Do our characters ever change? Or am I still the same timid red-haired schoolboy who was always being picked up by his teacher for his untidy writing and getting ‘all hot and bothered’? Going back the nature versus nurture idea, I have concluded that yes, our characters do change over time and this is dependent upon who we meet and how we react when meeting different people.
I grew up thinking that I was shy. I was always reticent about speaking out and distinctly nervous of authority in whatever form. I assume that this is in part due to my genes but since my parents displayed similar traits, observing and copying their behaviour probably influenced and reinforced this tendency in me. They always deferred to people who had positions of power (teachers, priests, and even rich people) and I believe that they felt that they knew their place in society’s pecking order. Sadly, this was somewhere near the bottom, and not seeing anything different, I grew up believing the same.
I now believe that ‘you can’t be what you can’t see’, which is a quote first used by an American children’s rights activist, Marian Wright Edelman. She believed that children are less likely to be inspired for their future if they don’t have visible role models. Role models during my first decade were largely my parents, and less so, my teachers, and their aspirations for me seemed quite limited. My parents had a good excuse; they probably had no real knowledge of the vast range of jobs that could be unlocked for people with a good education. I imagine that they thought that those with a higher social standing had got there simply due to who they (and their parents) were. It was probably unclear to them of the extent that upward social mobility could occur solely due to education.
Even if that were the case with my parents, I’m sure that my teachers would have been aware of the value of education for everyone, especially since at that time, Harold Wilson was the UK Prime Minister. Higher education held special significance for Wilson, and he recognised its key role in creating opportunities for ambitious youngsters from working-class backgrounds. Whether my teachers’ understanding of the Wilson government’s policies for the abolition of the eleven-plus and replacing it with comprehensive education influenced their thinking I don’t know. Whatever the case, I never felt that any of my early role models were teaching me that a good education (starting with passing the eleven-plus) was the key to upward social mobility. I’m sure that the teachers knew this, but they failed to persuade me of that fact, but perhaps my lack of ambition played a part.
Even later at grammar school I still didn’t really believe that ‘the likes of me’ could amount to very much, unlike my peers who appeared to ooze confidence and ability. I think I had ability, but I never really let it show. Aiming for university never featured on my horizon, which seems amazing to me now. As a teenager why wasn’t I questioning myself whether I wanted to do A-levels and go on to tertiary education? I don’t believe that thought ever entered my mind. My aspirations were simply to become a motor mechanic, not even an engineer. Apart from Mr Neild, perhaps, no-one had ever nudged me in that direction, or if they did it was so subtle that I missed it.
When I started work I saw different groups of people who were more like me in many ways, and yet had reached further in their careers than my limited aspirations. My apprentice manager in the first year at the Royal Ordnance Factory (Mr Horrocks) was someone who was in his 50s and was very down-to-earth. He had what I saw as a great job and I wanted to be him, but more to the point, I could envisage myself performing his role at some stage in the future.
An aside. In September 1977, Mr Horrocks sat me down in his office to talk about my future academic prospects. I had only just scraped a pass in my ONC exams, and he was concerned about me advancing to HNC (funded by the company) when perhaps I wasn’t academically suited. We discussed the option of moving onto a lower academic stream, but I fought against that and won. Once I had promised to work very hard and try to pass the exams I was allowed to progress onto the HNC course. By the following spring I was performing well on the course, and Mr Horrocks in quite a turnaround told me that he was considering transferring me to onto the Technician Apprenticeship stream. This would have meant that after HNC, I might have been sponsored to take a degree. I was quite excited about this prospect, especially after my troubles getting onto the HNC course in the first place. Then, just weeks later I heard the sad news that Mr Horrocks had died very suddenly, and with it my opportunity to go onto a degree programme. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that things wouldn’t have panned out this way: I think that I would still have failed my 2nd year HNC.
By 1984, several things began to happen which started me thinking more seriously about my future. Geraldine already had a degree and had secured a job as a Legal Executive. This was an impressive title for a job that sadly didn’t pay very well. I was actually earning more money as a toolmaker, but she got to wear nice clothes and work in an office, whereas I had dirty fingernails and worked with oily things on the shop floor. Many of our friends at that time were being promoted and I was conscious of being left behind. Perhaps it was ambition, but it might just have been envy.
My brother Tony had recently embarked on an Open University (OU) course and this appealed to me. Gaining a degree? Wow! I investigated what this entailed and decided that if he could do it, so could I and so I started on an OU foundation course in 1985. It was only four years previously that I’d finished attending night school to achieve my HNC qualification. I think that it was about now that I began to realise that the world had much more to offer once you had qualifications. Up to that stage in my life, education was forced upon me, and I didn’t appreciate it. Once I had passed the HNC after repeating the final year, I decided to return and take another couple of modules which were elective subjects beyond what was necessary for the qualification. Perhaps because I had chosen the subjects myself, I found that I really enjoyed the work and unsurprisingly, the results were far better than I had previously achieved. I had finally begun to enjoy learning for its own sake, albeit a decade late. The OU’s whole raison d’etre is to allow mature students to catch up if they’d missed out on formal education at an earlier stage. The organisation is very keen on tracking their alumni as they began to progress in life following the achievement of formal qualifications. Once enrolled, I actively began to look at other options open to me.
An aside. Some of you will already know this, but it was Harold Wilson who promoted the concept of an Open University, to give a second chance to adults who had missed out on tertiary education. This was achieved through part-time study and distance learning. By 1981, 45,000 students had received degrees through the Open University and Tony and I were soon to boost that number.
The apprentice manager role that I’d envied as a 16-year-old was a civil service job at grade PTO III (Professional and Technology Office grade 3) which was two steps onto the ‘staff’ grades (as separate from shop floor grades). I’m not sure that they exist any longer, but they were the technical equivalent of the current civil service EO grades. After four years on the tools and as part of my nascent ambition, I successfully applied for a role as an estimator at grade PTO IV at ROF Blackburn. I felt that my career was beginning. Having made the change from shop floor to being a ‘shiny arse’ (as suit-wearing office staff were insultingly called), I then began to seek out further opportunities for advancement. I had only spent a year or so at Royal Ordnance before realising that the whole industry was looking shaky so I started planning to jump ship before it sank.
As a toolroom ratefixer at ROF Blackburn, my task was to ‘price up’ the jobs being given to toolmakers, which were the only remaining skill set in the company still working on piecework. This was where someone was given money to complete a task; the faster they completed it, the more money they could make. The system was straightforward and everyone understood the rules. However, at this time, Computer Numerical Control (CNC) machines were beginning to be introduced. These machines needed a skilled operator to set them up and replace the tools once worn, but then they worked automatically, and the only other action necessary was to keep feeding in the raw material which was an unskilled job. The time the machine took to complete the job was determined by the computer programme and ultimately by the laws of physics, and to have someone paid piecework for this was nonsense. Hence I saw that time was being called on the ratefixer’s role.
I joined British Aerospace in November 1986 and during that year, out of a group of six close friends, five of us took on new roles. I began to sense a competitive streak begin to develop. Promotions at the new company came thick and fast and I believe they occurred simply because my manager, Rod Hindle, saw some ability and placed me into gradually more challenging roles. It wasn’t that I was applying for jobs; it was him gently guiding my career and moving me into roles that would benefit the company (and me too!). Of course, he knew about my OU course work, and together we began selecting modules for me to study which would help me develop whilst also boosting my career prospects. Simultaneously, the tutors at the OU were giving me the sense that I could do anything I set my mind to and so the little, quiet red-haired lad began to think that perhaps ‘the likes of me’ could indeed progress and the only limit was my own desire.
I had very little confidence during my school years, but in my 30s, I slowly began to seek out activities that required self-confidence. I had long considered myself to be shy, but recently I’ve started to wonder about this and whether shyness truly describes me. Introversion is often mistaken for shyness, and I now believe that I am a typical introvert. Introversion is a preference, whilst shyness often suggests fear or lack of confidence. Introverts prefer solitary rather than social activities, but do not necessarily fear social encounters like shy people do. I have always liked spending time alone and I become noticeably less relaxed within large groups of people. I like to observe and analyse situations before commenting or participating. So how does this knowledge change things, if at all? I don’t suppose it does, apart from the thought that perhaps people misunderstood me during my childhood.
I recently read an opinion that society is biased against introverts, and that in modern Western society, people have been taught from childhood that to be sociable is to be happy. With maturity, I accept that whilst there may be some truth in this, it certainly does not give the whole truth. I don’t need to become more extraverted to be happier, however loudly extraverts demand this of me. I can be very happy being solitary and yet, unlike extraverts, I don’t expect others to be just like me. I’d love to see an article published just now and then which would have the headline, “Extraverted? Here’s some tips on how to be quiet and reflexive.”
To me, this introversion perhaps begins to explain why I was a late developer. I never pushed myself forward as a child, nor even as a young adult. I’d sit in the shadows and observe without ever being noticed. It was only later in life that things began to change and I slowly began to take the initiative. An organisation that greatly helped in this regard was the British Junior Chamber (BJC) which at the time advertised itself as the country’s largest out-of-hours training organisation.
I joined BJC in 1991 and saw it as a way of advancing my career in one of the many development opportunities that I could now see at British Aerospace. The opportunities were always there, of course, but perhaps I didn’t previously have the right mental attitude to grasp or even notice them. Although I may have felt that I possessed the intellect to accept more demanding roles, my personality traits hold me back. I never made a fuss or pushed to the front in any competition but BJC was an organisation whose very purpose was to push people out of their comfort zone whilst always remaining in a safe environment. The organisation’s primary remit was to organise training in all aspects of corporate life which could include public speaking, self-organisation or even Information Technology. Much of this training was delivered by the members themselves, and I must have attended twenty or thirty courses run by the BJC on a broad range of topics. My first introduction to the use of the internet was in January 1996 and was provided by one of the members of BJC Blackburn.
I had never felt properly relaxed when speaking in public, but soon I was taking part in debates with other chambers from around the region. Since it was a self-help organisation, if you were a member, it was expected that you would become actively involved in all aspects of the group. Before long I had developed a couple of training courses which would perhaps last 45 minutes and were made available to other groups free of charge. Feedback following such training sessions was actively encouraged, but since the training was being delivered to people who were in similar situations themselves, it was all very friendly and positive. I discovered that if I knew just a little bit more than those who were attending, I was fine. And even if I was unfortunate to discover a person in the audience with greater expertise there was only ever support offered, and no criticism.
I would deliver the courses in local hotels around the region to groups of perhaps 20 people. I distinctly remember delivering one of the first of these training sessions for the Preston branch which was held in the Crest Hotel on Ringway (now the Holiday Inn). I was very nervous beforehand but quite elated when I’d finished and discovered that it had gone down well. One of the training modules I developed was on a subject of great interest to me at the time called Transactional Analysis (ref. chapter 8). Another was, unsurprisingly, how to hold a meeting. I’d toned down the need for formality quite a bit by then.
BJC was very big on annual dinners, and since there were about eight branches locally, I found myself attending dinners every few weeks in the autumn. Very soon after joining the Blackburn branch, I was asked to be the Master of Ceremonies at our own Annual Dinner. I’d never done anything like this before, and I don’t think I’d ever even noticed the role being performed, but I accepted the challenge. The first thing was to buy myself a dinner jacket, and as money was tight (I’d just become a dad for the first time), I went to Oxfam to see what they had. I hit the jackpot there since they had a dinner jacket and trousers for sale for just £25 which fitted me perfectly. I had to have the trousers shortened, but it didn’t even need cleaning. I remember having to shell out a further £1 for a clip-on bow tie. I still have the suit (and the tie) all these years later and the suit still fits.
One of the many positive outcomes of being a member of BJC was to make me realise that I could do many things if required to do so. One thing I really didn’t like (and still don’t) is approaching strangers in the street and asking them to donate to charity, but I did this for several years for the annual Christmas Tree appeal. Strangers would be asked to take a label off a Christmas tree that we’d set up in the town centre and then buy an additional present suitable for a child of the age and gender on the label. We would then wrap the presents and deliver them on Christmas Eve to a local children’s home. I found this very difficult, but I persevered and found great pleasure when the (admittedly few) people returned with a gift. From this, I accepted that if I was ever asked to perform a scary or unwelcome task at work, I knew that I could do it and so I became more confident that I would achieve a good outcome. The organisation had an age limit of 40, so as I approached that milestone I left before I was pushed out. Years later, I tried to encourage my graduates to join BJC, but when I contacted the Blackburn branch to come and talk to us, the presenter was so uncharismatic that he failed to recruit anyone. BJC is now no longer a brand but its parent organisation, the Junior Chamber International, is still operational and is still pursuing the same goals.
I continued to accept more opportunities to enhance my personal development both in and out of work. I became a cub leader in 1998 simply because I wanted Laurence to join Cubs. When Laurence was quite young, I approached the local Group Scout leader, but I was told that the group were struggling to find leaders, and without more volunteers, there may not be a cub pack for Laurence to join by the time he was old enough. And that’s all it took to sign me up. I was only there a matter of months when the pack leader (Akela) stood down and I took over. I soon found myself having to talk to the parents (which I found far more challenging than talking to 8-year-old boys) and this helped to build my confidence.
At around the same time my local stately home appealed for people to volunteer as guides, and recognising this as another development opportunity I applied to help. Before I knew it, I was taking fee-paying parties around Hoghton Tower, and I found that I really enjoyed it. Like being a trainer at BJC, since I always knew more than the visitors about the house and its history, I found that I could talk confidently. Another trick I learned was that if I started some of the more controversial stories with “It is alleged that…”, no-one had any come-back. Similarly at work, whilst I disliked speaking up at meetings, I discovered that as long as I fully knew my subject, I was able to contribute with conviction.
I still need to wrestle with my confidence in many situations. I have always hated any type of confrontation (and I still do) and will try hard to avoid any situation which demands it. Another odd side to my character is that I really dislike telephones. Once I have met someone even just a single time, the fear is mostly removed and I’m able to talk on the phone quite normally, but I really have to psyche myself up to make a phone call to a stranger. If they call me, I’m then I’m usually fine which I find very odd and can neither understand nor explain.
I have always been resolutely independent and I hate being beholden to anyone. I dislike asking for favours and will rarely ask anyone for assistance unless it is a last resort. There are things that I know I can’t do (or don’t wish to do) and in those cases, I let the professionals take over, but if there is some DIY task that I can do, I will never ask anyone else for help. It’s just pride, I know, but that’s who I am.
Recently, though, I did have to seek assistance. I had broken my collar bone in a cycling accident and was wearing a sling. I could manage most things, but when the door catch to the lounge failed one day, I was unable to remove it without drilling out a couple of screws from the mechanism. I struggled for quite a while trying to break into the lounge without success. I knew just what needed to be done, but this involved two functioning arms which I didn’t then possess. Geraldine, very aware of my dislike of asking for help, sought my permission before she requested our neighbour, who was formerly a builder, to come to our assistance. He spent perhaps an hour doing exactly what I would have done (and in the same order!) to release the mechanism and refit a new catch. When it was completed, I felt no shame in my incapability and we were delighted to have access to the lounge once more and he was happy to have helped a friend. Significantly, it was Geraldine that had asked for help since she would benefit from the lounge being available once more. If it was just me, I would probably never have acted. This became obvious a couple of weeks later when I had an appointment with the fracture clinic in Chorley, four miles away. Geraldine was working and I still wasn’t allowed to drive so I decided to walk there and back. On the day, however, it was raining heavily and I got absolutely soaked. My stubbornness wouldn’t let me ask anyone for a lift even though three people had previously offered their services whilst I was incapacitated.
In a similar way, I was once very proud to say everything I owned, I’d paid for myself and that no-one had helped me financially throughout my life. If I’ve borrowed any money, I’ve always paid it back and I’ve never been given financial gifts. (I’m excluding any inheritances that I have received, mainly because these only arrived later in my life when I didn’t really need them). I now understand that things are never so simple. I was very fortunate to have been born into a stable family and my parents never split up and continued to love me and provide support throughout my young life. Other people may never have had such an advantage. I was born privileged and I now accept this. I could never have achieved what I have without many people who have encouraged me along the way and provided help at every turn sometimes in intangible ways. I can now recognise and appreciate the many serendipitous times that I found myself in the right place at the right time to give me the necessary push I needed to see me through life.
I sometimes feel that I could (and indeed, should) have made more of my life advantages, but that said, I have never really had much ambition. I was very happy living from day to day, accepting whatever life threw at me. This only changed when I got a mortgage when the worry of what I stood to lose focused my mind like never before. I read once that Albert Einstein gave the following advice to a messenger boy, “A quiet and modest life brings more joy than a pursuit of success bound with constant unrest.” I felt that I could relate to that. I was very happy to aim for a life of respectable obscurity.