What You See Is What You Get: My Autobiography (14 page)

'Great,' he said. 'You can
have
them. Free of charge. Get rid of them.'

To be honest, I was doing a bit of moonlighting here because I was on Henson's time. I gave Malcolm a call that night and asked him whether he'd be able to borrow his firm's Dormobile van.

'What for?' he asked.

'I'll tell you later.'

We bowled down to this shop the next day and loaded up the Dormobile to the brim with these tellies. Unfortunately, we had nowhere to store them, so we ended up humping them up the stairs to my flat and putting them all in my brother's old bedroom/my ex-darkroom. My mum watched this procedure. 'What's all this rubbish?' she moaned.

'Don't worry, Mum, I'll tell you about it later. Malcolm and I are going into a little business sideline here.'

We also cleared out a Rumbelows shop in Walthamstow, taking more TVs. This time, before lugging them up the stairs, we sorted through them in the playground. We only wanted the ones that had a dual tuner to pick up BBC and ITV. I can't remember how we disposed of the unwanted TVs - I'm sure it was by some means the Green people would be up in arms about nowadays.

Malcolm started repairing them, while I advertised them in the
Exchange & Mart
as an 'unwanted item' supposedly belonging to someone getting married and moving out (well, I would one day). When a punter showed up, I'd take a reconditioned TV into my bedroom, put a small V-aerial on the top and switch it on.

My mother was going nuts. Strange people were coming into the flat and humping TV sets down the stairs, with the neighbours watching inquisitively,
wondering what was going on. Quite apart from that, I must have been breaking a hundred laws, like trading from a council flat.

We were doing so well that Malcolm's repair rate couldn't keep up with my sales rate. Malcolm is a very nice man and we're still great friends to this day, but, to put it politely, I must say he lacked the killer instinct, the passion to want to make money. He'd jog along, while I'd be badgering him. 'Malcolm, I need some more stock. Can you come round on Friday and fix a few more because I've got a lot of appointments on Saturday.'

He told me he couldn't. He spent every Friday night with Maureen and he didn't have time to do the TVs.

I was disappointed. I was sharing the proceeds with him fifty-fifty, so I wasn't legging him over. We were making quite a few quid out of this venture, but he wouldn't budge on his Friday nights, despite me pestering him and telling him we'd already spent money on advertising. The
Exchange & Mart
came out on Thursdays and I'd have to turn away all the customers the advert had drummed up. It was frustrating telling punters the TV had been sold.

The problem was that we couldn't afford to take any commercial premises and were operating from home. On the other hand, had the TVs been on display in commercial premises, customers wouldn't have perceived they were getting the bargain of some individual's unwanted item.

My brother Derek once told me he was walking along Kingsland High Road and saw an advert in a newsagent's window for a second-hand TV. He thought to himself, 'I recognise that number - Upper Clapton 7875.' He phoned home to ask about it and my mum and dad told him what was going on. Derek thought it was a tremendous coincidence; all it told me was that it pays to advertise.

On the subject of Kingsland High Road, Malcolm and I sometimes used to buy our valves and spare parts from an electrical shop there. One Saturday, there was a man looking at a television in the window. I said to him, 'What are you looking at?'

He said, 'That second-hand TV there.'

I said, 'I've got a much better one than that.' This was a touch of Mr Shuster. 'It's made by Ultra and it's much more modern - it's got all the tuners, the lot. Plus, that thing there is twenty quid - the one I've got is fifteen quid.'

I convinced the guy to jump in the car with me and I took him up to the flat. My mother opened the door and saw my new friend, a rather tall Nigerian, an unusual addition to a Jewish home on a Sabbath, when the ritual lunch was about to be served.

'Who's this?' she said. 'Shabbos lunch is ready.'

'Yeah, don't worry, Mum. He's not here for lunch; he's just come to buy my telly.'

Mum shrugged, and I demo'd the telly to the punter, who was delighted with it. The only problem was that he didn't have a vehicle, so I asked him to give me another quid and I'd take him home, somewhere up Lea Bridge Road.

Thanks to Mr Shuster, that deal paid off very nicely, though Mum was not a happy bunny. In fact, the whole TV venture came to a sudden end due to Malcolm's lack of ambition and me getting a flea in my ear from Mum.

*

In my travels around London working for Henson, I always allocated Thursday as my day to do the City. On Thursday lunchtimes, I would pull up at Liverpool Street, where Ann worked, to meet up with her for half an hour or so. This became a regular routine. Ann worked in a first-floor hairdressing salon and when she came out to the car, the other girls would chuck hairclips out the window and we would hear them bouncing off the roof.

One Thursday, unusually, one of Ann's colleagues came downstairs from the salon and knocked on my car door. I opened the window and she gave me an envelope. It contained a Dear John letter. It was from Ann, telling me that she wanted to break off our relationship. My heart sank. I wondered what I'd done wrong.

A few moments later, Ann came down and sat in the car with me. She looked embarrassed and nervous - there was no real eye contact. She said she was sorry about the letter, but that's exactly what the position is. She said something like: 'We're getting too serious - we're too young to be tied down.'

I drove off gutted. I don't remember where I went, but I know I didn't do any work that afternoon. The whole thing had come as a bolt out of the blue. I tracked down one of my friends, either Geoff or Steve, to tell them what had happened. I wondered if maybe Steve could find out from Sandra whether there was a deeper reason behind this.

There
was
- but it's amazing how oblivious I was at the time.

The A M S Trading Company

1966-8

Throughout our early courtship, I spent a bit of time at Ann's house, getting to know her family. Johnnie Simons, Ann's father, was a very tall man with an air of authority - you wouldn't want to get into an argument with him. He was very domineering and overpowering. This was in stark contrast to Ann's mother, Rita, who had a really soft nature. She was a wonderful, supportive wife and went along with whatever her husband said. My early conversations with Ann's father usually revolved around religion. Johnnie would lecture me on how religious the family was in general; how they observed all the Jewish traditions of running a kosher home; how he attended shul (synagogue) regularly on Saturdays and observed every Jewish holiday.

In fact, whereas most people chat about their football team or their hobbies when making small talk, Johnnie would talk about religion - I think it's fair to say that
was
his hobby. The problem was that if you didn't comply with his religious standards, then you were effectively a pleb. There's no other way to describe it. I obviously fell into that category because he would ask questions like, 'Does your mother keep a kosher home? Do you go to shul? Do you go regularly?'

Being Honest Al, I would reply, 'Well, not really. My mum buys kosher food, but to be honest we don't go to all the trouble of separate knives and forks and all that stuff. And no, the last time I was in shul it was for someone's wedding. I don't go. I find it boring. In fact, sorry to say, I don't believe in God.'

I believe we're right to be proud of our religion and traditions, but people should be able to choose the level to which they comply. In hindsight, my responses to Johnnie's inquisition were quite mature, especially bearing in
mind that there are plenty of even stricter Jews who would think that Johnnie was a heathen. However, my answers went down like lead balloons.

There were occasions when I felt I was being frowned upon due to my inability to debate kashrus. It's not as if the Simons family was anything special. They were people who came from the same place as my family did - from the East End of London - but they were part of the circle of Jews who wanted to try to elevate themselves and, as such, maybe felt they were somewhat superior.

Sometimes, when I visited Ann's house, other family members would be there. Johnnie had many brothers and sisters. Uncle Sammy and Uncle Alf were really nice fellows. They used to play the game of being ultra-religious, but still managed to be down to earth. You could have a laugh with these guys - they didn't project themselves as something they weren't. It was quite funny when the family got together. It was like watching a pub quiz, seeing them argue over which Sedrah (portion of the Jewish law) was going to be read this Saturday.

On the other hand, three of Johnnie's sisters felt they were a cut above. When you spoke to them, you could be forgiven for thinking you were talking to royalty. I'm afraid that Johnnie also sailed close to the royalty bracket. He'd broken free of his old East End values and, as I said, Rita would faithfully go along with him. In some of my conversations with Ann's wider family, I would have them laughing at my carry-ons, and get them arguing over my views on religion. I remember on one occasion, I apologised for being hoarse and explained that I had a sore throat. Rita heard me and chimed in. 'Froat?' she asked. 'Is that how you say throat - froat?'

So to sum myself up in the eyes of Johnnie and Rita:

a) I couldn't doven (recite Jewish prayers) from scratch, nor did I read Hebrew or observe the Jewish religion.

b) I was not a university graduate destined to become 'my son, the lawyer', 'the doctor' or 'the accountant'.

c) I spoke with a very broad East End accent.

Unfortunately, what I didn't understand at the time was that poor Ann had been put under extreme pressure to ditch me by her domineering father. So much so, it drove her to write me the Dear John letter.

Twenty years later, a
Financial Times
journalist wrote a book on me and made reference to a certain Gulu Lalvani (I'll tell you about him later) who said, Ann's father never wanted Alan - he wasn't good enough for them.' This infuriated Johnnie. At first he denied the accusation, but when I reminded him about Ann's letter, he blustered, 'Well, you just wait till
your
daughter is
grown up - see what you're like.' I think the point he was making was that he just wanted the best for his daughter. Fair comment, I guess.

That Thursday night, after receiving the letter, I met up with my pals and discussed the situation. To be honest, they weren't interested. Some of them felt that it was just a girlfriend. So what? It's over. I don't think any of them really understood how upset I was. So I just shut up about it.

On Friday, I found it very hard to concentrate. Despite trying to sleep it off and think positive, move on, all those cliches, I didn't have a good day. As it was the end of the week, I went back to the office and had my samples counted by Peter Henson to check that they tallied with the previous week's count. I was very short on words. Mr Henson Senior was doing his usual uncomplimentary summary of my week's work. I just wanted to get out and go home. I called to Peter, 'Right, would you check this lot of stuff here.'

On counting my samples, Peter said there was a set of walkie-talkies missing - I had no idea why. In fact, the walkie-talkie sets were now totally out of stock, so there was no reason why I should have a sample. Nevertheless, in theory, the set should have been there. Peter asked, 'Well? Where has it gone?'

And at that point I exploded and started effing and blinding, swearing at him, telling him what a prick he was. 'I've no idea where it is,' I yelled. And I
don't
like being treated as if I'm a thief And then, unbelievably, I burst into tears of frustration.

The guy must have thought, 'Bloody hell, I only asked where the walkie-talkies are!' He started to get a bit worried.

'What's the matter with you, Alan? What are you crying for?'

Obviously this pent-up depression over breaking up with Ann had been buried inside me. I'd hardly spoken a word to my mum and dad on the Thursday or the Friday; in fact, I'd hardly spoken to anybody, since my mates weren't interested. Come Friday afternoon, Peter Henson must have pushed the wrong button.

'Calm down,' he said, 'calm down. What's the matter with you? Is there something else wrong?'

I was on my way out, so I turned to him and said, 'Look, I just want to go home. Is that okay?'

He followed me, saying, 'Don't drive in this state. There must be something wrong. Come inside and sit down.'

Henson Senior rallied round as well. 'What's going on?'

'Nothing, nothing,' I said. 'Just a bit of aggravation, that's all.'

'Where? Here?'

'No, no, at home. Don't worry, it's all right, I'm okay.'

The storeman joined in, thinking my outburst was about the missing walkie-talkies, and said, 'Here, Alan, I've worked it out. After you brought your box in last Friday, Peter was looking for a set of walkie-talkies, so he actually took the set himself and flogged it. I told Peter and he remembers this now, so he knows you didn't nick it.'