What You See Is What You Get: My Autobiography (22 page)

On one particular day, at about four in the afternoon, Chenchen cracked. He went up behind this child and screamed in his ear, 'I'm not going to accept any more of this rubbish work you're doing.'

He screamed at him for maximum effect, to impress the two girls, shocking everyone else. The kid must have responded in some way because Chenchen cranked up the volume and started ranting, 'Don't you tell me about this and that - I'm fed up with it, I'm not accepting these faults any more. Get up and get out!'

The poor kid got up. With his head down and his shoulders slumped, he walked off the factory floor past the onlookers. Chenchen sat himself down muttering, 'I'm not going to put up with this. I'm sat here testing these things and he's making more faults than I'm testing.' Trust me when I tell you that the dry joints tale was a total, absolute pack of lies. In his small-minded way, Chenchen hated Sam because he was doing well and could not stand to see the kid progress. Chenchen's outburst demonstrated what a racist idiot he was. The horror of that moment still haunts me and is one of the main reasons why, from then on, I was determined to give the utmost attention and respect to black people.

Over the years, as I became more recognisable to the general public, my wife has noticed something about me. I can be quite dismissive towards people who approach me in public places - sometimes rudely interrupting me - but she tells me that if it's a black person, I seem to have the time and patience for them. Only a wife could spot that.

I've never explained to her why because I never knew myself. It has taken these reflections, while writing this book, to make me understand. By the way, let me make it clear that Ann is the last person on this planet to be a racist or anything like that.

I wish I could find that 'kid', who of course would be well into his fifties by now. Can you imagine his thoughts? How I wish I could be beamed back in time to that moment. I just stood there and let it happen and I hate myself for that. Given my time over again, I would have grabbed George by what little hair he had left and kicked his arse down the stairs - with his wife tumbling after.

When it happened, Sam looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Sam, of course, was much older than me, far more experienced in life, and was diplomatically tight-lipped over the affair. My dad also observed
the incident and asked me, 'What was wrong with the kid? He was a hard worker.' My dad had respect for George, the so-called 'technical man', and ranked him as important. I didn't want to discuss this with my dad, as he wouldn't have understood the real motives.

A week or so went by. Chenchen knew he had me by the balls. He told me he wasn't happy with the way the factory was run and that I had to choose between him and Sam. 'It's either me, who's at the end of the production line testing the items, enabling you to ship the stuff out, or Sam, who just makes them.'

Even now, while I'm telling this story, I feel like punching a brick wall in frustration. That lunchtime, I took Sam down to the cafe and spelled it out to him honestly. Sam understood the situation and took it very well. I can't remember the financial severance I offered him, but certainly I gave him at least a month's pay to tide him over until he sorted himself out.

I was burning up inside. Chenchen had shown his true colours.

My dad asked what was going on with Sam - he couldn't understand what Sam had done wrong - and this time I gave him the full story. I told him Chenchen had me over a barrel, but I would sort it out.

This was not the right thing to say to a born worrier like my dad. He immediately went into, 'Who's going to test the amplifiers if you get rid of George Chenchen?'

I told him I didn't care and that my mind was made up - Chenchen was on his way out as soon as it suited me. My father started giving me his input as to the pros and cons. At this point my patience ran out and, I guess disrespectfully, I raised my voice to him.

'Stop worrying,' I said. 'I will sort it out. No one is going to hold me to ransom. It's not worth any amount of money in the world to be a wimp, so just leave it and get on with your work.'

I made my mind up about two things that day. One, never again would I allow anybody to make any racist or discriminatory comments to any of my staff. And two, never again would I put myself in a position where one person controls my destiny.

*

As our orders were getting bigger, we needed to assemble more and more PCBs. The capacity of the Great Sutton Street factory was limited, so we subcontracted out to a small assembly plant up in Norfolk, run by Chenchen's friend Stan Randall and his partner Roger. They would take kits of components from us and bring us back finished PCBs. Stan was a fast-and-loose
talker and he mentioned one day that Chenchen and his wife had the hump with me. He confirmed my feeling that they imagined they were partners of mine. But what I
didn't
know was that Chenchen had secretly designed his own amplifier and was going to set up production himself. Stan felt that he needed to let me know this.

This was both funny and outrageous. The funny bit was that Chenchen felt he could do what I had done - in truth, he couldn't sell a box of matches to a chain smoker who'd lost his lighter. The outrageous bit was that he'd been busy designing his own product behind my back.

Instead of blowing my top and chucking him out there and then, I decided to turn the situation to my advantage. I took Chenchen to one side and calmly said, 'What's going on, George? I hear you've made your own amplifier.'

To show off in front of his wife and the two northern girls, he raised his voice and started speaking in a very loud, authoritative manner, to such an extent that he could be heard across the whole floor.

I said, 'George, why are you deliberately raising your voice? Who are you trying to impress? Your two girlfriends? Because it's not working. Just calm down a little.'

That put him in his place. I asked him again about his new amplifier. He explained, 'Well, I'm working my nuts off here and all I'm getting is a salary. I feel you owe all this success to me, so now I want to do it for myself.'

Instead of arguing with him and telling him he was deluded, I surprised him by asking him what circuit he'd adopted for the design of his amplifier, and what was its specification.

I think he was taken aback, as he was expecting me to do my nut, but instead here was I enquiring about his new product. He was such an idiot that he rattled off some technical details, the last thing you'd do with a future competitor. I responded, 'That's better than the 8000. Why didn't you do that for me?'

'Well,' he blustered, 'things move on. It's a matter of opinion whether it's better than the 8000.' Complete nonsense. He knew he'd designed a pup in the 8000 and his 'new model' was much improved. I was biting my tongue and I told him I wouldn't stand in his way - he was free to do as he wished. However, he would need to understand that I'd have to replace him.

So I didn't fire him on the spot, and we agreed that he would stay on until I got a replacement. He returned to his position and carried on testing. He must have felt like he'd got away with murder.

I asked Stan Randall for advice on where to advertise for a new engineer. A couple of weeks later, enter Mr Mike Forsey, a slight, feeble-looking fellow
with a strange walk and a Hitler moustache. Forsey seemed to know his stuff, though you didn't need to know much to surpass Chenchen. Stan also found another chap, George Shrubsole, who worked for an amplifier company in Wimbledon, and we offered him a job. Stan was proving very helpful. I think he liked the fact I'd come from nowhere and was growing a business with a brand name that was taking on the likes of Armstrong and Leak.

With Forsey in place and Chenchen expecting to stay on for a few more weeks, I waited for my moment. One day, Chenchen was sitting at the end of the production line as usual, with his chest stuck out, like a peacock. He had a renewed sense of pride, having let everyone in the factory know he was leaving to start on his own.

I walked up behind him in a calm manner and told him to get up, get his wife and clear off. He was dumbstruck. He'd expected to stay for a bit longer. 'Right, George, time for you to go, mate. I've bitten my tongue and put up with you and your blackmail for far too long. Get your things and your wife, and go now.' Rather cheekily, I said all this in a loud tone, so the rest of the workers could hear. He was kind of sacked in front of all them and they heard why. He stormed off without saying a word.

I still remember his wife saying to me, 'I don't know why I should be telling you this, but the petty cash box key is under the filing cabinet door.'

I felt good about getting rid of the pair of them, but there I was without a clue how to do the payroll for the week! In desperation, I called my accountant and said, 'I have no one to do the PAYE - what am I supposed to do?' It's quite amazing how, at the time, I felt this was such a massive problem. My accountant simply sent one of his clerks along, who knocked off the PAYE for us in half a morning and told me how much money to take out of the bank to put in the pay-packets.

Now George Shrubsole, under the supervision of Mike Forsey, sat at the end of the production line testing amplifiers. He even managed to train a couple of the line workers to do the tests, so over the course of two to three weeks, Chenchen - this person who I'd thought had me by the balls, this animal who'd screamed at that kid and made me get rid of Sam Korobuck - was nothing to me any more.

It was big lesson learned - no one is indispensable.

*

So there I was, twenty-four years old, running my own factory, employing about thirty people. I'd built a company selling a product bearing the brand name Amstrad and was competing with the rest of the industry. Naturally,
news of this success precipitated through my family and they were all very pleased for me. Similarly, Ann's family saw me in a new light, as you might expect.

I remember arranging a fortieth wedding anniversary party for my mum and dad at a venue in Walthamstow It was quite a nice do and I invited all the family, as well as some of Ann's family. My Uncle Dave, who worked in one of the garment factories in Great Sutton Street, came up to me, full of compliments. The party went well, and it was something my mum and dad would not have expected.

Ann had coped with motherhood very well and Simon was now a toddler, amusing us and our friends, who used to come round to see the baby. We decided to have another child, and on 29 July 1971 my son Daniel was born at Wanstead Hospital. This time there was no traumatic story to tell about the birth. Ann, in common with most women, found the second one much easier.

I phoned my mum to tell her that the baby had arrived and that it was another boy, and she gave me the usual mild congratulations and asked how Ann was doing and if everything was okay. I then phoned my dad at Great Sutton Street to give him the good news. The conversation went like this:

'Hello, Dad, just to let you know, Ann's had another boy.'

'Oh, good, good, very good, congratulations. Look, Morning Plastics are outside with a big van - they want to know where to offload it.'

Even
I,
by then, could see the error of his ways. I said to him, 'Who cares about Morning Plastics? Did you hear what I just said to you? You're a grandfather again. Ann has just had another boy - we're going to call him Daniel. And everybody's fine, in case you're interested.'

He was obviously embarrassed and said, 'Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I'm sorry - it's just that I was flustered. Yes, it's wonderful news, mazel tov, congratulations. Ann's okay? Good, good, good.'

I took Simon along with me when we went to pick up Ann and Daniel from the hospital and I'll never forget the expression on his face when he saw me bring out the carrycot containing his baby brother and put it on the back seat of the car. He looked into the carrycot, as if to say, 'What's that? Who is this? How's it going to affect me?'

With the new addition to the family, Marlands Road had become a bit crowded. Simon had his own bedroom, but Daniel needed to be fed throughout the course of the night and would be keeping everyone up. We could afford to buy somewhere bigger, so we decided to move.

By 1971, the house I'd bought for PS4,700 in 1968 had tripled in value. In
fact, it was Ann who sold it. She actually gazumped someone, which is not in her nature at all. It was originally sold for PS15,300 to somebody, then the agent brought round some people whom Ann described as 'a really nice family' - the Robinses (Mr Ivan Robins was the local photographer). And as Ann put it, 'They were such nice, lovely people, I said they could have it for fifteen thousand, seven hundred.' She was right, they
were
nice people, and we went on to deal with Ivan and his son for many years to come.

After her gazumping exploits, Ann found us a new house in Chigwell - 10 Chigwell Rise. I bought the house outright for PS27,000 cash, with no mortgage - an unprecedented thing at the time.

Chigwell was quite a posh area in those days, full of rather typical English-style country folk. The migration of people like me, an East End boy, into the area was, to say the least, not popular. My migration - from Hackney to Clayhall in Redbridge, and then to Chigwell in Essex - was kind of the way it worked.

After buying our new home, we really smashed the place to pieces and spent a load of money on it. If I say so myself, we made it into a really top-class house. We even built a swimming-pool in the back garden. Chigwell Rise was a great house and it was to become our home for the next ten years.