WHAT THE . . . !’
I felt the back of the vehicle skid down the embankment and heard the snapping of hedgerow.
The inevitable tirade followed.
‘Simon, you prat, how the hell are we are going pull it out of the ditch now?’
I knew one end of a cow from another but my tractor-driving skills left a lot to be desired. Sadly, the one thing I excelled at was tipping them into ditches, which always meant that the poor sod I was with would have to go back to the farm and bring out a Land Rover or another tractor to free the vehicle I had crashed.
My friend and long-suffering workmate in that incident and all the others which involved tractors and ditches was my cousin’s husband, John Perkin, whose farm I washed up at after leaving school. I was in the Wild West (Devon to be precise) where I was getting my first taste of full-time work and I ended up there because I didn’t have a plan – it just sort of happened, like so much else that followed in my life.
After my dreams had been cruelly crushed by the careers master at Freemen’s, I fretted over my options. Stuntman was out, musician was unrealistic, vet was academically unlikely and so, with no options that were immediately compelling, I fell back on something that I already knew plenty about and decided to pursue a career in farming. I set my sights on a future farm-manager role and I got into Seale-Hayne College, which was an agricultural college in Devon. Rather than start straight away, I was advised that I would benefit from some work experience and so I deferred the placement for a year and arranged to work with John on his farm, which meant leaving home and going to live on the Devon and Cornwall border in a village called St Giles-on-the-Heath. My work covered my food and board and any money left over was mine.
I had the freedom of a car by then, having passed my test on my seventeenth birthday. My very first car was a second-hand 100E Anglia. I was always expected to buy my cars and pay for their running costs myself, and I bought my first from a friend of Dad. I kept blowing the gearbox up on it because it only had three speeds and not enough oomph to cope with my style of driving, which was foot-to-the-floor and has remained that way for most of my life. On regular weekends my little Anglia would end up in the workshop at Dad’s work while the mechanics fixed it because I had blown up yet another engine. When that Anglia finally gave up the ghost within a year of me buying it, I traded up and got a 105E Anglia, which got me down to the Devon and Cornwall border in about four-and-a-half hours. The poor thing was always at the end of its rev limit.
John had a dairy herd, some sheep and some arable land. It wasn’t a big farm and it wasn’t particularly profitable. Given the amount of graft that it took to keep it running, I soon began to see that, from a business perspective, the fields of agricultural Britain were not sown with gold. Farming only really paid for people in the higher echelons – the landowners.
I liked being with the animals, however, and was not scared or nervous when called upon to get in the barn and muck out the cows. They didn’t take much notice of me and just moved out the way with a shove when I needed to pass. I learned that as long as you avoided their horns, they were peaceful, benevolent creatures. I also liked the farming people. They were fun and foul-mouthed. They worked hard and played hard and I found a social circle there that I felt comfortable with. My stutter was rarely mentioned and, because farmers are not known for their eloquence, I didn’t feel pressured or nervous when I spoke.
Soon after I moved to Devon I was taken out and introduced to one of the quaint local customs: getting trolleyed on scrumpy. I was not a big drinker or a regular pub-goer and the first time I got properly hammered was on a school-arranged outing to a musical. I was in the sixth form doing my A levels and my trumpet master at the time, Frank Jones, who was a really nice guy, invited me to sit in on a show he was playing at in London.
‘Come along, sit next to me in the orchestra and see how it all happens,’ he said. He knew I loved musical theatre and had ambitions to be a musician and he thought it would be a good opportunity for me.
The musical was The Man from La Mancha and as we were behind the stage I didn’t have to dress up. Frank was playing the overture and I watched the trumpet part – it was all quite interesting. At the end of the overture a big number seven appeared on a screen above the musicians, at which point they all got up and silently slunk out. Puzzled, I followed them and twigged what was going on. The screen indicated that they had seven minutes until the next number and in that time they sneaked into the bar next door and downed a drink. Wanting to fit in, I ordered myself a barley wine and knocked it back with them. Which was all fine until I got about halfway through part two. I wasn’t used to drinking and felt the effects. I lost count at fourteen glasses and do not remember much about the finale or the journey home. Luckily it has always been my blessing to pass out when drunk before I am sick. My body closes down and allows me the dignity of a graceful coma, rather than the humiliation of throwing up.
My introduction to scrumpy was another baptism of boozy fire. John and I sat in the pub and he insisted the pints kept coming. Cider wasn’t my thing and neither were pints but peer pressure prevailed and I managed to keep up, the youth of my liver giving me a competitive advantage over some of the yellowed, sclerotic farmhands we were drinking with. When the landlord declared that there was lock-in I remained resolute and continued knocking back the drink. It must have been something to do with the unique scrumpy effect but I didn’t realize just how drunk I was getting until it was time to go home.
‘I can’t move my legs,’ I said as I grabbed the edge of the table and tried to stand.
‘C’mon, Simon, don’t be an arse. It’s two in the morning and you’ve got to get up at five to do the milking,’ John slurred.
‘But I can’t move,’ I mumbled.
John had to hoist me to my feet. Oddly, I felt sober as a judge and couldn’t work out why my limbs didn’t work. One of the soberer farmhands delivered us home and, once in my room, I passed out and dreamed of apples.
In addition to cider, I was introduced to another country pursuit during my tenure on the farm. I learned how to use a shotgun. Given my choice of vocation people are often surprised to hear that in my former life, before I started saving wildlife, I killed it. It is not something of which I am proud and it is not something I would condone or partake in today but I still have no problem with someone who shoots to eat. I eat meat and I enjoy eating meat. Humans are omnivores. We have evolved to be meat eaters and it seems logical to me that if you choose to eat meat you should not be squeamish about the fact that your choice ultimately means that something has died. You want dinner, you go out and shoot something, skin it and eat it. That, to me, is better than going to a supermarket and spending a few pounds on a chicken that has lived a short and miserable life and died in a very unpleasant way. The mechanization and industrialization of meat production are something I find abhorrent; everything is so intensive and unfair on the animal, which becomes a commodity, and a cheap one at that. I always buy organic and free range where I can and I think it takes guts to do the raising, killing and the preparation yourself. It’s fairer and it makes you consider the impact of your diet choices. Even when you know it has had a good life I think it is still hard to turn an animal you have cared for into a casserole. I couldn’t go out in the yard thinking, I want chicken tonight. I’ll have that one. I’ll have Beatrice.
Shooting on the farm was practical. Sometimes I would take a rabbit or pigeon for the pot, other times the shooting would be for pest control. I didn’t delight in it but if a fox was taking chickens it was necessary. All the farmers had the same approach. If you needed to kill something you did it, quickly and efficiently.
I worked on the farm through the winter, braving the wet weather and taking delight in throwing my heroic Anglia around the country lanes. There wasn’t a great deal to do other than drink and work so I entertained myself with country drives and attracted a bit of a name for myself as a boy racer. I don’t know what possessed me – I just loved the adrenaline kick. The deserted, winding lanes lent themselves to my favourite style of driving (fast) and I became competent at negotiating the challenging twists and turns.
By the time spring arrived I had begun to question whether farming was really what I was destined to do. I wanted to enjoy life and I wondered whether I would enjoy a life of farming. I explained this to Dad, who could see that I wasn’t 100 per cent sold on agriculture and one day, out of the blue, he called with an offer. Through the course of his work he had got to know a senior partner at a City of London brokerage firm called ED&F Man. The chap owned a farm and Dad had mentioned that he had a son who was coming up to his nineteenth birthday and who was at a loss as to what to do with his life.
‘Tell him to come in for an interview,’ the chap said. So I did.
I did not know the first thing about finance, markets, the City or stocks and shares but I was confident enough in my ability to learn quickly and, given the choice between a life of mud and cows in the west and the possibility of a decent wage and a warm office in the City, I didn’t take much persuading. I explained the situation to John, who knew in a few months I would be off to college anyway and he encouraged me to give it a go. I drove up to Brockham at the weekend with my only suit in the back of the car. On the Monday morning I brushed the straw off it and, still smelling of cows, got on the train at Dorking with the rest of the commuters and headed to Mincing Lane where the firm had its headquarters.
ED&F Man was one of the City’s historic businesses. It was initially founded as a sugar brokerage by businessman and trader James Man in 1783 and in the following year won the contract to supply the Royal Navy with rum for its sailors, each of whom were allocated a rationed daily shot – or tot as it was called. The tradition continued until 1970, two years before I went for my interview, and the company had expanded from sugar and rum into other commodities such as coffee and cocoa.
In truth, it was a scoop for me to get the interview. The City in those days employed a lot of ex-Army people and you were only likely to get in if you knew someone. It was a club and quite an exclusive one at that. Not knowing how fortunate I was worked in my favour. Having been on a farm for a year, people didn’t tend to scare me or make me nervous. I walked into the ostentatious reception of the building, gave my name and sat on the leather sofa waiting to be called.
I was shown upstairs into a plush, wood-panelled boardroom. Seven men in suits were sitting around one end of a large oval table. I said hello and one of them gestured for me to sit in a single chair placed at the other end of the table. They were all very smartly dressed and, although I didn’t know much about clothes, I could tell their suits were expensive. I became acutely aware of the bovine scent that was rising from my scratchy brown blazer. The men started firing questions at me left right and centre. It was a barrage.
‘Tell us a bit about yourself.’
‘What do you know about commodities markets?’
‘What strengths could you bring to the job?’
‘What’s that smell?’
I tried to keep up with the questions but, after a minute or so, I held my hand up.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘It’s no good all asking at once. I can’t answer you all at the same time. One at a time is fine.’
I saw a few of them exchange glances. The tempo of the interview slowed and we discussed my achievements – which I embellished somewhat. I told them about my exam results, my musical interests and that I enjoyed driving. I explained that I was used to hard work, enjoyed a challenge and was a fast learner and a problem solver. My stutter didn’t run away with me and I talked slowly and purposefully. They explained that the job on offer was a commodities broker in sugar. I had no idea what that meant but it sounded interesting. I explained that my time spent on the farm had taught me about how commodities markets worked and how raw materials and food were traded.
After around thirty minutes they sent me out the room for a while and then called me back in.
‘We are pleased to be able to offer you the job. When can you start?’ the senior partner asked.
‘Straight away,’ I answered.
And that’s how simple it was. I called John up and told him I wouldn’t be back. He understood. I moved back in with my parents temporarily but a few weeks later bought my first property: a flat in Sutton, which cost £13,000. I started my City career on £800 a year plus bonuses, which was a decent wage in those days. I joined the rat race the day I turned nineteen; I bought a rail season ticket, a new suit (but not a bowler hat) and walked across London Bridge every working day for nearly twenty-three years. Initially, it was a massive culture shock but the money focused my mind and once I got in there I realized that money was actually quite nice to have and I started to enjoy the lifestyle it afforded me. Eventually, of course, it eats into your soul but we will come to that later. For the time being, I played the part of City trader and learned about commodities. There is a physical side – growing it, moving it, refining it – and there is the paper side – selling it and trading it. ED&F Man had 700 employees at the time and traded in huge quantities of goods. I soon realized why I got the job. The pace was frenetic and relentless, the office was busy and noisy. I had to juggle lots of things at once and they were looking for someone who stayed calm and focused under pressure, which I did in the interview.
I sailed through the first years as the firm expanded. I started trading with other countries. I sold sugar to Iceland or Israel. Then I got moved on to the futures department and the baying market floor with the screaming and the shouting. I loved the life. I had £50 notes in my pocket. I had money to burn. As a child every penny had been accounted for in the household. In my early twenties I had wealth I never dreamed of. I got used to it. I was a Master of the Universe. The farm in Devon and the unclaimed place at the agricultural college was a different life away.