Month: April 2019

The Bowie / Rickman Coaching Encounters 

Amid all of the fully understandable grief being expressed over the death of two of our finest British contemporary artists this week, and amid much exclamation that they should die at the same age of 69, there has been no suggestion that they ever met or worked together. While they died in the same week and at the same age, and held many common interests, no claims are made that they ever collaborated. All of this puts me in somewhat of quandary as I know for a fact that not only did they meet, but that I was an agent in their coming together. I have tried wrestled long and hard with my ethics code as an Executive Coach (Mastery level) as to whether to hold back on this revelation or not; but have decided that on balance perhaps the world needs to know of my intervention.  Perhaps too soon I know, but i must act as I so often tell me clients to do and ‘ask for forgiveness, not permission.’

Bowie I had been seeing each other on and off as client and coach for years and years. All of those bust-ups with managers that he had over the years do not come without a cost, and I was always there to help David mop up the mess.Rickman I met when commissioning some graphic art work from his Company Graphiti in Notting Hill, for a poster for the re-launch of Life magazine in 1972.  As he fiddled with the silk screen he mused some about wanting to become an actor, uttered in a voice so compelling that it was immediately clear to me the direction he must take, despite the risks involved in making such a career leap. I employed all of my best empathic listening techniques to persuade him of the need for this career volte face, to the extent that he dropped the poster on the floor to enlist with RADA directly. It was one of those coaching ‘critical moments’ that make this work so worthwhile, though the unsolicited invoice remains unpaid.

Alan never forgot this debt of gratitude however, and so it was in 1997 that he called me to ask for some guidance once more, as his career was somewhat in the doldrums and he was seeking fresh direction.  I explained to him that my practice had moved on some from one-on- one coaching to my innovative ‘Compatible Celebrity Co- Coaching’ (CCCC) approach,where i pair up somewhat compatible clients then leverage some profound common ground to reveal a necessary point of difference that each client must exploit in their own way. he said he had no idea what I was on about but that he would give it a go.

Needless to say David – always the innovator – was most enthusiastic to try out CCCC, as was delighted to hear that Rickman would be his CCCC pair, though he was puzzled as to the common chemistry, beyond a passion for art and design.  I spelled out to him that the common ground lay in the fact that they were both born within ten weeks of each other, of humble family origins, in unremarkable suburbs of London.  Both of these esteemed clients were then taken by this explanation, and before too long. with the fee structure settled, we were sat in a black cab doing a psychogeography of their respective childhood haunts, by way of evoking Freudian transferences and Jungian syncrhonicities.  I have to tell you that is was like “How Do You Think You Are?’ with Bow bells on.

There were many tears spilled but there was also good humoured banter.  With the ice well and truly broken and egos set aside we headed back to my basement consulting rooms in Earls Court to get down to the meat and potatoes of CCCC.
And so came the moment when each of them, comfortable in their overstuffed armchairs, faced each other to admit where they were currently stuck, and to work towards a fresh impetus. Continuing the banter from the suburban road trip, Alan quipped that Bowie ‘needed no lectures from him on ‘changes’, so chameleon like had been his career.’

 ‘You are a fine one to talk’ retorted Bowie, ‘ when you whole career launchpad is based on the ghost of a cellist making comeback after comeback to scare the bejesus out of poor Juliette.’ Soon enough however the conversation moved into a more serious exploration of things that were currently troubling them. Rickman talked of Michael Collins. He was left feeling so unhappy at the Hollywood ending of this film, one that he felt sure would have caused De Valera to turn in his grave.  He really did not want to spending any more time distorting the political truth in this way in the pursuit of his art. He would rather do fantasy than besmirch noble history. Bowie for his part was restless to move on musically despite the successes of Outside and Earthlings.

I felt a need at that point to insert my non – directive Rogerian wisdom into this pleasantly reflective but ultimately non- generative CCCC. ‘Look David’ I said, in my best 1997 Blairite voice,’You need to push the commercial envelope and be an innovator in other ways.  I suggest you sell your entire back-catalogue and issue some bonds – I know call then Bowie Bonds! – then you can leverage capital to put into new projects that take your fancy.’ “Great lets do it’ said David, ‘You just make it happen for me’, so I did. I asked Alan once more what was the height of his ambition. He said to play opposite Helen Mirren.

Bowie immediately chipped into to say that was his ambition too. I pointed out that this was every red – blooded British males’ ambition but there was only one of her to go around. My non directive advice to him was to go directly into Science Fiction, and stop protesting his birthright which was clearly to play sarcastic, sneering sci fi villains, and perhaps do some TV voice overs for the burgeoning financial services industry too, perhaps channelling a snake or a crocodile. He looked perplexed but thrilled at these prospects, and David was most supportive of this change. Mind you he would have been supportive of any change suggested to another.

We three met again to review progress in 1999, following the same format of nostalgic cab trip then back to the basement. Alan revealed that while many things had occurred since our last seance, the most notable had been playing opposite Helen Mirren. Bowie’s jaw dropped as a small gasp emitted from the normally unflappably cool white duke. Despite his best intentions Alan had found himself involved in two sic-fi films Megatron and Galaxy Quest, and had even signed up to voice- over “Help! I’m a Fish. ‘ His thanks to me for my advice on change of direction were profuse.

Once again they were not much use to each other on the advice front so i had to tell David to build on the $55 million he netted on the Bowie Bonds (minus my well deserved 15%) and go into online banking through the launch of – ‘oh i know the BowieBanc’ where customers have bank cards with his face on.  He mumbled something about wanting to make a new album but I told him in no uncertain terms that this bank project was priority.  As for Alan i told him that he needed to stop playing adult villains and start to become a children’s villain. Mystified at this, I threw a copy of the first Harry Potter masterpiece towards him.  Disdainful at first, as only Alan can do disdain,  he said he would follow my advice and after a short collusive phone call to Robbie Coltrane the rest is well documented history.

We never did meet again we three though i believe that the two of them did keep somewhat in touch, though i cannot be sure. Not even their families knew of these encounters. Perhaps it best after all that the deep secrets that are divulged in the executive coaches room remain buried for eternity.

Behind the Mask.

What a month January 2016 was for the culling of my erstwhile executive coaching clients. I had no notion that the passing of Bowie and Rickman would so soon be followed by Parkinson and Wogan. (Not Michael Parkinson that is, the greatly admired interviewer, comparable only to Wogan as a celebrity spearer, but Cecil the politician.) I was appalled as I think we all were by the outpouring of pseudo-grief from D list celebrities claiming association to the two greats that were Bowie and Rickman, when their real motive was to reflect glory by association upon themselves and their thin meagre second-hand lives. I would never presume to indulge myself in such a fashion.

By happenstance both Terry and Cecil came to me in late 1983, at time of profound personal crisis for each of them. But then as you know it is at that moment of crisis so profound as to be destiny altering that the great and illustrious turn to me, imperilled yet confident of succour and life long anonymity. In this instance Cecil’s crisis related to his being unceremoniously sacked by Thatcher the career snatcher. The story put about was that he had to resign as he had gotten his secretary pregnant.

This was partly true; but as only i can reveal, the whole truth was that Margaret was furiously jealous that her most handsome and most lustrous of ministers should be found so undiscerning as respond to a sexual magnetism other than her own, unassailably and indissolubly paired with Dennis though she was. For Terry’s part, he was deeply anxious in that he did not share the BBC’s optimism that his loquacious radio talents could transfer so easily to the constrained format of TV chat show. In fact, off air, Terry was a mass of neuroses.

In line with my group breaking Celebrity Co- Coaching (CCC) technique, I brought these two conflicted characters together in November 1983 in my fashionably tatty Earls Court consulting room to see what light they may be able to shine upon each other’s plight. What was immediately noticeable was the contrast between their respective private as opposed to public demeanours. Cecil in the confines of my sacred space was as knock-about funny and charming as Terry was anxious about everything around him, catastrophising that every element of his life was soon to be falling apart, not least his TV show.

Cecil, on the other hand had – with my support – discovered that he had progressed through the Kubler Ross grief curve in four short weeks and was well down the road of planning his next career as a whimsical stand up comedian ready to challenge the Ben Elton and the whole emergent alternative comedy scene. His only real obstacle was getting his name out there in this different context. And somehow to get beyond the perception that he was standing on the shoulders of Bernard Manning.

Terry was confident that he could get him a few Home Counties golf club gigs to get him going. As Terry stumbled on through his litany of misery, Neither Cecil nor I could divine why he was speaking in a mock Yorkshire accent, his mutterings barely comprehensible as he mixed personal reminiscence with lengthy, complex questions seemingly addressed to us both. When we were at last able to inquire as to this modality, he explained that he was modelling his TV persona on Michael Parkinson’s delivery, though the personal transformation project was in the early stages.

As confession fell upon confession, he also revealed that he was deeply concerned that his increasingly lengthy, hedonistic lunches with his fellow early morning performer Frank Bough were descending into stimulant fuelled chaos that were bound sooner of later to attract the attention of the paparazzi. Cecil with all his recent painfully won learning concerning press intrusion was able to tender some street-wise advice to Terry , such as always to use a condom.

In a well meaning attempt to rehabilitate Terry’s mellifluous Irish brogue, Cecil prompted that we make our way along the Fulham Road to the Chenye Arms, where George Best was to be found for a craic laden lunch. Terry was all for this, so long as he could bring Bough along too. And Kenny Everett, who was in his foam-rubber hands ‘let’s kick Michael Foot’ s stick away mode. And Ernie Wise. (All of whom later were to become long term customer’s of mine – word of mouth you see, the golden marketing rule.) In that sage company, Cecil found a safe place to try out some of his more outre far right alternative jokes, while Terry and George rehearsed some spontaneous repartee for George’s forthcoming slot on Terry’s studio sofa. I gazed fondly on this tableau, basking in the realisation that not only had I manifested this legendary event, but that all of the secrets divulged therein would follow me to my grave and beyond. `Cigars all round’ I should say say.Behind the Mask.

What a month January 2016 was for the culling of my erstwhile executive coaching clients.  I had no notion that the passing of Bowie and Rickman would be so soon be followed by Parkinson and Wogan. (Not Michael Parkinson that is, the greatly admired interviewer, comparable only to Wogan as a celebrity spearer, but Cecil the politician.) I was appalled as I think we all were by the outpouring of pseudo-grief from D list celebrities claiming association to the two greats that were Bowie and Rickman, when there real motive was to reflect glory by association upon themselves and their thin meagre second-hand lives.  I would never presume to indulge myself in such a fashion.   By happenstance both Terry and Cecil came to me in late 1983, at time of profound personal crisis for each of them.  

But then as you know it is at that moment of crisis so profound as to be destiny altering that the great and illustrious turn to me, imperilled yet confident of succour and life long anonymity. In this instance Cecil’s crisis related to his being unceremoniously sacked by Thatcher the career snatcher.  The story put about was that he had to resign as he had gotten his secretary pregnant. This was partly true; but as only i can reveal, the whole truth was that Margaret was furiously jealous that her most handsome and most lustrous of ministers  should be found so undiscerning as respond to a sexual magnetism other than her own, unassailably and indissolubly paired with Dennis though she was.  For Terry’s part, he was deeply anxious in that he did not share the BBC’s optimism that his loquacious radio talents could transfer so easily to the constrained format of TV chat show.

 In fact, off air, Terry was a mass of neuroses. In line with my group breaking Celebrity Co- Coaching (CCC) technique, I brought these two conflicted characters together in November 1983 in my fashionably tatty Earls Court consulting room to see what light they may be able to shine upon each other’s plight. What was immediately noticeable was the contrast between their respective private as opposed to public demeanours. Cecil in the confines of my sacred space was as knock-about funny and charming as Terry was anxious about everything around him, catastrophising that every element of his life was soon to be falling apart, not least his TV show.  

Cecil, on the other hand had – with my support – discovered that he had progressed through the Kubler Ross grief curve in four short weeks and was well down the road of planning his next career as a whimsical stand up comedian ready to challenge the Ben Elton and the whole emergent alternative comedy scene.  His only real obstacle was getting his name out there in this different context.  And somehow to get beyond the perception that he was standing on the shoulders of Bernard Manning. Terry was confident that he could get him a  few Home Counties golf club gigs to get him going. 

As Terry stumbled on through his litany of misery, Neither Cecil nor I could divine why he was speaking in a mock Yorkshire accent, his mutterings barely comprehensible as he  mixed personal reminiscence with lengthy, complex questions seemingly addressed to us both.  When we were at last able to inquire as to this modality, he explained that he was modelling his TV persona on Michael Parkinson’s delivery, though the personal transformation project was in the early stages.  As confession fell upon confession, he also revealed that he was deeply concerned that his increasingly lengthy, hedonistic lunches with his fellow early morning performer Frank Bough were descending into stimulant fuelled chaos that were bound sooner of later to attract the attention of the paparazzi.  Cecil with all his recent painfully won learning concerning press intrusion was able to tender some street-wise advice to Terry , such as always to use a condom.

In a well meaning attempt to rehabilitate Terry’s mellifluous Irish brogue, Cecil prompted that we make our way along the Fulham Road to the Chenye Arms, where George Best was to be found for a craic laden lunch.  Terry was all for this, so long as he could bring Bough along too. And Kenny Everett, who was in his foam-rubber hands ‘let’s kick Michael Foot’ s stick away persona. And Ernie Wise. (All of whom later were to become long term customer’s of mine – word of mouth you see, the golden marketing rule.)   In that sage company, Cecil found a safe place to try out some of his more outre far right alternative jokes, while Terry and George rehearsed some spontaneous repartee for George’s forthcoming slot on Terry’s studio sofa. I gazed fondly on this tableau, basking in the realisation that not only had I manifested this legendary event, but that all of the secrets divulged therein would follow me to my grave and beyond.  `Cigars all round’ I should say say. 

Walking on broken glass under Colombian stars

I met a Colombian bartender last night. They are not difficult to meet just as long as you do not chat to their girlfriends. I was singing along to Sweet Dreams are Made of This which was blasting out on his music machine. It made such a lovely change from all the rhumba and reggathon. He joined in lustily, commending my singing of the Dave Stewart part. He seemed in a trance as Annie sang, phrase after phrase repeated on his reverential lips. ‘So you like this group?’ I inquired.

His eyes lit up, bright and shining. He revealed that he not only liked them, but that they held a special place in his heart, as he had ‘learned all the English I know through listening to the Eurythmics. ‘Who am i to disagree with that?’ I said by way of joining this niche idiom. He asked ‘Was I waiting for a friend?’’Well everybody’s looking for something’ I had to remind him. He asked if i had any plans for the evening. I said ‘ i want to walk in the open wind i want to talk like lovers do.’ He pointed to the next table where a couple were enjoying a publicly intimate conversation in that achingly tender Colombian fashion.

As i gazed in envy, it started raining in my head like a tragedy, tearing me apart like a new emotion. He said ‘Don’t be down – hold your head up – hold your head up – keep your head up, keep moving on.’ I found this intervention really helpful. He asked who had done this to me. I said ‘She gave me such a bad time, tried to hurt me but now i know.’‘She sounds like she was a real thorn in your side. You need to be moving on. Have you looked up at the stars up here in the mountains?’

Gazing skywards i said ‘Yes they leave me feeling very small under the universe.’ He relied ‘The moon is pale outside and you are far from here. Why not get out of yourself, go out enjoy yourself tonight?’ These words felt a strange deception, be celestial intervention.‘Not tonight’ I sighed ‘ in fact I can’t wait until tomorrow comes. I worry about going out around here with so many drugs flying around.’ ‘Oh, so you just can’t get enough of the stuff? Why not try the club next door it is glamorous and sleek by design.’‘God no I went there last night. It’s hard and restrained and totally cool. It touches and it teases as you stumble in the debris.’

“Well it does need a different cleaning contractor. I’ll show you something good, I’ll show you something good. You can make a new start when your crumbling world falls apart.’ “Will it really take away my pain?’ ‘Yes just hold your head up. The miracle of love will come your way again.’ ‘ Well maybe. Meanwhile i will travel the world and the seven seas .. i need to go to a place where no one on earth could feel like this where i am thrown and overflown with bliss.’I am not sure if i have ever had such a clean, helpful casual conversation before, successfully working as it did the tension between lyricism and necessary restraint. Perhaps he has a friend who schooled on Van Morrison for a change in mood tomorrow?

From Nighthawk to Night Walk

Our guide cleared her throat to deliver the first of her many unignorable instructions. ‘This is an eco tour and throughout this tour we demand eco- minded behaviour. This is a night walk as you might have noticed due to the lack of daylight. You must carry a torch. Torches will be provided. You may not use your torch unless i instruct you. You may not talk as it disturbs the animals. I will talk throughout to let you know where the animals were yesterday and the many months preceding. I will also speculate as to where you might see mammals tomorrow.’

In hindsight she might also have said ‘One thing i can pretty much guarantee is that you will not see any mammals tonight. But i cannot tell you that as you have paid $25 to see things other than trees and spiders and caterpillars. I have been guiding this night tour for 23 years and my script is finely honed. Questions may only be of the frequently asked variety and must be aways on topic.”You must wear rain gear as you are in a cloud forest where 90% of trees never see the sun, just as much as 90% of visitors to our biodiversity experience never see anything mammalian either. We are all in this together, the trees and us. You may see a tarantula.’

In fact we grow to learn that everyone sees the this tarantula though we are led to believe that we are the lucky plucky few. ‘Watch while I poke a stick in her hole. Watch her come out now.’ Just as she does everyday right on time. Showtime for Mimi the tarantula. Someone speculates that the spider is actually mechanical. Someone else suggests that she is on a sponsorship deal with a daily dose of crickets delivered earlier. We are told that she has ten legs and eight eyes. I hum ‘Eye of the Spider’ which adds some agreeable dramatic tension to Mimi’s suspiciously choreographed display.

Of all the myriad trees in all of the forest she suddenly shines her light into a random bush only to reveal with a gasp of astonishment the tiniest toucan in existence.’Look look’ she whispers in her best David Attenborough tone, ‘we are so lucky! We have stumbled on a sleeping toucan. It looks just like a tennis ball’. It is yellow, slightly fluffy ‘all curled up with its head buried under its wing as it sleeps.’ We stare for a while. It looks too much like a tennis ball for comfort. ‘Second service’ cries some apostate at the back who is promptly told to shut up. Mimi retreats inside her hole for another night.

A domestic cat follows us throughout the trip, its two (not eight) eyes gleaming a convincing green in the torchlight. Our guide is furious at this intrusive urban development, throwing rocks at the cat who nevertheless follows undeterred. ‘The maid must have let the cat out’ she chastises. ‘it will scare away all the birds.’ At this point we begin to wonder if this cat is a set up designed to explain away this prolonged outbreak of empty cloud forest syndrome. On the topic of cats, she went on to explain that the screech of the puma was closest in kind to the screech of a woman.

She told us that the early Quaker settlers always took a woman along with them on their forest forays just in case they needed to scare any animals away with her surrogate screams. Good to know that women have their uses even in the bush. Talk about performativity though. You could almost hear Judith Butler fulminating in the undergrowth.Away from the subject of woman there is much mention of Tarzan. Too much mention of Tarzan (but never of Jane.)

Clearly the Tarzan meme is assumed to bite deep across all cultures and age groups. Yet we have our worlds turned upside down when she tells us that all we know about Tarzan is wrong. He could not have swung from the lianas as these grow upward not downwards. She invites a teenage boy to demonstrate. His eager swing results in him crashing to the ground as the solider ants descend on him. She beams at his empirical proof yet we all back off, feeling troubled Which only goes to show that no one likes a smart arse. Our group suddenly communally bonded in resentment at having our Tarzan trope deconstructed.

The night-walk was never quite the same after that as dissent crept in among the rain- coated ranks, the ever more persistent rain dissolving any hope that was left of material sightings.She picks up a fallen papery leaf and asks us to sniff it, to taste it. We sniff but do not inhale. She sets the quiz question ‘guess which element taken from this leaf is one of the most common foodstuffs in existence?’ ‘Ketchup’ suggests one of the lads. ‘Chewing gum’ pipes another. ‘NO … come on, think .. which two shakers are most commonly found in a restaurant?’ Hardly able to hear over the rain, I ask ”In a rest room? I have come across many shakers in a restroom in my time, though some men just put it straight back.’ ‘Not a rest room’ she hissed. ‘Are you Irish? ‘ How did she know? Perhaps Irish are congenitally averse to quizzes where the answer is known only to the questioner.

Within sight of the lodge and tantalisingly near the safety of the bus she stopped us all in our tracks while reaching in her bag to find a surgical glove, the better to pick up what looked like a tiny tissue fallen in the undergrowth. Finger by fastidious finger she pulls on the glove, as if preparing to handle kryptonite. The rain is now at saturation level, certainly enough to dissolve the biodegradable Kleenex. ‘Is it a condom?’ asked one the liana lads excitedly. Seemed not as it is fully disintegrated before it could be quarantined, a precious five immolated minutes later.

Back on the bus she reminded us of all of the animals we might have seen had it not been for the rain and the full moon. Yet the lights of the bus seemed to pick up beast after beast as we struggled up the rutted track towards home. The driver looked suitably embarrassed, diverting his lights whenever he could away from the veritable carnival of the animals tableau that played out before our damp eyes. Perhaps it was not just homo sapiens who had grown to prefer an urban setting, socially alienating though it is supposed to be. Sometime later, I sought out a lonely bar to reenact Hopper’s ‘Nighthawks’ meme, perhaps by way of exorcising this nocturnal immersive eco- experience and the debunking of Tarzan myths from my system. No room now for my new best friend to perch on the adjacent stool?

A time for bonding in the rain forest. 
The first week down from the mountains and into the rainforest has proven a time for bonding, or more properly a time for experiments in bonding, some of which have worked, despite the frequent rain delays making heart connection perilous. The bonding with a baby sloth got off to a promising start. We were both all gooey eyed at each other from the off, but, truth to tell, sloth bonds are slow in developing and with limited time, I needed to break eye-contact and head for more easily acquired intimacy. And she was a little clingy.  Iguana bonds of course are always colourful affairs but my are those creatures  elusive in their love.

They seem to shift affection at the drop of a leaf, throwing an invisibility cloak around them, without need for recourse to an un-friend button. Iguana bonds I concluded are momentarily rewarding but honestly the patience required and the potential for betrayal is altogether too high, even by Central American standards. By comparison my forays into parrot bonding proved immediate and so reassuring; though after a while having you every passing thought repeated ad naueum begins to have the obverse effect to narcissistic reassurance, causing you to wonder if any thing you ever say makes any sense at all. I decided in the end that parrot bonds need to be limited to moments of personal doubt alone lest blindness to new personal failings creeps in
Human bondage is a quite different matter.  

The owner of our current eco-lodge carries some promise of sustainable bondage. On the other hand he does erect barriers to trust building, perhaps by way of testing the sustainability and resilience of me as well as other guests.  For example while outlining the dangers in living in such a poor area with high crime and homelessness, he apologised for the temporary absence of his night guard, explaining that the said night guard had pushed his fingers into the fish tank on which we leaning, only to be bitten by the scorpion fish, and was now still detained in the emergency room.

Despite the exposure to more drug induced violence I  am moved to forgiveness on the grounds that this animated young man is more naturalist than hotelier. His main passion is the preservation of poisoned frogs, against whom for some reason hard to discern the local population have developed an aversion.  He proudly points out his tadpole breeding pond, parked right outside the room. He explains that while the green and black ones are deadly, the red and black ones are deadlier still.  Apparently the red and black ones, should they pass near your lips, would cause instant heart attack.  So there in one moment go all fantasies of princely manifestations, in face of such perilous outcomes. It may well be that in time i will bond with the owner, but never with his creatures.