Diary of a Sales Rep

NOT VERY ACCOMODATING

One of the hazards of the job of a sales rep is that we have to be away from the - and in the wife’s case ample - bosom of our families from time to time. Slumming it in five star hotels on expenses.

On this particular occasion I was booked into a Travel Lodge. Yes, I know, but unfortunately circumstances dictated that I didn’t have a choice. This one turned out to be in a most delightful spot. Slap bang on the services of the M25 directly under the flight path to Gatport Airwick. Now I’m not saying it was close to the end of the runway, but there were tyre marks on the roof. As their advertising blurb says, “Nothing like a restful nights sleep.” How right they are. Absolutely nothing like.

Ah well! I booked in.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m away from home on business, I do like to indulge in the odd pint or three of the old fermented hops, (medicinal purposes only you understand) and something nice to eat. Having showered and cleaned up, I ventured out only to be reminded where I was by the roar of a British Airways Jumbo jet.

The only place to eat is, of course you’ve guessed it, the services, where the choices are Harry Ramsdens Fish and Chip Shop (which was shut, thank god. If you’ve never tried one of these outlets then you’re lucky), a Fresher Express (obviously some new meaning of the word “Fresher” that I am unfamiliar with), and a cold sandwich display (no sandwiches just a display)

The extensive menu of the “Fresher Express” consisted of a dubiou looking, un-named meat pie (apparently you have to pay more for “named” meat) and a Cumberland sausage, curly variety, which, it is assumed, had started life straight that morning at breakfast and had subsequently contracted into a spiral.

My appetite declined further as I approached the counter, to observe the female operative with her right index digit firmly rammed up her starboard nasal cavity, desperately seeking that elusive bogie. Which was duly extracted and catapulted towards the abandoned Harry Ramsden’s deep fat fryer. Solving the age-old mystery of what scraps (or Fish Bits in some parts of the country) are made from.

NOTE: Bogies can be classified into the following categories,

(a)    “Crusty” – ideal for flicking

(b)   “Crusty with a tail” - a very satisfying pick, but it can feel like it’s pulling the lining of your cap out

(c)    “Rattlers” – the most annoying. So called because of the way they oscillate within the nostril as you breath in and out.

Sales reps can often be seen pursuing this pastime when stuck in traffic jams or travelling along motorways.

Put off by this display I beat a hasty retreat back to the Travel Lodge reception to enquire of any possible alternatives. The young lady pointed out that there was a Pub within walking distance, which served food of an evening. To get to this hostelry I was instructed to go to the back of the service area, through a gap in the hedge, down the road past the scrap yard and turn left out of the industrial estate.

Heartened by this news I set off a pace. Through the hedge and on to the industrial estate, scrap yard on the right and into a housing estate that could only be described as a demilitarised zone. Probably twined with Basra. A strong aroma of curry hung in the air.

STONE ME!!! A dirty great Rottweiler launches its self at me snarling and slavering. (Note to self – change underwear when back at hotel. Did you know adrenalin is brown?) Fortunately it’s brought abruptly to a halt by a long chain, which, fortunately is secured to a concrete post at one end and its neck at the other. The dog makes a half strangulated barky, yelpy noise, a sort of “Blelkkk” and is yanked on to its back with a dull thud. Now, you, I, or perhaps a slightly more intelligent dog would have learned. But not this Frank Bruno of the canine world. I walk on to the repeated sound of, woof, woof, woof, woof, BLELRKK, THUD. Woof, woof, woof, woof, BLELRKK, THUD.

At last the pub was in sight. By now I needed a drink. As I drew near I could hear the convivial sound of clinking glass, a gentle cacophony of voices interspersed with bursts of laughter and shouts of glee from the locals, engaged in the merriment of a typical night out. Mind you I did feel sorry for the bloke on the floor that was being battered over the head with beer bottles by a load of laughing shouting drunks. I immediately sprang into action and asked if I could help. “Yes” came the reply, “Hit him with this Newcy Brown bottle ” (If anyone knows how to get blood out of a silk tie please write in).

Having bought a round for “The Lads”(Thirty seven quid. I would still like to know who ordered the pint of crème de Methe shandy), I sat down at a table to look at the menu. “Meat Pie” was staring at me. I thought no, don’t look back at him just read the menu. I plump for gammon steak. The barmaid takes my order. Well, I say Barmaid it was difficult to tell. She – He  - It had LOVE and HAT tattooed on its knuckles. The “E” was lost along with the digit in a CO-OP bacon slicer in 1979. It couldn’t be sewn back on due to it falling into Mrs. Blenkinsop’s pound of pork sausages and before anyone realised they were speedily wrapped in grease proof and away for Mr. Blenkinsop’s tea.

The gammon was delicious. (I have to put that because they said they would set fire to me) I bought another pint for me and I was informed by “The Lads” that it was my round again. It was turning out to be a costly night. (Thinks! – Can I put this down as entertaining on my expenses?) Having enough Dutch courage I asked “The Lads” why the Police hadn’t turned up? Silly me. Ask a silly question. Apparently the bloke outside was helping them with their enquiries.

By now it had gone dark. It wasn’t my intention to stay as long as that. Staggering out of the pub I looked around trying to get my bearings. I was completely lost. Which way was it back to the Industrial Estate? Then a familiar sound wafted through the air. Woof, woof, woof, woof, BLELRKK, THUD. Good old Frank, that’s the way home.

Remember, in the words of the old Indian Guru, Mustapha Leek, “You can’t get a Donkeys lips to appreciate Fruit Pie”

Your man at the sharp end

 

Bob Campbell.  FInst S&M, DipSo, DSS, Itv, WRVS & Webs Wonder

Sales Representative (Extraordinaire)

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Not Very Accomodating

One of the hazards of the job of a sales rep is that we have to be away from the - and in the wife’s case ample - bosom of our families from time to time. Slumming it in five star hotels on expenses.

On this particular occasion I was booked into a Travel Lodge. Yes, I know, but unfortunately circumstances dictated that I didn’t have a choice. This one turned out to be in a most delightful spot. Slap bang on the services of the M25 directly under the flight path to Gatport Airwick. Now I’m not saying it was close to the end of the runway, but there were tyre marks on the roof. As their advertising blurb says, “Nothing like a restful nights sleep.” How right they are. Absolutely nothing like.

Ah well! I booked in.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m away from home on business, I do like to indulge in the odd pint or three of the old fermented hops, (medicinal purposes only you understand) and something nice to eat. Having showered and cleaned up, I ventured out only to be reminded where I was by the roar of a British Airways Jumbo jet.

The only place to eat is, of course you’ve guessed it, the services, where the choices are Harry Ramsdens Fish and Chip Shop (which was shut, thank god. If you’ve never tried one of these outlets then you’re lucky), a Fresher Express (obviously some new meaning of the word “Fresher” that I am unfamiliar with), and a cold sandwich display (no sandwiches just a display)

The extensive menu of the “Fresher Express” consisted of a dubiou looking, un-named meat pie (apparently you have to pay more for “named” meat) and a Cumberland sausage, curly variety, which, it is assumed, had started life straight that morning at breakfast and had subsequently contracted into a spiral.

My appetite declined further as I approached the counter, to observe the female operative with her right index digit firmly rammed up her starboard nasal cavity, desperately seeking that elusive bogie. Which was duly extracted and catapulted towards the abandoned Harry Ramsden’s deep fat fryer. Solving the age-old mystery of what scraps (or Fish Bits in some parts of the country) are made from.

NOTE: Bogies can be classified into the following categories,

(a)    “Crusty” – ideal for flicking

(b)   “Crusty with a tail” - a very satisfying pick, but it can feel like it’s pulling the lining of your cap out

(c)    “Rattlers” – the most annoying. So called because of the way they oscillate within the nostril as you breath in and out.

Sales reps can often be seen pursuing this pastime when stuck in traffic jams or travelling along motorways.

Put off by this display I beat a hasty retreat back to the Travel Lodge reception to enquire of any possible alternatives. The young lady pointed out that there was a Pub within walking distance, which served food of an evening. To get to this hostelry I was instructed to go to the back of the service area, through a gap in the hedge, down the road past the scrap yard and turn left out of the industrial estate.

Heartened by this news I set off a pace. Through the hedge and on to the industrial estate, scrap yard on the right and into a housing estate that could only be described as a demilitarised zone. Probably twined with Basra. A strong aroma of curry hung in the air.

STONE ME!!! A dirty great Rottweiler launches its self at me snarling and slavering. (Note to self – change underwear when back at hotel. Did you know adrenalin is brown?) Fortunately it’s brought abruptly to a halt by a long chain, which, fortunately is secured to a concrete post at one end and its neck at the other. The dog makes a half strangulated barky, yelpy noise, a sort of “Blelkkk” and is yanked on to its back with a dull thud. Now, you, I, or perhaps a slightly more intelligent dog would have learned. But not this Frank Bruno of the canine world. I walk on to the repeated sound of, woof, woof, woof, woof, BLELRKK, THUD. Woof, woof, woof, woof, BLELRKK, THUD.

At last the pub was in sight. By now I needed a drink. As I drew near I could hear the convivial sound of clinking glass, a gentle cacophony of voices interspersed with bursts of laughter and shouts of glee from the locals, engaged in the merriment of a typical night out. Mind you I did feel sorry for the bloke on the floor that was being battered over the head with beer bottles by a load of laughing shouting drunks. I immediately sprang into action and asked if I could help. “Yes” came the reply, “Hit him with this Newcy Brown bottle ” (If anyone knows how to get blood out of a silk tie please write in).

Having bought a round for “The Lads”(Thirty seven quid. I would still like to know who ordered the pint of crème de Methe shandy), I sat down at a table to look at the menu. “Meat Pie” was staring at me. I thought no, don’t look back at him just read the menu. I plump for gammon steak. The barmaid takes my order. Well, I say Barmaid it was difficult to tell. She – He  - It had LOVE and HAT tattooed on its knuckles. The “E” was lost along with the digit in a CO-OP bacon slicer in 1979. It couldn’t be sewn back on due to it falling into Mrs. Blenkinsop’s pound of pork sausages and before anyone realised they were speedily wrapped in grease proof and away for Mr. Blenkinsop’s tea.

The gammon was delicious. (I have to put that because they said they would set fire to me) I bought another pint for me and I was informed by “The Lads” that it was my round again. It was turning out to be a costly night. (Thinks! – Can I put this down as entertaining on my expenses?) Having enough Dutch courage I asked “The Lads” why the Police hadn’t turned up? Silly me. Ask a silly question. Apparently the bloke outside was helping them with their enquiries.

By now it had gone dark. It wasn’t my intention to stay as long as that. Staggering out of the pub I looked around trying to get my bearings. I was completely lost. Which way was it back to the Industrial Estate? Then a familiar sound wafted through the air. Woof, woof, woof, woof, BLELRKK, THUD. Good old Frank, that’s the way home.

Remember, in the words of the old Indian Guru, Mustapha Leek, “You can’t get a Donkeys lips to appreciate Fruit Pie”

Your man at the sharp end

Bob Campbell.  FInst S&M, DipSo, DSS, Itv, WRVS & Webs Wonder

Sales Representative (Extraordinaire)