I never had any clear idea about a career that I might follow. My father implied rather than stated that he didn't think I had the makings of a surgeon, which was his profession. For many years I thought this might be because he felt I wouldn't have the emotional detachment required or, perhaps, the physical skills. I now think he recognised that I didn't have the 'stickability' that it takes to become a consultant surgeon. I once saw a log book he kept of his operations as junior doctor and the sheer number was staggering. He was, of course, right.

 

 In some ways I regret this, as I would have enjoyed the fine cutting and sewing and I don't really have a problem with the more gritty aspects that the job might have entailed. I'd like to think that my comfort with working with parents to photograph their dead new-born infants comes from some gene I inherited from Dad.

 

Because I was good at English in school, the idea was floated that journalism might be a suitable career. And, of course, there was my foray into magazine publishing at the age of 14. 

 

I decided to start a magazine called 'The Monthly Courier". I felt a monthly publication would not interfere too much with my homework. I scrounged a machine called, eponymously, a 'Gestetner'. Before the days of photocopiers, these were what most offices employed to print multiple copies of documents. I won't explain how it works as Google will do that better than me. Deciding that the first issue needed a bit of an 'exclusive', I hit on the idea of writing to the president of Ireland requesting an interview. Somewhere, in a box of memorabilia, I have the reply. His aide wrote that due to the pressure of his schedule, the President wasn't able to 'accede' to my request. I had to look that word up. Given that the man was, I believe, well into his 80's I can now understand his polite refusal. But, at the time, it hurt.

 

The magazine is now something of a collector's item as only 20 copies were printed and after President DeValera's rejection I sort of lost heart and publication ceased. I think my parents were quite relieved as this made more time available for homework.

 

On a totally unrelated note, I also kept a rejection letter for a summer job with the gloriously named "Pigs and Bacon Commission". It was signed by 'Graham Crisp". You can't make that stuff up.

 

As the end of university loomed, the need to think seriously about employment began to press down. In those days there was a phenomenon called 'the milk round'. Employers would send recruiters to universities to recruit their next cadre of management trainees. If you passed the initial interview you were invited for a more 'in depth' grilling.

 

I was desperate to work in the media and the BBC was the most prestigious job to get. Sadly, they had a reputation of only interviewing candidates from posh schools with double barrelled names. I had neither qualification so that was the end of that.

 

I did, however, score an interview with Cadbury Schweppes, as it was then known. Even better, they were looking to recruit someone to their 'media' department. I had no idea what that might entail but it involved close contact with advertising agencies. Short of working for The Beatles that was as glamorous as it got in the 70's. 

 

I passed a three day selection process and was told to report for duty in Bournville, Birmingham several months later. I joined an office of three managers and three secretaries. My boss was called the 'Media Controller'. His job was to monitor the value Cadbury's got from their advertising spend. This was actually quite a technical job as it involved everything from calculating how many times an ad was seen by a target group to how much it cost to reach 1000 viewers. In other words, it required a modicum of mathematical intelligence. This was something I did not have in abundance and which, curiously, they had never tested in my three day selection ordeal.

 

Alan, my boss, was frightengly good at all the mathematical stuff so things were looking a bit shaky from the get go. You have to remember this was before the days of computers and spread sheets. You had to do a lot of stuff in your head.

 

Alan's boss was called Basil. I never really found out what Basil did. He disappeared off to London to meet with senior ad agency executives and when he was in the office he was on the phone to Cadbury board members arranging endless meetings. I suspect he was just there to explain what Alan did to the higher ups.

 

The third manager was called Martin. He was actually Cadbury's public relations manager. In reality, this involved replying to angry people claiming to have found metal in their chocolate who expected several free bars of chocolate in return. It was much easier to keep sending out the chocolate than dispute their barely credible accounts. He was an urbane gentleman who had the air of an old Etonian and who always wore waistcoats. From time to time he would emerge from his office with a smile waving a letter which was a bit more interesting than usual. My favourite was from an irate farmer who had leased a field for the construction of a set for the James Bond themed commercials for Milk Tray. The production company had built a road and hump back bridge for the Aston Martin to do some stunt on. The farmer's irate message informed Martin that nobody had come to remove the road and he was left with an abandoned film set where there should have been cows.

 

Cadbury's was, at that time, the second biggest spender on TV advertising in the UK. This meant that ad agencies treated even the most low in the hierarchy with deference. The account was worth millions to them and the company employed about five major agencies across the range of products. Christmas was when they showed their gratitude for the large amount of money that flowed into their coffers. I had been warned by my boss to be careful in accepting invitations to 'Christmas' lunches. On my very first one, I realised why. 

 

The whole affair is best summed up by the fact that about half way through lunch I had to start emptying my glass into a potted plant just behind my chair. I remember doing this several times so imagine the plant didn't survive too long afterwards. As it this were not enough, my two hosts then bundled me into a taxi and announced we were off to the Playboy Club for more drinks.

 

The enormity of the faux pas they were about to commit must have pierced through their alcoholic haze because when the taxi arrived at the club they both disappeared for several minutes and returned to announce that the Playboy club was full at 3pm on a weekday.

 

You have to understand that Cadbury's was, at the time, imbued to the core with Quaker principles and was deeply conservative. Had my bosses found out that one of their underlings had been abducted by two drunk advertising agency employees and plunged into a den of iniquity, there would have been severe consequences. 

 

My hosts deposited me outside Euston station to get my train back to sober Bournville and sped back the way they had come. I suspect they may have gone back to the Playboy Club just to check if it was still full