Compassion

The Waterford Wedgewood factory in Kilbarry, Co. Waterford in Ireland, is to shut down.

Some 480 of the plant's workers were told they would lose their jobs by receiver Deloitte Ireland. According to the UK's Telegraph (as well as Sky News and others), the news was received by the workers in a text message.

Hang on. WTF?

Yup. The receiver sent a text. I wonder what it said? 'Could all those with jobs please take one step forward? Where are you going, mate?' or perhaps, 'For you, Paddy, ze work is over.' or maybe, 'Now lads, look here, dere's no point beatin' about de bush. Ye's laid off good an' proper and there's not a ting ye can do about it, like.'?

The workers have occupied the plant in protest and scuffles broke out yesterday with private security guards.

One commentator on the Sky News website put it quite nicely: "I'm disgusted and sickened to see how the workers were treated. It was such a sneaky and underhand way to treat people. The tv coverage of the security guards using such force bashing a worker's head through the toughened glass doors that the glass broke while another security guard tried to block the tv camera from showing it was sickening to watch."

The irony of smacking a redundant glass blower's head through a window is considerable.

I have been through a company receivership: many years ago, the first publishing company I ever worked for went bust. The memory of the scrubbed, shiny and self-satisfied face of the receiver poking out of his too-small collar as he smugly talked down to us all is still with me. I still have the cheque from the Royal Bank of Scotland for £0.69 in full settlement of my £800 outstanding expenses bill at the time of the closure.

But at least the bastard couldn't dismiss us all by text message. A new generation of bastards can, though. The very people that are behind the problem, that are clapping themselves on the back with $18.4 billion in bonuses as they ask for $700 billion to bail out the sector, are the people cutting off credit lines, winding up companies and clamping down on outstandings. Gulf News (700g) reports Obama's excellent reaction to the bonus news, BTW.

They have learned nothing from this and likely will learn nothing. Because the pain is being felt by other people.

I'd like to think that companies like Deloitte will be held accountable for their lack of respect and compassion. I suspect that I am being naive, but leave me to my naivete. Strangely, I take comfort from it.

Spies

Ladies and gentlemen, I can reveal this for the first time: the ugly face of modern industrial espionage in the Middle East. It's going on all around you and yet you barely know about it, cushioned as you are from the harsh realities of life at the hard end of commercial enterprise.

As you will know, the London Irish are out on their hols, carrying with them The Niece From Hell. We decided to take a yomp up to Carrefour in Ajman to pick up a few bits and pieces when we were stopped, to our immense surprise, by security on our way in. Now, we know that Carrefour is funny about taking bags into their shop but none of us was carrying a bag beyond a ladies' handbag. None of us was wearing a stripey sweater and eye mask and a quick check of the party also ascertained that none of us was sporting a balaclava and sawn-off shotgun.

But one of us was *gasp* carrying a camera.

"Not allowed, this!" said the man from security.

"Why not?" we asked.

"Security," said the man from security with the certitude that only comes when people are given clipboards and flat-top hats with shiny peaky bits.

And then, I have to confess, the red mist descended. "What security? Are we threatening the lives of other shoppers? Do you think we'll be taking snaps of the joint so's we can guide in the 747's?" I asked, with some asperity and, given the times in which we live, probably unwisely.

In a trice it got twisted. About ten other men in epaulettes appeared from nowhere and stood around. A more senior person arrived. He was wearing a stripey tie. So we knew he was the real thing.

"It is not allowed, this," he told us, clarifying the matter.

"Why?" I asked, because by now I was keenly and gleefully committed to being an asshole. "Because you are hiding something? Your prices are fixed? Your goods are smuggled? Perhaps you are selling illegal things? You are breaking regulations? What are you hiding, please?"

"It is because of our policy, sir," he stated with a nervous giggle. "It is a problem with competitors, taking these pictures. They come and they take pictures. For competition."

And then, taking advantage of my open-mouthed silence, he smiled and, in a spirit of conciliation, he swiftly heat-sealed a plastic bag around the offending Canon 450D (IMHO a truly great camera, BTW) and allowed us to continue on our way, espionage threat averted and the free world saved - at least for the moment.

For the record, I took the above photo of the secured, no longer offending, item of photographic equipment using my 2 Megapixel camera phone...

Sky

The Sky News team is in Dubai for the week, which was why Sarah and I sat open-mouthed watching the box last night as anchor man and long-time respected broadcaster Jeremy Thompson extolled the virtues of this global downturn-beating economic miracle, this city of iconic developments, this miraculous, visionary place with the 'go for it' attitude.

The tallest tower, the biggest mall, the most expensive firework display and, of course, the Palms all came in for a mention. It was odd to see them talking about de old place like dat!

Welcome, Jeremy and team. We look forward to a week of insights and revelatory reporting that gets beneath the microns of goldy paint to give us all a better understanding of what makes the Shiny tick.

(A shiny tick to me, a buffed parasite to you)

Dubai

“Hello. I want to get a refund on this Shiny.”
“We don’t give refunds.”
“Well, I want one. It’s no good.”
“No good? What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not shiny anymore. It was just painted with an incredibly thin layer of shiny stuff. It’s all dull underneath and my kids have become ill playing with it.”
“We never told you it was shiny all the way through!”
“You said it was iconic and dared me to dream of a new future.”
“That was our advertising agency. They made us say that.”
“You didn’t mean it?”
“Yes! No. Well, we meant it at the time.”
“At the time you painted this Shiny with a thin layer of cheap paint that you knew would wear off.”
“Well, yes. But we didn’t make you buy it.”
“You promised it would stay Shiny!”
“We didn’t! We just showed you what it would be like if it stayed Shiny!”
“You didn’t tell me it wouldn’t stay shiny and that it would make my family ill. And you didn’t tell me I’d have to pay lots of extra money every year, either.”
“You didn’t ask. Anyway, nobody else is complaining!”
“What about all the people holding broken Shinys in the queue behind me?”
“They’re not complaining. They’re queuing for identity cards.”
“I want a refund.”
“Look. If you promise to shut up about your damn Shiny and causing trouble with the people behind you, we’ll re-spray your Shiny.”
“But it’ll just wear off again!”
“No it won’t. We’ve got a new type of paint. It stays Shiny for ever.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“How can I trust you?”
“We’ve got a regulator now. We were a free market laissez faire economy before. Now we’re a regulated market. You can trust us.”
“Oh, OK then. I’ll go for the respray.”
“Cool. Great. When do you want to give us your kidney?”
“My kidney?”
“Sure.”
“But why should I give you my kidney?”
“Well, dah, numbnut! You didn’t think Shiny resprays were free did you?”
“But you just said you’d respray my Shiny if I didn’t make trouble!”
“We changed our mind on account of the global recession.”

Vickie

When we originally left the UK for the Gulf, we had to sell our car. Back then, at the dawn of time itself, things at work had been a tad stressy: Saddam’s invasion of Kuwait had brought business in the Middle East to a grinding halt and that meant a great deal of corporate belt tightening – which had included giving back the shiny company MR2 T-Bar and getting my own car. Having been warned by Sarah that I could come back from the dealer driving anything I liked as long as it wasn't a Volkswagen Polo, I duly arrived home in a Volkswagen Polo.

Green with beige velour seats, equipped with manual brakes (it took three miles to stop from a 30mph start) and generally crap, it was soon clear that the Polo was a nono and would have to gogo. The ensuing search was a long one, but we finally ended up with a stunning car: a Renault 5 Monaco. A limited edition ‘hot hatch’ with leather seats, a powerful injected engine and electric everything, all the Monacos were brown with a gold speed stripe. But golly did that car move – and it held to the road like glue, too. It was about as fast as a GT Turbo but without all the insurance overhead, fun to drive and just plain peachy.

But we had to sell it to move out East and so duly put an advert in Exchange and Mart. Sure enough, the calls came in, including one chap calling from the East End of London: the Isle of Dogs to be precise. He was going to travel up to us in Hitchin (an hours' journey at least) and take a look at ‘ver motor’.

The day arrived and he turned up with his fiancée Vickie in tow. They walked around the car, poked around in it and generally started the whole slam the doors and kick the wheels thing. But then Vickie retired, looking sulky. Whatever-his-name-was continued to do the What Car 25 Point Inspection Routine, but it was clear that there was trouble in Paradise. He eventually went over to Vickie and they had a conflab. And then he came over to us and uttered these immortal words.

“It’s brahn.”

Both he and Vickie had that full-on East Enders meets Del Boy accent that uses the full stop as an invitation to sort of tail off the sentence on a long, limp downward cadence. You know, ‘Braaahhhhnnn.”

I was shocked, to say the least. The Isle of Dogs to Hitchin is a considerable schlep and the advertisement had clearly stated ‘Renault 5 Monaco, brown’. All Renault 5 Monacos had this in common, a version of the Henry T Ford promise: you can have the car in any colour you like, as long as it’s brown. Monacos were to brown what Kate Bush was to sex.

I might have revealed too much there. Onwards.

“We said it was brown in the advertisement!” I managed to gasp.

“Yeah,” he said. And then, morosely: “But Vickie don’t like brahn.”

That was 15 years ago. Ever since, we have both made each other laugh time after time when anything brown comes into our lives. It’s a joke that has run and run: “Vickie don’t like brahn.’

Yes, perhaps we are simple minded, but there it is.

Something struck me this morning as we passed, laughing, a new house that a local gentleman is building on our route to work and has, for some bizarre reason, clad in precisely the same shade of brown as the inside of a Crunchie bar.

I’ve never had the chance to thank Vickie for the years of smiles and laughter she gave us that day...