Gone...

The General lived out Crawley way in a big modern house. After he’d left the car magazine he got a job as Editor of a fishing magazine called Fly. This is the thing most people don’t understand about journalists. If you can write and if you can learn to be an Editor then you can be Editor of just about anything. In my time I’ve run motoring magazines, electrical industry magazines and even a magazine about concrete. I once considered a job as Editor of a magazine called Abattoir Week but you know, even I have my limits.
The General was not only a good Editor he was also quite possibly the most pompous, most arrogant Englishman I’ve ever known. This is a good thing; good Editors have to have some character, and sometimes they are even nutters. This is how it should be.
Let’s face it, time was when mavericks, characters, personalities, you might even say eccentrics, enlivened the workplace, indeed enlivened the world, and not only that, they had creativity, they got things done, they invented things, they painted works of art that made us think, they wrote stories they weren't afraid to have aired. They spoke out, they argued, they shouted, they stamped their feet, they shook their fists, they used colourful language (swearing, I mean) and they made us laugh and they made us think.
Today, if you want to be a garbo and chuck people's rubbish in a truck you now have to do a personality test. If you want to work as a cleaner at an accountants in the city you have to be psycho-analysed before getting the job. I mean, honestly, what's that all about?
As it happens, I myself had to do one of those tests for a job I went for about a year ago. It was one of the newer on-line tests and because I'm absolutely crap at maths I got my friend George to come along and hop into the chair when the numbers bit came up. My logic was he must be good at adding up and stuff like that because he owns a fruit and veg shop so he’s constantly weighing and calculating the price of a bushel of bananas, or whatever they use these days in the grocery trade.
George jumped into the chair and looked at the screen and squinted and then looked at me and said, "There's no mention of plums or radish."
"Why would there be?" I asked, getting a bit nervous and wondering whether I too should have subjected George to a test before I handed him the controls of my future.
"How much do you want this job?" he asked me with a frown.
I looked at him. "You want another beer?"
George scratched his chin and said, "Yeah, might as well. Anyway, New Zealand is a fuck of a cold place. You don't want to go there."
Historically, to be argumentative meant to be intelligent, to be engaging in some sort of Socratic quest for the truth, to have a point of view meant you had something to say, something to contribute.
Today, there’s too much emphasis on employing people who aren’t likely to rock the boat. Well, you get what you pay for and if you’re a publisher and you take on some boring fart who’s going to do everything you want them to do then you’re going to get a boring fart magazine or web site. It’s just my opinion of course, but go on, try it out and see what happens.
Funny thing is, while I’d never say The General was one of my friends I respected him for being pompous, outspoken and a real character. Sometimes he made me laugh, even if sometimes I laughed out of embarrassment, but still, I laughed, and that’s always a good thing.
Workwise our paths had crossed several times and he was always one to tell you about the value of networking, so he always kept in touch. He was also one of those people who loved it when people went to him for advice. He’d sit back in his vast leather chair, hands clasped over his bulging stomach like he was some medieval cardinal considering a request from a supplicant. He’d think long and hard and stare at the ceiling for long periods in silence. Sometimes you thought he was about to say something because he’d bring his eyes down off the ceiling and look hard at you. But then the moment would pass and the eyes would roll back up again. This could go on for an hour or so before anything came of it.
Because I knew the General loved to dispense advice, I arranged to see him.
I turned up in the Lotus and he came out of his front door as I awkwardly clambered out of the car.
The Lotus is a chiropractor’s dream. Buy one and you will require his services until the day you die. It is quite simply one of those cars that are so difficult to get in and out of that you fear one day you will remain stuck inside. It would only take a small pulled muscle somewhere in your back to ensure that you were stuck helpless until someone came along with a pair of heavy duty cutting tools, a crane and a harness to hoike you out. When I say someone, I’m talking about the Fire Brigade. It’s definitely a task that would require professionals.
“So, I see you have acquired one of the infamous collector’s cars,”  The General said with dripping pomposity.
“Yes,” I said, massaging my lover back and attempting to stand straight again, which I eventually managed.
“Y’know they call them collector’s cars because -”
“I know,” I interrupted, “because you have to keep stopping to collect all the pieces that’ve fallen off. It’s an old joke.”
“Hurrumph,” said The General.
His house had the feel of a spotless, minimal military museum. You’d expect to turn a corner and see a Chieftain tank sitting there all alone in a white room. If you push him - well just gently nudge him actually - he’ll talk about his army days, telling you he was in some clandestine unit that operated behind enemy lines and that he can’t tell you much more than that or he’d have to kill you. He can’t tell you much more than that because there isn’t much more. In fact, there’s nothing at all. He was in the Territorial Army, the British Army reserve, where he went to play soldiers one weekend a month with a load of other middle-aged dreamers. He tells you he went to Sandhurst, but neglects to mention that it was not the army officer selection and training centre he visited. When he says he went to Sandhurst he means he went shopping at Marks & Spencers. Maybe Asda, I don’t know, but it was not the place where they turn out snobby officers, that’s for sure. I know because I checked and they had never heard of him.
Now, you could surmise that it was all part of the cloak and dagger clandestine stuff. “Some chap on the phone enquiring about The General.”
“Oh yes?” the other one would say softly, the one who looked like George Smiley, “well, tell him we’ve never heard of such a person. And one other thing Bill, put a trace on his phone and get Cartwright over there quick sharp in one of the Transit vans.”
They might have said all that, but more likely what they said was true, “sorry, can’t help you, never had a chap of that name here.”
Anyway, that’s his business, though one day it will probably come back to haunt him and one day he’ll probably have to admit that he only went to Sandhurst to buy underwear. Never mind, I didn’t go to visit him to blow his cover and I didn’t go to talk about fishing, or to discuss the merits of particular cars. No, The General had something that I wanted, something that I needed, and when I made my excuses and visited his toilet I went and got it. He’d shown it to me once, so I knew where to look.
A little later as I said my goodbyes and reassumed the Lotus position, The General slapped his hand twice on the roof and I smiled tightly at him and said, “Careful old chap.”
“Of course, sorry. Might damage something. See you soon Biffo.”
I have no idea where the Biffo thing came from. Must have been something to do with the army. That’s the Territorial Army, you understand.

to be continued...