Which One’s Mike?: ‘Every No Takes Me Closer to a Yes’

Lill Tschudi | Jazz Orchestra (1935)

I’m also partial to a pub singalong.

I enjoy watching friends perform, revealing their talents, exposing their vulnerabilities. I like the link to the traditions of the past, the nostalgia for the songs of our youth, the giddy spirit of community.

And so, when I had a birthday celebration recently, I invited a number of my mates to sing one number each. Richly talented Mike volunteered to act as Music Director, agreeing song selections and arrangements, rehearsing the acts, playing keyboard backing.

On the evening itself, as the guests gathered in a Clerkenwell pub, Niece Rosie approached me. A smart, funny Young Person with bags of charisma, she was originally unable to attend the gig.
 
‘I’m so glad you’ve made it, Rosie. Brilliant.’
‘Yes, and I’m up for singing a song!’

She beamed a big, open smile at me. But I had to disappoint her.

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Mike agreed the tunes with the singers weeks ago. He’s rehearsed with them and established the right pitch for their voices. It’s all been impeccably pre-produced.’
‘I’m sure I could just give it a go.’
‘No, I’m sorry. It just won’t work.’
 
Niece Rosie regarded me with a benign grin.
 
‘Which one’s Mike?’ she said. And with that she was gone.

A little later I was informed that Niece Rosie would be performing Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man.’

There’s a lesson here for anyone who works in the persuasion business. When you hit a blockage, a bump in the road, don’t waste your time repeating yourself, bashing your head against a brick wall. Seek a roundabout route, a sympathetic ally. Search for the person who can influence the decision. Find the real decision maker.  And never take no for an answer.

Elizabeth (Bessie) Coleman

Bessie Coleman, born into a family of Texan sharecroppers in 1892, grew up picking cotton and washing laundry. Her early interest in aviation was snubbed, because flying schools at the time admitted neither women nor Black people. So she taught herself French at night, and saved the money to learn to fly in Paris. She became the first African American woman to hold a pilot’s license. On her return to the United States ‘Brave Bessie’ had a successful career as a stunt flier at air shows, celebrated for her ‘loop the loops’ and ‘figure 8s’. She explained her persistence thus:

‘I refused to take no for an answer. Every no takes me closer to a yes.’
 
Niece Rosie stood before the crowd, reading the lyrics from her phone, delivering her song with crystalline clarity, mellow tunefulness and soulful warmth. The audience swayed in time with the music, joined in with the chorus and roared approval as she took her ‘timeless flight.’   

‘It's lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight.
And I think it's gonna be a long, long time
'Til touchdown brings me round again to find,
I'm not the man they think I am at home.
Oh, no, no, no,
I'm a rocket man,
Rocket man,
Burning out his fuse up here alone.’
Elton John, ‘Rocket Man’ (E John / B Taupin)

No. 481

Six Blokes in a Lewes Pub: Meaningful Trivia and Embedded Brands

Image: Hulton Deutsch//Getty Images

On a recent weekend visit to the market town of Lewes, my wife set about investigating the various antique and bric-a-brac shops. Thoughtfully she found a friendly pub to occupy me while she browsed. 

The front bar of the Brewers Arms was quiet, cosy and carpeted. I fetched myself a pint of Harvey’s, spread my newspapers across the table and appraised my fellow drinkers. 

Six balding blokes in their 50s and 60s sat nearby. They wore a selection of check shirts, trainers, jeans and shorts, and were engaged in the kind of conversation familiar to mature men all over the land.

‘I visited a few pubs in Seaford last week.’

‘Some nice boozers in Seaford, Pete. I mean you start straight away with the Railway.’

‘And the Cinque Ports, of course.’

‘And then there’s that place with the pool table. You don’t see a pool table so often nowadays.’

‘Have you ever noticed there’s no pub on the seafront at Seaford? There’s the Wellington – that’s set back. The King’s Head – set back. And the Old Boot – set back. Interesting, ain’t it?’

No one wanted to pursue the issue of the Seaford seafront pubs, and the discussion drifted onto the likely fortunes of Tottenham Hotspur this season, the quality of dancing at Mick Jagger’s 80th birthday party and the relative merits of different potato formats. 

My wife has given up asking me what I chat about with my male friends. She’s accustomed to hearing that there were no personal updates or emotional disclosures; no frank exchanges or heart-to-hearts - just meandering reflections, incidental observations and well rehearsed anecdotes. 

I’m aware that this is probably our roundabout way of navigating our emotions; of signalling our states of mind; of confirming our friendship. It’s meaningful trivia.

One of the group stopped the Bar Manager as he passed by collecting glasses.

‘Dave, I hear you’ve had some Summer Lightning in your cellar. Now Summer Lightning goes down so easy. One or two is never enough.’

‘All gone, Des. Sorry.’

‘You’re gonna have to put me on speed dial for the next time you get some in. Summer Lightning is a lovely drop of stuff.’

‘Sure, Des. It’s definitely popular. I’ve been thinking of getting in Winter Lightning too.’

It struck me at this point that the best brands sit comfortably in our everyday conversation. For all the loud pronouncements and bravura gestures of many modern upstarts, the brands that endure do so by more moderate means: by becoming familiar friends, reliable acquaintances, integral to the cultural landscape. They embed themselves within our meaningful trivia.

‘Squeeze another one in, anyone?’

‘Oh, go on, Pete, I’ll keep you company.’

‘You know it makes sense.’

‘Two pints of Harvey’s please, Dave.’

 
'Well, I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Because falling in love just makes me blue.
Well, the music plays and you display your heart for me to see.
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well, the room is crowded, people everywhere,
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well, if you sit down with this old clown, I’ll take that frown and break it.
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.’

Tom Waits, ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You’

No. 437

The Serene Stag Party: When a Leader Loses Control

'When you were made a leader you weren't given a crown, you were given the responsibility to bring out the best in others.’
Jack Welch, Former CEO of General Electric

It was a privilege to be appointed Martin’s Best Man - but also something of a challenge. How to design a stag weekend that would entertain my older brother’s friends, integrate a diverse set of personalities and still accommodate our Dad and his mate Bernie from the Drill?

This was 1993 and well before the era of exotic and expensive trips to Riga, Vilnius and Vegas. I determined that, given the sophistication and maturity of the attendees, the theme should be one of laid-back contemplation. It would be a Serene Stag Party. 

I rented a remote farmhouse near Acle Bridge on the Norfolk Broads, and as we gathered on the Friday evening, we settled into an exchange of amusing stories and telling anecdotes. I’d bought a couple of bottles of whiskey and a pack of cards to sustain the mellow mood. All seemed to be going well.

On the Saturday, equipped with an Ordnance Survey map, I led everyone on a scenic ramble around the Broads. Along winding paths and over awkward stiles; past disused windmills and romantic Saxon churches; sighting boats and barn owls; admiring voles, dykes and reed beds. It was all rather beautiful.

That night we had a relaxed dinner in a charming country pub. Again there was an air of warm-hearted bonhomie. I congratulated myself on a project well managed.

It’s true, a few of the group had in mind a more vibrant occasion. Scouse Mike in particular observed that a stag weekend should be characterised by shenanigans and tomfoolery; wild nights of mirth, music and dancing. 

I explained that that was not really the concept. This was the Serene Stag Party.

As we approached last orders in the pub, Mike pressed me about the possibility of going to a nightclub.

‘Come on, Jim. Club! Club! Club!’

‘No, that’s not part of the plan, Mike. And besides, haven’t you noticed? We’re in the middle of nowhere.’

Mike persisted. 

‘Club! Club! Club!’

At this point the Head Barman, who had overheard our conversation, made a helpful intervention in his distinct rustic burr.

‘There are nightclubs in Norwich and Yarmouth, you know. And Dave from the village can take you in his minibus.’

‘Club! Club! Club!’ cried Mike.

I tried to argue with him.

‘But I’ve got that bottle of whiskey for us to drink by the log fire when we get back.’

It was to no avail. Soon Mike was joined in his revolt by the rest of the company.

‘Club! Club! Club!’

That was it. My authority had evaporated. Mike took over the reins.

‘What do you think? Should we go to Norwich or Yarmouth?’

With a knowing smile, the Head Barman scanned the motley crew and pronounced.

‘No jeans in Norwich.’

Before long everyone was clambering into Dave’s minibus in a mood of reckless abandon, and they were on their way to Yarmouth.

I wandered disconsolately back to the farmhouse with my Dad and his mate Bernie from the Drill. We had a quiet whiskey by the fire and went to bed.

I was the Leader who Lost Control.

'Leadership is the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it.’
General Dwight Eisenhower

The lesson here is simple. Leadership is about more than a title, or a reporting line, an org chart or a corner office. Leaders cannot presume that a chosen plan will be adopted and executed without question. To be a leader you need to earn people’s commitment; to establish a shared vision; to take people with you. Successful leadership requires enthusiastic followership.

'I must follow the people. Am I not their leader?'
Benjamin Disraeli

In the early hours of Sunday morning, in dribs and drabs, the members of the stag party found their way back to the farmhouse. They’d had a fantastic time in the Yarmouth nightspot and all agreed it had made it a truly memorable weekend.

I reflected that perhaps the Serene Stag Party had not been such a good idea after all.

'Put yourself in my place
And you wouldn't do the things you do to me.
If you put yourself in my place
You'd know the meaning of misery.
Sleepless nights, tossing and turning,
Days and nights of worry and wondering.
Put yourself in my place
Then you will realize why there are tears
So many tears in my eyes.'
Maxine Brown, ‘Put Yourself in My Place’ (W Drain, R Obrecht)

No. 387