The Salty Coffee: Beware Falling at the Final Fence

The Leopard – 1963 Visconti

'Complacency is the last hurdle standing between any team and its potential greatness.’
Pat Riley, President, the Miami Heat

When I went to university in 1983 I was more confident academically than socially.

An adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s ‘Brideshead Revisited’ had been a recent hit on telly, and I assumed everyone would carry teddy bears and wear boaters, blazers and brightly coloured scarves. I was concerned that I’d struggle with conversation and convention; with etiquette and deportment. 

On arrival at Pembroke College, Oxford I was allocated a wood-panelled room with a coat of arms on it. And in my first few weeks I had to navigate a complex world of quads and scouts; gowns and grace; butteries and battels tickets. Fortunately I also encountered a group of talented eccentrics who became lifelong friends.

Soon into my first term I was invited, along with a number of other students, to Lunch with The Master. As I’d barely been to a restaurant before, I recognised that this would be something of a challenge. 

It was certainly a rather proper affair. The table was precisely laid, the dress was traditionally formal and the conversation was entirely sober. Staff hovered around the guests policing our every move.

I resolved to tackle this intimidating occasion by carefully copying my neighbours. 

And so, with eyes darting to left and right, I picked up my cutlery in the correct order and held it with the right grip. I added appropriate condiments and drank with suitable moderation. In fact I did everything everyone else was doing, just a half-beat behind. I nodded and smiled. I was courteous and cordial. And as my confidence grew, I even served up a few conversational gambits. 

I reached the conclusion of the meal without putting a foot wrong. As the coffee was served, I sighed with satisfaction.

But the lunch was not quite over.

In those days I was still adding sugar to my coffee, and so I spooned a little into my cup from the silver caddy just in front of me. 

Ugh. This brew tasted unpleasant – quite unlike the Nescafe I drank at home. Nonetheless I persevered. Perhaps it was just a better class of bean.

As we exited the luncheon, my friend Caz tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Did I just see you put a spoon of salt into your coffee?’

Ah yes, that explained it. I’d mistaken the salt for the sugar. An elementary error. The shame and embarrassment. I’d fallen at the final fence. 

What was I to learn from the incident of the salty coffee?

Well, firstly that we shouldn’t be intimidated by unfamiliar social situations. Every environment can be handled with a sensitivity to form and a willingness to engage. 

But perhaps more importantly, I was taught that confidence can usher in complacency; that we are most at risk of failure as we approach the final fence. 

'It's not a very big step from contentment to complacency.'
Simone de Beauvoir, Philosopher, Writer

I’ve witnessed this phenomenon a good deal in business. The slackening off at the conclusion of a process, the assumption that the pitch is in the bag - that the deal is more or less done.  But the race isn’t over until you cross the finish line.

'Success breeds complacency. Complacency breeds failure. Only the paranoid survive.'
Andy Grove, CEO Intel

I have since read that some people nowadays like to put a little salt in their coffee. It’s healthier and less bitter apparently. Perhaps, yet again, I was a pioneer…

'Sometimes we wish for the better,
When we have it good as it gets.
Sometimes the grass isn't greener,
As soon as we find out, we forget.
Sometimes a fool doesn't know he's a fool.
Sometimes a dog, he don't know he's a dog.
Sometimes I do stupid things to you
When I really don't mean it at all.’
Babyface, ‘Sorry for the Stupid Things’ (K Edmonds / D Simmons)

No. 384

‘Simplify, Then Exaggerate’: Why I Lost the Election for Juke Box Rep

Ernie Barnes - 'Dance Hall

I have only once stood for elected office. 

I guess I’m wary of exposing myself to the court of public opinion, to the unforgiving judgement of the ballot box. I’m reluctant to be rejected. 

I was however very keen to become Pembroke College Juke Box Rep.

I loved the College Juke Box. It was an admirably robust, coin-operated, mechanical affair, and it boasted a compelling menu of classic 45s: ‘Ghost Town,’ ’Going Underground’ and ‘The Killing Moon’; ’Teenage Kicks’, ‘Tainted Love’ and ‘This Charming Man.’ There was a sprinkling of venerable obscurities like The Clash’s ‘Armagideon Time.’ And, when Chaka Khan’s ‘I Feel For You’ came on, we would all mimic the scratch, in time, as one. 

The College Juke Box kept us entertained on grim, wet winter’s evenings, when there was no money to spend and nothing to spend it on. We nodded to the beat, sang along with the chorus, swayed to the rhythm. We vied with each other to select the most apposite tunes. And as last orders approached, we took to the beer-sodden floor in our heavy tweed overcoats, Holsten Pils in hand, and broke into joyously uninhibited dancing.

'And all my friends just might ask me,
They say, "Martin, maybe one day you'll find true love."
And I say, "Maybe there must be a solution to
The one thing, the one thing we can't find."
That's the look, that's the look.
The look of love.’
ABC, ‘The Look of Love’ (D Palmer / M Fry / M White / S Singleton)

This is not to say that the College Juke Box was perfect. There were a few discs that grated. Someone kept programming the monotonous drone of ‘Riders on the Storm.’ (I’d happily have shown that tune the door.) Perhaps there was a little too much ‘80s Tina Turner. (Let’s not stay together.) And I’d tentatively suggest that Billy Bragg’s ‘Between the Wars’ - a worthy political statement in the midst of the Miners’ Strike - was played a few more times than it merited musically.

More to the point, coming from Essex, the home of suburban soul, I felt the College Juke Box was somewhat lacking in contemporary R&B, funk and disco. Where were Maze and Anita Baker, Dennis Edwards and Evelyn ‘Champagne’ King? Why no D Train or Patrice Rushen?

'We love so strong and so unselfishly.
And I tell you now that I made a vow,
I'm giving you the best that I got.’
Anita Baker, 'Giving You the Best That I Got’ (Bricklebank / Kenric / Clarke / Bricklebank)

And so I hatched a plan. 

I had in mind a velvet revolution, a covert coup. There was a student role, Juke Box Representative, which entailed managing the maintenance of the equipment and overseeing the replenishment of records. If I were to acquire this responsibility, I could, by stealth, introduce more soulful grooves, more funky floor-fillers, more bass-heavy boogie. I could purge the repertoire of any tedious hippiedom and shallow pop bluster. It would be a quiet storm. All I had to do was put myself forward for election at the forthcoming Student Meeting. 

The College Student Meetings were rumbustious affairs. Held on a Sunday evening, their critical component was a barrel of free beer. Consequently attendance was high, voices were loud and debate was vibrant. We voted to boycott lectures and to have hooks placed on toilet doors. We passed motions expressing our disapproval – of nuclear missiles, Margaret Thatcher and plastic lids on Marmite jars.

Nervously, at the appointed slot on the agenda, I took to the floor and proclaimed my credentials for Juke Box Representative. I described my catholic tastes, my diverse musical enthusiasms, my willingness to take requests, my profound sense of social responsibility. 

I thought it probably wise not to make too much reference to soul at this stage. The truth was I had a sweet tooth musically, and I was not convinced the broader student community was quite ready for full-on Luther Vandross. 

'I still remember in the days when I was scared to touch you,
How I spent my day dreaming, planning how to say I love you.
You must have known that I had feelings deep enough to swim in.
That's when you opened up your heart and you told me to come in.
Oh, my love
A thousand kisses from you is never too much.
I just don't wanna stop.’
Luther Vandross, ‘Never Too Much'

It all seemed to be progressing to plan. I could tell I had a sympathetic audience. 

But my housemate Jez had other ideas. Unbeknown to me, he had prepared a tape of typical Jim tunes from my record collection back at St Thomas Street. And his edit had a particular focus on the more syrupy soul, the more sensuous sounds.

‘If you elect this man as Juke Box Rep, this is a sample of what you’ll be in for.’

And so from his portable boom box he broadcast a medley of Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White and Alexander O’Neil; of ‘Sexual Healing,’ ‘Juicy Fruit’ and ‘Gotta Get You Home Tonight.’

'Kick off you shoes
And lay back and let me soothe you.
I wanna take my time and do you right.
A bottle of Dom Perignon
To get us in the groove,
And an atmosphere
That's sure to please you.
Ooh baby,
I gotta get you home with me tonight.’
Eugene Wilde, 'Gotta Get You Home Tonight’ (J Horton / R Broomfield)

Now these tunes were indeed dear to my heart. But I’m not sure they’re the ones I’d have chosen to promote my tastes to a broader audience. Nor did they seem to chime with the more earnest, indie-loving elements of the student body.

And so the night was lost. I can’t recall by how much I was defeated - just the crushing sense of rejection. 

Geoffrey Crowther, the Editor of the Economist from 1938 to 1956 was renowned for giving young journalists a particular piece of advice: ‘Simplify, then exaggerate.’

This sentiment should certainly resonate with advertising people. Ours is a craft that at its heart has two skills: we must first distil and compress a brand’s essential truth, reduce it to its most compelling core; and then we must amplify and expand on that truth, express it with irresistible force.

My mate Jez had instinctively followed Crowther’s advice and developed a classic advertising campaign. He had simplified my true musical tastes and then exaggerated them. It was unquestionably effective.

After my unsuccessful election bid, I took the short walk back to St Thomas Street alone, huddled up in my heavy tweed overcoat. When I got home I put on a Bobby Womack album.

‘You know life is funny
When you look at It.
Everybody wants love
But everybody’s afraid of love.
You know I’m a true believer
That if you get anything out of life
You've got to put up with
The toils and strife.
Think it over. Think it over, girl. That’s the way I feel about cha.’

Bobby Womack, ’That’s the Way I Feel about Cha'

No. 314

The Triumph of the Frustrations: Sometimes We Need to Star in Our Own Movie

Walter Richard Sickert - Brighton Pierrots 1915, Tate

Well, yes, since you were asking, I can sing. I have a sweet voice, but it has a narrow range and a tendency to go a-wandering. At school I found my appropriate level as a rank-and-file member of the choir. I appreciated that there was safety in numbers. I knew my place.

Nonetheless, I always hankered after greater things. I yearned for the spotlight, for centre stage, imagining that there was a sensuous soul singer lurking deep within my awkward, apprehensive exterior.

The Pembroke College Talent Competition provided the ideal opportunity to test my mettle. And so I teamed up with my mate Thommo, who could both sing and play guitar. Conscious of my more limited skill-set, I suggested it would be best if he concentrated on the instrumental side of things.

We called ourselves The Frustrations, the idea being that we were ‘the thwarted Temptations.’ But to be honest we didn’t have too much in common with David Ruffin and co.

We put together a concise set of covers that would appeal to a broad range of student tastes. Iggy Pop’s ‘The Passenger’ had a menacing monotone verse and a rousing ‘la-la-la’ chorus. The Smiths’ ‘Please, Please, Please’ signalled a pale-and-interesting, wistful melancholia. And Andy Williams’ ‘Can’t Get Used to Losing You’ implied a certain supper-club sophistication.

'Guess there's no use in hangin' ‘round.
Guess I'll get dressed and do the town.
I'll find some crowded avenue,
Though it will be empty without you.
I can't get used to losin' you no matter what I try to do,
Gonna live my whole life thorough, loving you.’

Andy Williams, ‘Can’t Get Used to Losing You’ (J Pomus / M Shuman)

On the big night Thommo and I donned our shiny vintage suits, with pressed shirts and slim silk ties. As usual, I had my hair slicked back with Black & White coconut oil - I think I was channelling Spandau Ballet – and, of course, we both wore white towelling socks. We were from Croydon and Romford, and ours was the true sound of the suburbs.

The College bar was small, smoke-filled, dark and dingy, the only comfort supplied by the tatty orange-brown banquettes. Tonight it was crammed with students in combat jackets, pyjama tops and greasy Docs; with studded belts, ripped jeans and soaped-up hair.

And so it came to our turn at the microphone, and we edged onto the makeshift stage located neatly between the darts board and the jukebox. What we lacked in ability we made up for with youthful brio. And soon we had them swaying on the banquettes and singing along with the chorus. Our friends Rob and Doug enhanced the authentic gig experience by pelting us with plastic glasses.

No surprise perhaps that the Frustrations triumphed at the Pembroke College Talent Competition. The Holsten Pils bottles were cracked open, the jukebox was cranked up, and Thommo and I danced jubilantly into the early hours. ‘The sky was made for us tonight.’

'Get into the car.
We'll be the passenger.
We'll ride through the city tonight.
See the city's ripped backsides.
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright.
The sky was made for us tonight.’

Iggy Pop, ‘The Passenger’ (J Osterberg / R Gardiner)

Many of us are naturally shy, polite, reserved. We are team players, happy to participate and contribute, without being centre stage. But that’s not always enough to sustain us. Sometimes it seems like we’re just extras or bit-part actors; as if we’re performing a supporting role in someone else’s film.

Just occasionally it serves us well to write our own script, to step into the spotlight, to deliver our own lines, to play the romantic lead – regardless of the constraints of talent. Sometimes we deserve to live life like the star of our own movie.

Subsequent to our success Thommo and I resisted the siren call of a music career and slipped quietly back into our erstwhile roles as geeky Classicists. We were happy enough with this outcome. We had got what we wanted. This time.


'Good time for a change.
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad.
So please, please, please
Let me, let me, let me,
Let me get what I want
This time.'

The Smiths, ‘Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want’ (J Marr / S Morrissey)

No. 294