The Arrogance of Power. Part (1) Continued from La Gota Fría.
In the autumn of 1989, I entered the insidious world of the luxury powerboat where making money wasn’t related to hard work or intellect. Lack of empathy and Machiavellian scheming was the modus operandi. Ego, lies, half-truths, black-money, double-dealing, spoiled brats, drugs, hookers, intrigue, betrayal, and occasionally some very nice people. After two weeks it seemed I’d been teleported into season five of ‘Howard’s Way’, a less opulent English version of ‘Dallas’.
Another unexpected shore I’d been washed up on, it was not the Mallorca I’d intended to bring my family to.
My first revelation was I’d been brought into the company to moderate an out of control service manager. I requested a contract and job description and was told ‘make your own authority’, doublespeak for ‘That’s your problem’. I’d done that messy job before and gained two stomach ulcers in the process, I didn’t intend doing it again. I figured the service manager must have something over them otherwise he’d already have been sacked.
I may have been reeled in, but I hadn’t completely swallowed the bait, I’d kept my self-employed status. Raising VAT registered invoices, paying my Social Security, and declaring my quarterly tax, I couldn’t be hung out to dry with the Agencia Tributaria if things went bad. I’d seen that one done before. There was no company car or a share in the business, but what really upset me was the lost opportunity. I had the technical and management experience to set up and run a quality service operation. Still, with a regular monthly income, I could live with that. I decided to go with the flow to see how things panned out. The company had twenty plus boats to look after and a lot of sales activity. The service parts management was abysmal and invariably relied on cannibalising one boat to get another operational. Such a system requires a good memory. When unwitting donors arrived at the same time as transplant recipients, the excrement hit the fan, and it was the lower echelons who got splattered.
To be helpful, I suggested the use of a long term Gantt Chart, avoiding the concept of critical flow paths. I also designed a weekly planner to describe the daily status of each boat. I thought I’d get responsibility, but it was given to someone else. So I didn’t propose the use of red, yellow, green and black stickers that turned the planner into a visually, prioritised system. Frustrated, I let them get on with it and just did what I was told, well some of the time.
“May we never confuse honest dissent with disloyal subversion” Dwight D. Eisenhower.
There was an obsession with company loyalty, constructive criticism was akin to treason, yet new procedures were regurgitated later without gratitude or credit to the initiator. What I found most distasteful was the planting of an informer within the service team to report descent. It wasn’t apparent to all, but I saw it, I knew who it was. I’d read Shirer’s ‘The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich’, I knew how it worked.
What confirmed the worst was when the office secretary, who had worked in the UK manufacturing company and had a significant client list was ousted after outliving her usefulness. She’d been told the money being taken from her monthly wage was to pay her mortgage on the little house she lived in at Cala Serena. She thought it was in the deal that brought her to the island. Was it her house, her mortgage, and was it in writing? NO, No and No. This was turning into a job for Don Quixote.
By chance, I saw some invoices charging for service work from a Channel Islands’ company. Strange because the service was carried out in Mallorca, it made Service look like it was losing money. At a morning assembly during job allocations, I suggested the idea of operating a cost centre system. Service should invoice Sales directly for warranty, mods and other sales support. This would reflect the real value of Service. I was told to keep my nose out and elevated to persona non grata.
Shortly after that, a new member of staff appeared at morning assembly, an accountant. When introduced to me, he ominously commented ‘I’ve heard a lot about you’. Supercilious prat.
By March 1990, relations were so strained, I was invited into the office for some attitude adjustment. It didn’t go well. I never bothered to bring up my promised management position, the company car or my share in the service company. I said I would work until the end of the month, it was the honourable thing to do! They were relieved I was going quietly, they didn’t put up an argument, and I got one more month’s pay out of them.
At the end of the month, the accountant paid me my wages. He said I wasn’t getting my petrol expenses, 20,000 Peseta (the equivalent of £100) for driving my own car around the island on their behalf. An argument ensued, and I left very pissed-off. At Es Carritxo, I stopped at the bar to get my mail, in the pigeon-hole was a buff envelope. For two years I’d been in dispute with Her Majesty’s Inland Revenue. They estimated I owed them money for 1988 based on previous years’ earnings. When I wrote telling them I’d already informed my local tax office I’d moved to Spain, and hadn’t worked in the UK in 1988, the National Office demanded I pay up, and they would sort it out later.
I didn’t think that was a good idea. The National, Ex-Pat and my local office all added input to the confusion. Finally, I wrote three identical memos to each office for the attention of anyone but the computer. Sandy warned me not to send them, but my Irish side got the better of me, and I did. Now, it seemed she was right. I sat down and stared at the envelope. After months of hearing nothing, I thought it was all done with. It was not what I bloody well wanted after the row I’d just had. Eventually, I opened the letter, it contained a statement and a cheque for £7,120 and 25 pence, a tax rebate with added interest for delayed payment. The cheque was dated and posted March 28, it was now Friday 31st, a speedy delivery. As I stared at the cheque, a wicked idea formed in my mind. The next day was April 1, but it was a Saturday, the accountant would not be in the office. Never mind, on this occasion, I was justified in moving April Fools Day to Monday. I had a tense weekend thinking about what I planned to do.
Early Monday morning I went to the office. It was quiet but the accountant, a conscientious man, was already there. I marched straight into his office and sat down on the other side of his desk. With an overdose of adrenaline, I had a slight tremble which he probably mistook for fear.
“I’ve come for my money”.
“You’re not getting it”.
I took out the buff envelope, less the statement, dropped it on his desk and with a finger pushed it over to him.
“What do you make of that?” I asked
He took out the cheque and studied it.
“It’s a tax rebate” he replied.
“I know about the Channel Islands. What if I told you that was my quarterly paycheque?”
He hesitated, I could see the accountant’s brain kick in.
Cheque from Her Majesty’s Inland Revenue. Cheque to Bernard. J. Butler. Dated March 28 1989. Amount of £7,120 and 25 pence. £7,120 and 25 pence times four. THAT’s AN ANNUAL SALARY!
Now, I noticed the slight tremble in his hand. I had to get out before I cracked up and ruined the moment. I reached over plucked the cheque out of his hand and made for the door, as I reached for the handle he crocked. “I was only doing my job, Bernie”.
I couldn’t turn and let him see the look on my face. Staring straight ahead, I responded.
“That’s what they all said at the Nuremberg trials”.
I had to leave as quickly as I could. Outside I doubled up in hysterics and released tension.
I didn’t tell him I was an undercover tax inspector, that would have been illegal, he came to that conclusion himself. I’d certainly spoiled his day.
The Spanish say’ Revenge is a meal best served cold’.