In the mid 80s I was in my first languages graduate job as a green and completely untrained export representative for a huge, badly managed company in east London. They caught the Paris sales manager stealing so they sacked him. "Oh, you speak French don't you?" they asked. "You can go and be the new sales manager in Paris - how would you like that?" A great basis for a significant overseas appointment, eh?
Anyway the day came and I was to go to Paris with two extremely senior colleagues, one of whom we had recruited after retirement from his management job in a worldwide megacorp, to help open doors and get us accredited as a supplier to the megacorp. We were to do a major presentation to the chief buyer in the Champs Elysées, they would fly home and I would stay and pick up the reins and show the Frenchies how to do it.
We checked into our hotel just off the Champs Elysées and went out for a slap up dinner at a top Paris restaurant, getting thoroughly sloshed on expenses. Staggering back up the avenue we nipped into a bar for a nightcap where we got in with a Dutch guy who had several very glamorous girls with him. They persuaded us to come on to the Pink Pussycat Club, which was down some stairs in a side street. One thing led to another and packets of ciggies for the girls, bottles of Scotch and Champagne kept appearing on our table as we got steadily paralytic while watching some strip act. The two senior guys thought I had everything in control and I thought they did.
Through my alcoholic stupour, the room spinning upwards, I realised that the Dutch guy was leaning over and whispering something in my ear: "You'd better be careful - you don't realise how much all this is costing you!" I suddenly twigged, asked for the bill and and sent my colleagues to get their coats. The bill was something like £1,200, this was in 1985. I told the waiters I refused to pay and anyway, where were the prices? Somebody reached behind a sofa and produced a cardboard box lid with some prices scrawled on it in felt pen. I still refused to pay and suddenly I found myself surrounded by five French guys in DJs who took my glasses off me and started kicking my shins, out of sight of the other drinkers. My mouth was bone dry with fear but one of the heavies seemed ready to discuss it so we haggled, and I got it down to £290, which I paid on my personal Visa card and I got my specs back. As we staggered up the stairs we were pursued by the girls shouting that we owed them money so my colleagues threw some Francs at them and we scarpered. My kicked shins were bruised and cut and blood was stuck to my socks.
I fell into bed absolutely slaughtered at 3.00 and had to get up at 6.00 to be ready for the meeting. We staggered down the avenue to Megacorp where the chief buyer, who had a heavy cold, had come in specially to receive our visit. He must have smelled the alcohol as we were all still drunk. After the meeting my colleagues took a taxi back to the airport and I went to our office to introduce myself. I had to sit all day feeling absolutely wretched with a massive hangover while my subordinate sales guy, an enthusiastic French lad far far better at selling than me, lectured me on all the things I was expected to do as Directeur Commercial. After the worst day in my life he drove me to his flat where the lecture continued until late that evening when he finally allowed me to crash on his sofa bed where I lodged for some miserable weeks until I was able to find my own apartment.
My new secretary loathed me and refused to do anything for me because she had been in great sales double act with the sacked sales guy, so I told her to either work with me or leave and she left, which was traumatic for everybody. It was the most frustrating two years of my life and I was desperately lonely and homesick. London wanted me to keep visiting the big industry boys and the French wanted to visit the tiny French specialists. The technical backup was dire and I made several embarrassing and costly errors through inexperience. The UK sales manager came to see what was going on and told me he would give me a job if I ever wanted to go back to London. After two years of this torture I decided to leave after overhearing two French colleagues discussing me and realising how much they hated my presence. I rang my UK sales manager and asked for that job. "Ah...." he replied. "You'd be welcome.... except that I've had enough and I'm leaving!"
So I left my car keys and credit cards on my boss's desk and got on a bus to the airport.
And people wonder why big British companies were failing in the eighties. It was crap management, plain and simple.
