moment to buy property and I’d agreed to go and have a look with him. W
hen the agent phoned and offered me the job in Aberystwyth I’d agreed on the basis that it was sort of on the way back. Sort of…
Besides, when I was at school all the Welsh Nationalists had trotted off quite merrily to Aberystwyth University. I guess I was kind of curious whether all the rumours about the place were true. Did the hills really have eyes ? Would we be gang raped by marauding hillbillies ? Would we burned at the stake for speaking with an English accent ? Those sort or rumours.
I should have really studied the map before agreeing to go to the place. It was a long drive even when already being half way there. However, it was a nice day, the scenery was pleasant and I had good company. All was well.
It was starting to go dark when we pulled into what looked like a pleasant sea-side town. No hillbillies, no burning stakes. All looked good
I rendezvoused with the booker. This was no large ladies night, but a private affair in a pub for about twelve females. My mate was hoping that nookie would come after the night’s proceedings, but it didn’t look promising. He has a particular fetish about age. He likes them young. Only one of them looked under 35 and she had two noses and three ears. Furthermore, I could smell trouble with this lot from 200 paces. My plan was to get the money, perform and run.
I succeeded in the first two objectives and as I was leaving the stage the chants began for my mate to strip as well (as often happens). When I returned 5 minutes later after getting changed he was being held in the middle of the room with his trousers around his ankles. He was struggling to free himself (unsuccessfully) whilst his captors pointed at his nether regions and sneered. It reminded me of something that might have occurred at Abu Ghraib. If a gang of men had done this to a woman it would have constituted a serious sexual assault. When women do it to a man, it is strangely classified as a bit of fun.
I gathered up my costume and packaged it away ready to execute the final bit of my plan. That is, the run bit. The females were insistent that I stay around and talk to them for a while. I would normally do this anyway, but the atmosphere was tense and I engaged them a little hesitantly. Then one of them insisted I dance with her. One of my golden unbreakable rules is that I don’t dance. I can’t dance, I don’t like dancing and I think anybody that does it looks like… well… not good. I only really admire breakdancers because I can appreciate the athleticism.
Anyway, I politely declined to dance, five times, before she exploded.
‘I can tell you’re fucking English’ she spat.
Almost simultaneously the mother of the one with two noses and three ears exploded at my mate accusing him of trying to molest his daughter. How rich I thought, given what they did to him only ten minutes earlier.
‘Time to go’ I shouted.
‘Yes’ he shouted back.
We made a hurried exit to streams of abuse. We were lucky not to get covered in phlegm. We hadn’t eaten in hours and we agreed on a pit stop at a fish and chip shop before leaving Aberystwyth. We entered such an abode. The customer was speaking to the vendor. We began discussing our order. Our English accents were obviously offensive because the customer and vendor then began speaking in Welsh. We looked at each other and ran for the car. I’m sure I saw a burning stake as we were driving away.
On the way home another motorist failed to stop on a roundabout and ploughed straight into my car, causing my car to roll over and skid down the road on its roof. The very next day I was to fly to Tanzania to climb Kilimanjaro. My resultant injuries completely ruined the trip. I’m never going back to Aberystwyth…
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Having won the court case I was then free to move onto my next project. The behaviour of the Passive people had left me in no hurry to return to recruitment. I still had sporting ambitions. Indeed, I had been thinking for some time about becoming a football agent. After all, they performed essentially the same role as a recruitment consultant, they just did it for much bigger sums. I had been attempting to find out what I could about the industry, although there was very little written about it and what was written was for the American market only.
Whilst fighting the court case I had been given the phone number for an agent in motor-racing and after my initial call we met to discuss things. He was very receptive to my ambitions. He openly said that he didn’t have much of a head for business, but he had all the contacts in the motor racing world. He suggested that with his experience and contacts in the motor-racing world and my drive for the business side, we would make an ideal partnership.
I had a few grand in the bank that I had just won and I was keen not to have to go back to recruitment. I also wanted to do something in sport. I had never viewed motor-racing as a sport (more of a past-time), but viewed it as an opportunity to make money. The amounts that the drivers in Formula 1 were making (and their agents) were astronomical. Thus, I saw pound signs and decided to give it a go. Initially, my money would bank roll the project. I could write a book on this entire project! However, I’ll condense matters. Basically, I secured another £300,000 in funding from an eccentric millionaire. This was after I had hired one sales guy working out of my spare bedroom and several failed visits to venture capitalists. I took exception to being asked what my father did and what school I went to by the venture capitalists. The old school tie brigade was still very much in force.
The £300,000 was used to secure the drives for three drivers who the motor-racing agent recommended. I didn’t question his judgement (an error). That was his area after all. Yet, I had reservations about two of the drivers, because they seemed to lack the requisite drive and determination to succeed. Adam, the third guy had it in abundance. The other two drivers were placed in Formula Ford (the passion of the eccentric millionaire), but the main thrust was behind Adam in Formula 3. I hired some basic office space and recruited three sales staff to have an all out blitz on obtaining sponsorship sales for the cars.
It turned out to be much harder than any of us ever expected. We were all so naïve to the politics of motor-racing. I, like most people, had casually watched these events on television and assumed that merit ruled the day. I assumed that the top drivers were hired by the top teams. I assumed that companies sponsored the top teams to obtain maximum exposure. That however, is far too logical.
As we found out to our cost, teams hire drivers who can afford to pay, irrespective of their ability. Companies sponsor the teams on the basis of personal connections and involvements. I attended a motorsport sponsorship conference and was horrified as I sat through a talk by the head of the sponsorship team at Shell Petroleum. She emphasized continually the emotion of being involved with Ferrari. Not once during the talk did she mention anything about return on investment or what sponsoring Ferrari did for Shell. I was starting to spot the danger signs, but at this stage the full scale of the problem had not yet hit home.
Our initial sales strategy began by targeting all the companies that had ever ‘sponsored’ a racing car. We had dozens of car magazines and began by calling all the names on the sides of the vehicles. Our pitch was that “if we could offer twice the exposure at half the price, would you be interested ?”. In any line of business the answer would have to be yes. To our amazement the answer was a resounding no in all cases. Yes, all cases. The reason given was always the same. They stated that they were only involved with the driver because he was the son/nephew/cousin, etc of a board member or client. There was never any legitimate business reason for the deal. We were therefore unable to compete on a business footing.
I had to change the strategy. We achieved a modicum of success by selling the car on a race-by-race basis to businesses local to a particular racing circuit. For example, we would pitch to companies based in Kent when the next race was at Brands Hatch. The biggest sponsorship deal we closed was worth £20,000 for one race to be held at the British Grand Prix at Silverstone. Adam had a special Hotwheels suit made, his entire car was decked in Hotwheels colours and they even hired three page three girls to drape over him everywhere
he went. Adam was racing in a section called the scholarship class. Basically it was half the budget of the full scale Formula 3 championship because they were using the old cars from previous years (we couldn’t afford the £400,000 for a full Formula 3 drive). The Hotwheels sponsorship was a real coup for us. Current F1 drivers Takuma Sato and Anthony Davidson were not too happy on the day because Adam was getting all the attention with his page 3 girls ! However, the following Monday we had lost all hope of getting any repeat business from the arrangement. Several Formula 3 teams had telephoned Hotwheels offering them the same arrangement next year for free ! We just couldn’t compete with that. The difference was that we needed the cash whereas every other team didn’t. Every other driver was sponsored by his father’s company. Nobody in the paddock was having to raise the finances for their drive from an outside source.
Essentially we were involved in a massive rich kids playground. The full scale of the fraud that is motor-racing was brought home to me. Adam seemed to be the real deal. We are great mates to this day. Many people, including several so called experts seemed to acknowledge his ability as a driver during the F3 season.
Prior to the start of the season, I had also struck a deal with a TV production company and they agreed to make a fly on the wall documentary chronicling the exploits of the driver and the backing team. The documentary ended with us attending a meeting with Williams Formula 1. Jonathan Williams, the alleged talent scout, wanted to talk about the possibility of Adam testing their Formula 1 car. The Williams management wouldn’t allow the cameras into the building. Things conclude with me emerging from the meeting and telling the camera that we have just been offered a Formula 1 drive if we would be willing to pay for the privilege, the same as how every other driver began in Formula 1.