WEEKEND BREAK (16)

ALARMING SEPARATION FROM MY CLOSEST FRIEND

 

Funny thing, this superstition business.  (Did I say Cornish superstition?)

 

For almost 60 years now, I have had with me, in my pocket, Zimba The Zam Bug From Zennor.  

 

 He’s a cute little Cornish pixie affixed to a metal base, and in between the two is, or was, a tiny drop of lucky water taken (or so my father told me) from the Madron Wishing Well.  This well has long been revered for its magical and healing powers.

 

My Dad, Don Truscott RIP (he of the two-letters-published-in-the-Daily-Telegraph variety) gave it to me in the summer of 1966, as a good luck charm for my GCE O Level exams.  (The “zam bug,” you see?)  

 

It did the trick – I got the results I needed – and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

 

Until this week, that is.

 

I was all set to go out for a walk.  Just needed to pat my trouser pocket to make sure Zimba was still with me – and he wasn’t!

 

I searched high and low, with no joy, and the horrible, stark realisation dawned on me – I’m ashamed to say I was actually scared to go out without him.  No exaggeration.  

 

I never thought I could be so superstitious – but the unavoidable truth was that I didn’t dare leave the house until I found him again.

 

Which I eventually did, thank goodness, after tracing my steps and actions goodness only knows how many times.

 

A great pal of mine, Colin Edwards RIP, once advised: “You know what, Mike.  Let’s imagine for a moment that you did lose Zimba.   If you thought that would change your luck, it would . . . if you didn’t, it wouldn’t!”

 

Well, I tried that, too, this week, without success.  So clearly there is more work to be done!

 

 

(UN)SHIFTING SANDS

 

Old salts along Falmouth seafront are starting to wonder whether this really is the year when the sand will not return to Castle Beach. 

 

There’s still no sign of it after a prolonged run of easterlies and, who knows, it may be some time now before we get a good westerly gale or two to redistribute the sand that has been dumped to the west of the beach.

 

Steve Richardson, one of the Castle Beach hut occupants, has ironically been driven to swimming at Gylly.

 

As he pointed out during my walk this morning, there are rocks currently four or five feet high along the Castle shoreline that normally wouldn’t be showing at all beneath the sand.

 

Neither he nor I, being fellow members of the Old Salts Club, can recall a precedent for the non-return of the sand.

 

Perhaps there is indeed a first time for everything . . .    

 

 

NO HOLDING THE OLD HACKS

 

Old habits die hard, or in some cases not at all . . . 

 

I was lunching at Falmouth’s Greenbank Hotel the other week when, tragically, a man lost his life in a nearby cliff fall accident.

 

Although I had no idea at the time what actually was happening, I could see a flurry of activity with the arrival of the air ambulance, road ambulance, coastguards and police.

 

In between my starter and mains, then, I couldn’t resist the temptation to reach for my mobile and, as the newspaper’s one-time chief reporter, tip off the Falmouth Packet about it.

 

Now I learn that I wasn’t the only ex-Packet man doing just that.  Across the water, from his Flushing home, retired editor John Marquis was also watching the drama unfold . . . and also telling the Packet pronto.

 

As another former Packet editor, Ken Thompson RIP, who was a big influence in both our early careers, used to say: “Your journalistic instincts never desert you. Even after all these years, I still get excited when there’s a strong story about.”

 

 

TABLES TURNED

 

Endlessly fascinating, the way things can turn out in life . . .

 

I first got to know Colin Edwards (see first piece above) when he enrolled on my New Dimension PR Service in 1997.

 

This ran for five years or so and was essentially a home study course for prospective PR practitioners, i.e. potential clones of myself, hah.

 

Colin never completed the course, but he did succeed in turning the tables in spectacular style, by teaching me a great deal about sales and marketing techniques.

 

The things I learnt from him enabled me to create my most successful-ever website and in turn by far my most rewarding business venture, Golden Replay Biographies.

 

On a more personal level, both directly and through various pointers, he also taught me much about positive thinking and, I’ll swear, put at least ten more years on my life.

 

Talk about student turning teacher.

 

Thank you so much, Colin RIP.

 

 

STARMERGRAMMAR

 

Commenting the other week on the alarming decline in our powers of expression, I cited one-time deputy prime minister (oh brother!) John Prescott as an outstanding case in the mangled-English stakes.

 

Now it seems we can go one better among our present-day “leaders” with an outstanding contribution from none other than prime minister Sir Keir Starmer.

 

Try this for size, from a GB News interview:

 

“What now we want to do and are having discussions of, talks of, is return hubs which is where someone has been through the system in the UK, they need to be returned and we have to make sure they’re returned effectively and we’ll do that, if we can, through return hubs.”

 

For good measure, he added:

 

“By putting it all together – arrests, seizures, agreements with other countries, returning people who shouldn’t be here, and return hubs, if we can through these talks to add to our armoury, will allow us to bear down on this vile trade and to make sure that we stop those people crossing the Channel.”

 

Phew!  Borderline gibberish, I’d say (putting it kindly). 

 

 

NO TEARS, PLEASE, WE’RE WEALTHY

 

Superstar Kevin de Bruyne, who is expected to play his last match for Manchester City on Sunday, is set to miss the Club World Cup next month because of the injury risk that could jeopardise a contract elsewhere.

 

“I have to take care of myself because if I get injured in the Club World Cup (playing for City and not yet signed up with a new club) what am I going to do? Nobody’s going to take care of me at that point.”

 

Perish the thought, but isn’t it just possible that he might find the wherewithal to pay for any treatment out of his own pocket . . . you know, bearing in mind that his reported basic salary for the last two seasons or so has been around £400,000 a week?  

WEEKEND BREAK (13)

HATS OFF TO THE NEW ME?

 

They just knew I would never dare wear it in public.

 

Or so they thought . . . 

 

Daughter Lisa and hubby Greg (Helm de Vegas to the music world) were creasing themselves with laughter when they gave me their gift from their travels in South Africa and Namibia. 

 

Just so not me, and all that.

 

But I proved them wrong.

 

Admittedly, I gave it its debut at crack of dawn, and on a specially chosen route away from my normal territory.

 

Served me right, I suppose.  I still got caught twice, from a couple of people I don’t normally bump into, and in double quick time.

 

First of all, I could not avoid Lucien Trathen, former Falmouth Golf Club captain, on a narrow footpath. He gleefully suggested the name “Pearly King” for me and then tried to take a photo, but I ran a mile. 

 

Then it was the turn of Sioned Parry-Rudlin, director at the Merchants Manor Hotel, and this time I succumbed.

 

I guess I could get used to it, and the born-again cool-youthful MT could be here to stay.  Or then again my pearly hat may have gathered an awful lot of dust a year from now.  Only time will tell . . . 

 

 

PAIR’S CORNISH SPORT DREAM A STEP NEARER REALITY

 

Among all those witnessing Cornish sporting history being made on an epic scale last Saturday – all 3,597 of them – there were two men who started it all off just over 20 years ago. 

 

Chris Webb could have had no idea of just how much lay in store when he called in on spec at Kevin Heaney’s business offices, seeking sponsorship for Truro City in 2004.

 

Chris, a former City player himself and then its youth development officer, had no idea that Kevin had been a season ticket holder at Tottenham Hotspur since 1979 and was, in his own words, “a football fanatic.”

 

To adapt that old Victor Kiam advertising line, he liked the club so much that he bought it.

 

More to the point, the wealthy property developer rescued the club from oblivion and, in three short years, took its first team to the magic of a Wembley cup final, becoming the first Cornish club to win the FA Vase.

 

That was the Truro City Revolution Mark 1, if you like. Kevin made no secret of his ambition to take the club right up through the tiers and just possibly into the big time in the Football League itself. There was no shortage of scoffers at that!

 

And it was to remain a dream, or at least for a good few years.  In the meantime, the club reached its level of the past season but then, sadly, it all turned sour once more.

 

Talk about full circle:  City came literally within hours of extinction in 2012 before being rescued again, this time by local businessmen Peter Masters and Phillip Perryman.

 

Two more changes of ownership later and, as of last Saturday, Truro became the first Cornish club ever to reach the National League premier division.

 

That puts them just one step away from that Holy Grail of the Football League itself and – think about it – tantalisingly close to level-pegging with Plymouth Argyle if the two clubs continue in their present directions!!

 

It was all made that much more possible by Truro’s 5-2 thrashing of St Albans City on Saturday that confirmed them as champions, and with that club record attendance joyously celebrating Revolution Mark 2 under its new figurehead, Eric Perez chairman and CEO.

 

And no-one was more thrilled by it all than Kevin and Webby, who hugged each other for all they were worth each time a Truro goal flew in.

 

As the late great Jimmy Hill used to say: “It was good to see that.”

 

Or how about Sir Matt Busby’s famous aphorism: “Aim for the sky and you can reach the ceiling; aim for the ceiling and you won’t leave the ground.”

 

Well, with the aid of their handsome new ground, soaraway City emphatically have left the ground! Time indeed, perhaps, to resurrect Kevin’s motto during his own years at the Truro helm: “Never say never!”

 

 

SUE’S SURREAL PHONE EXPERIENCE

 

It’s been good to catch up this week with Cornish PR guru Sue Bradbury, who this year is celebrating the 25^th anniversary of her namesake agency.

 

There was some talk of semi-retirement a few years ago, but that’s clearly got nowhere and she’s currently as busy as ever.

 

Add in two previous spells as PR Officer at RNAS Culdrose, plus a stint as head of PR for the University of Plymouth, and I think it can safely be said that she’s “seen it all” in her business world.

 

As she once told Business Cornwall magazine, one of the biggest changes she’s witnessed has been in the day-to-day working routine, viz:

 

“The phone (at Culdrose) never seemed to stop ringing . . . making and receiving calls was the way I got things done.

 

“When there was a search and rescue going on, I could spend endless hours answering calls from across the world whilst also keeping myself updated on what was happening.

 

“That led to a very surreal moment. I was bleeped at home with news of yet another big story and, in the ensuing journalistic scramble for information, ended up being interviewed live on one of the main national news channels.

 

“My television was on at the time, so I could see the presenter picking up his phone, knowing that it was me on the end of the line!

 

“ . . . There are no phones visible on a newscaster’s desk now – just a computer – and instead of talking to people all day long most of us are glued to a screen tapping out message after message!”

 

BALANCE RESTORED

 

Ten years ago (blimey!), I let rip here against a Mousehole establishment* which, as I put it, let the Cornish tourist industry down big-time.

 

At the end of a long walk, I was all primed and ready for a lovely coffee and cake.

 

The reality was not especially marvellous coffee and, more disappointingly, ****-poor service on the part of two young members of staff who wore soulless expressions and were hopelessly lacking in  communicational skills.

 

In the interests of balance and fairness, therefore, let me just record here the stark contrast I experienced when I returned to that picturesque village after another long walk this morning.

 

My destination this time was the No 1 Fore Street Restaurant, which was everything the above-mentioned place was not.

 

Not only was it the best coffee I had tasted for some time – it was even piping hot, for goodness sake, and the cake was good, too – but it was also served up by a young lady with a warm, welcoming smile and brimful of personality.

 

She was a credit to Mousehole, no less. And it was all so good that I even left her a fat tip. (Phew!)

 

*  And, not least for those readers who I know would like me to indulge in my little Cornish word pictures a bit more often, here’s that post from ten years ago all over again:--

 

THE COFFEE MOMENT THAT LET DOWN CORNWALL

 

At the start of my near-30 years of working with and for Cornwall’s tourism industry, one of my earliest mentors was prominent Falmouth hotelier Malcolm Pavitt, who had a big sign in all his bedrooms saying:  “YOU are the most important person in this hotel.”

 

Provided the reality matched the message, which it did, then there was no better way of getting across to guests that they really were warmly welcome and their custom highly valued. 

 

I was reminded of that message one day last week when I treated myself to a “day off” (has its benefits, this retirement thing!) and headed west to Penzance.

 

I let the train take the strain – so much more relaxing than motoring – and then walked for the next hour along Penzance promenade, through Newlyn and out to Mousehole.

 

It was one of those rare perfect days (well, almost, as you will see).  We were still enjoying our mini-Indian summer, albeit with a strong easterly wind to make the prom part of my walk truly bracing.  Mounts Bay, and the Mount itself, looked glorious in the autumnal sunshine.

 

Newlyn was its usual cluster of trawlers and all things fishy and Cornish, and the coastal walk out to Mousehole was, as ever, a delight.  

 

As I approached that delightful little picturesque village, I had set myself up perfectly for a cup of hot strong coffee and something tasty to go with it, along with my morning newspaper. 

 

I “recced” the village in search of what seemed like the best place to settle . . .  the one that ticked all my boxes.

 

Well, I won’t name and shame my choice.  Let’s just say that, from the gushing do-come-in messages prominently displayed outside, it did seem to offer the lot.

 

In the event, there was just one thing missing.  And, unlike the small fortune it must have cost to create and promote all that this place had to offer, it wouldn’t have cost a single penny to supply.

 

You see, for all that Cornwall’s tourism is a multi-million-pound service industry operating in an intensely competitive international market place, this particular establishment was letting the side down. 

 

I made for the bar to order my coffee and flapjack – and to my amazement and intense disappointment encountered a smile-free zone with zero personality/”social skills.”  Just blank stares and a bare minimum of words.  

 

Not one single SMILE – nothing to convey the message that they did indeed welcome me and value my custom. 

 

Surely it’s not rocket science, is it?  Surely staff training should start with the most elementary, compulsory and important requirement of all - for Heaven's sake, SMILE.   

 

For ten very happy years, I was the PR man for Cairns Boston, when he was managing director at Land’s End and chairman of South West Tourism, among many other tourism bodies. 

 

No-one preached and practised the service gospel more passionately and effectively than he did, and one of his mantras was:  Cornish tourism is only as strong as its weakest link.  

 

It would take just one “weak link”, as per my Mousehole experience, to perhaps make all the difference to the prospects of a visitor returning to Cornwall in future years and spreading the good word in the meantime.

 

Mind you, last week’s smile-free encounter was as naught compared with the time I went into a garage and saw a sign in the reception area, addressed to its staff, which basically said (can’t remember the exact words now):  “Remember – the customer is key and PAYS YOUR WAGES!”

 

I had to laugh (eventually) because I had to wait several minutes before any kind of attention.  As I did so, I could see, through the glass partitions, a group of employees huddled round a table in deep discussion.

 

I made some kind of uncomplimentary remark when I was eventually “served,” to which Andy Capp, with no trace of humour or irony, replied:  “No need to be funny, mate, we were having a union meeting!”

 

To which I guess an appropriate response, if only I’d had my wits about me, might well have been:  “Oh brother!”