LAST week management and I travelled to Birmingham for our brat’s university graduation.
He is the first Spence from my direct bloodline to get a degree, as although I attended the hallowed halls of academia, I didn’t get the fancy gown and mortarboard, even though I achieved a major in English (no – bribes were not involved!).
To this day I blame sunshine and the beach rather than lack of brain cells, but my lecturers may not concur.
On management’s side it’s even more historic: the brat and his twin brother who graduates next year (fingers crossed) are the first Anthony males ever to attend university.
So it was a proud day. The fact our eyes were damp must have been due to the celebratory champagne served in the graduates’ marquee afterwards.
The brat also has a new job, and I stand in awe of what hoops ambitious kids have to jump through these days just to get an interview.
For example, our brat had to do three Skype interrogations before the company execs deigned even to meet him.
He was competing against several hundred other graduates, so to say it was daunting is being bland.
Then he got an invite to the London office for a day of face-to-face interviews. There were about 20 other hopefuls and for them it was as stressful as being in a gladiator arena.
Each candidate had to address the directors giving an off-the-cuff background to their lives, the state of the economy and why they would be essential to the company.
The brat must have done okay, as he was called back to write a battery of psychological assessments. He was told he would know the results in two days’ time.
Post-work drinks test
They phoned the following week after he had been through hell waiting. He conditionally had got the job. However, he was ‘asked’ to join the firm for post-work drinks that Friday. No doubt they wanted to assess him socially.
I advised him to be on his best behaviour, but he texted me later that night saying he was the only one behaving.
He started last week. His hours are 8.30am to 6pm, but that’s for wusses. He is already leaving for work at 6am and gets back after 8pm at the earliest.
The only problem is that at the moment he’s living at home and we’re 90km from central London. So that means I have to get up as sparrows make rude noises to get him to the station, then pick him when I should be in bed.
Compare the brat’s first steps on the slippery corporate ladder to mine many moons ago. I had resigned from selling Olivetti typewriters in Johannesburg and arrived in Pietermaritzburg to see friends.
On an impulse, I walked into the Natal Mercury bureau and behind a desk that propelled the word ‘untidy’ to new heights sat a massive man with ham hocks for forearms and mutton chop ginger sideburns.
I told him I wanted to be a reporter. He said, ‘Are you sure?’
I nodded. He then phoned the news editor in Durban, a suave guy called Godfrey King, and said, ‘There’s someone here who wants to be a reporter. Try and dissuade the fool.’
The next morning, I had an interview with King who asked one key question: ‘So you’re a friend of Pat Taylor’s?’
I nodded, neglecting to say I had only met the burly Pietermaritzburg bureau chief the day before. I was told to start the following day.
I didn’t know it at that time, but Pat was a Hemingway-like legend who could outdrink and outfight virtually anyone, and certainly out-write most.
For some reason the fact he had phoned the news editor about me was considered the ultimate testimonial.
I hope, after 40 years, I have repaid Pat’s instant confidence.
However, all those difficult interviews the brat had, compared to my simple ‘start tomorrow’ one, have certainly paid off.
He is in top-level recruitment and his team have already hit target, which means an all-expenses holiday in Croatia. And he’s only been there for two weeks.
That’s something that’s never happened to me.
