Getting Down to Business
It all started with a postcard. After attending the first ever Driffield Steam Traction Rally in the mid 1980s, I thought the photographs I took were good enough to be made into a souvenir postcard, to be sold the following year. That was my first ever business idea, but it wasn’t to be. That’s how it is; you think of a product or service and sit on it until it either hatches, or you drift away and lose interest. Over the years, good ideas came and went, while I remained a free spirit (unemployed). I left school in 1982 with a few average CSE qualifications.
After finally leaving school, that first summer could best be described as spellbinding. Firstly, there was our annual trip to meet the extended family in Sussex (mum’s side of the family) and then Kent (dad’s side of the family), but with the added bonus of visiting the RAF Museum on our return journey. During that same summer, I made it to the Farnborough Air Show, courtesy of the ATC. Yet I remember that summer now for different reasons. It would be our final holiday together as a family. It would also be the last time I would visit the farm – my grandparents’ home. All my grandparents are now dead, and those holidays in Sussex and Kent are but distant memories.
My Wilderness Years 1982 – 1992
I’m not like my sister. Unlike me, she works for a living. She has always had this strong work ethic. Her first job was in a café in Driffield when she was 14. She has worked in shops and factories and in care homes for the elderly all her life. I don’t even think she has ever signed on. She currently works as an auxiliary nurse. I don’t know anyone who works harder than my beloved sister.
And what about me? After that glorious summer of 1982, I travelled to Bridlington by train and signed the unemployment register. Thereafter, I signed on the dole every fortnight and 25 years later, I am still signing on the dole. That said, I have done the odd paid job, plus several compulsory Government training schemes and tried numerous attempts at self-employment. I am very proactive and keep myself busy, yet I am still unemployed.
However, there was a time (in 1983) when I desperately wanted a job. But with Driffield being a small market town, there were few vacancies, and at the end of the day, I simply gave up. I used to visit the Job Centre in Driffield every day, and sometimes I would check the boards two or even three times a day – but there was nothing. There were several boards, each detailing numerous jobs printed on cards. Yet only one display board featured local jobs for local people.
Then, success. I found work at the pram factory where my mum made pushchairs. My job was to check imported stock made in Taiwan. I was quite good at my job – too good, as I rejected pushchairs for even the slightest blemish. I was sacked after only four days. This was in 1983. My next paid job was in 1999.
Life is in the Detail
I would sign-on every other Monday, with my giro cheque arriving on Wednesday morning. It was important to get out of bed and across to the Post Office before 1pm, because Wednesday was half-day closing in Driffield. After cashing my giro, I would go straight into a nearby supermarket and buy two cans of Coke Cola, a Mars bar and a jar of Hayward’s sweet pickled onions. Occasionally, I would also buy a box of Twiglets. All rather sad, really. Next stop was the Driffield Home Bakery for a pre-packed, ready-made sandwich (beef and pickled onion or egg and mayonnaise), which was something of a novelty in the early 1980s.
Every month, I would buy the latest copies of Flypast and Aeroplane Monthly. I would stay indoors all day and rarely did I venture far. I had no friends, nor did I have the inclination to excel in anything worthy of noting down here. This was my life for about ten years. The only thing I enjoyed was photography. Accordingly, I enrolled onto a photographic course with the local college, then another course that would result in an “A Level” in the subject. I even managed to scrounge a two week work placement with Granada Television, and it was this that changed everything.
Film-making and television production – I was mesmerised by the cameras – both 16mm film and broadcast video. My two weeks spent photographing the stars of Coronation Street, and behind-the-scenes of television production, resulted in my ambition to become a documentary film-maker.
I would request brochures from Sony and Arriflex, detailing the latest broadcast cameras. All very erotic, really. Yet, I wasn’t thinking straight. Instead of being obsessed with the latest technology, I should have gone back to college and then onto university, before starting on the bottom ladder in broadcasting. But I wanted instant results. I thought about making my own films, but the equipment was too expensive. This was 1986, and DV hadn’t yet been invented. I did however manage to secure a placement with a video production company in Leeds. Every day, I would get the first train out of Driffield and would arrive home very late at night.
I found it difficult to learn the complex technology. The company was a facilities house, where local producers would employ our services – ranging from studio hire to video editing. Our clients mostly specialised in making low budget TV adverts and corporate videos. As a trainee Production Assistant I was incompetent and immature. I simply couldn’t spark into life. I lasted six weeks before they pulled my plug. That said, I still found the subject of film-making interesting enough to make it my ambition. Yet, it would be 1997 before I even attempted to make my first film.
We now fast forward a few years. I have left Driffield. The family has drifted apart. My parents are divorced, and I live in Bridlington. For a few years, I have contemplated becoming self-employed. The year is 1995 and cue: HRH Prince of Wales.
Prince’s Youth Business Trust
Picture House Productions (a sole trading company) was established with the advice and financial support of the Prince’s Youth Business Trust (PYBT) in 1995. My proposal was to create a number of products, relating to both local and aeronautical history.
Berth 24, a documentary filmed in 1949, depicts the arrival at Hull's Alexandra Dock of the SS Bravo, a passenger and cargo ship sailing from Gothenburg. This 40 minute film provided the opportunity to dramatise the life of the port, by focusing on individual workers, from the stevedore to the shipping clerk – all of whom had vital parts to play in maintaining a complex schedule, as the ship was first unloaded and then reloaded. Instead of actors, the film employed local dockers, some of whom became minor celebrities, including foreman docker George Moore.
Berth 24 was “repackaged” on VHS video and released on September 9th 1995 (my 30th birthday) for less than £2,000. I reckoned that if I couldn’t make my own films, then the next best thing was to market other people’s work. With the help of a successful marketing campaign, sales exceeded expectations and the limited production run of 1,000 copies sold out within weeks.
Well, that’s what I’ve got written down on my CV. In reality, it was a disaster. Firstly, I employed “Botch’it Bingham”, a local printer, who printed the cassette case cover – badly. Not only were the colours all wrong, but there was no consistency in the print run. On the eve of launching my business, I sat in my rented office with tears running down my cheeks, as I tried to match up 1,000 video covers. Luckily, I had three thousand inlays printed and I was able to use the surplus to create some kind of uniformity.
Another mistake sat squarely on my shoulders. Wanting to make as much money as possible, I decided to sell the £8.99 video direct to the public, from a market stall, located in Hull city centre. The publicity I secured was superb. Being a PYBT business meant I secured a regular slot on BBC local radio, as they tracked my progress. I also secured a full page article in the Hull Daily Mail, and later I was interviewed by Calendar News, the local TV station. That was fun. They just turned up to the Trinity Square Open Market, where I was selling my video and did the interview there and then. I wish I had shaved that morning.
That evening, before I travelled back to Bridlington, I celebrated by having a burger and fries at a well known fast food franchise. Brilliant. Super. I was off for a week with food poisoning. There I was on TV and the following market day (Tuesday) I had loads of new customers looking for my stall – this while I was at home, hugging the toilet.
Because the market was only open Tuesday, Friday and Saturday, customers found it difficult to buy my video – especially those who lived out of town. What I should have done in hindsight was place the video in every appropriate shop in Hull and in East Yorkshire, from Bridlington to Goole. Instead of selling around 800 copies in three months, I might have sold a thousand in the first week, then another thousand in the following month or so. Thereafter, I might have made enough money to release a second video before Christmas 1995, and instead of being penniless over the festive period, I could have been £10,000 richer.
What I remember most about those early days were my high levels of confidence and motivation. I was proactive, but I was also inexperienced in both life and in business. Not wanting to make a fuss, I let things slip, like the poor printing. I also didn’t look after the money I did make. I had too many misguided preconceptions about running a business. I thought you needed an office and a PC and a telephone to run a business. You don’t. I think another problem is that I was too honest. I could have worked from home (without telling my landlord) and I could have stayed on the dole for another month or two – declaring myself self-employed, albeit someone not actually paying himself a wage.
Aviation Postcards
Luckily, the PYBT gave me a second chance. During my first trip to Duxford in November 1995 (a memorable day out), I met the manageress of the Concorde Gift Shop. We talked about postcards. Knowing that video sales dropped in January through April following Christmas, I thought about producing a range of quality aviation postcards. Being an avid reader of both Flypast and Aeroplane Monthly, I became an admirer of John M Dibbs – considered the world’s best aviation photographer. Hoping he might be able to help in supplying the images, I telephoned him. He was interested. And yes, he could supply me with eight images. How much was I prepared to pay? My mistake was to offer £150 per image plus VAT. What I should have done in hindsight is offer £50 x 24 images.
My market research clearly indicated a demand for top-quality postcards. At the time, most aviation museums stocked the same old, tired “After the Battle” postcards, especially the RAF Museum. Accordingly, an order from Hendon was my main ambition. The problem is they didn’t have a shop manager circa 1995/96, and subsequently it was impossible to secure any feedback or firm order.
In the end, the Imperial War Museum provided me with a kick start. They faxed the PYBT direct, clearly stating that if I could deliver both on price and quality, they would order thousands of postcards. That fax did more than anything to secure additional funding from my bank.
In early 1996, I attended my second PYBT interview and I was awarded sufficient funds to proceed. I was ready to roll. Then I received a telephone call. Apparently, I was now too old to receive additional funding. No one within the PYBT noticed the discrepancy. I was absolutely devastated. Everything I had worked hard for now lay in tatters. Overnight, I became a zombie.
Life just ended. I hated being on my own. During the train journey to and from work, I would try and sit near other people – I needed the company. I didn’t speak. I just sat there. I read several books – trying anything to keep my mind occupied. Everything appeared to be a concoction of dark greys. I had worked on becoming self-employed for three years, and now it was over. I was a mess.
The PYBT regional manager for East Yorkshire was Keith Taylor. It was he who came to the rescue. He contacted the director of the PYBT (one down from Prince Charles) and after much discussion, my funding was reinstated. The relief was palpable. With funds made available, I was able to start work on the postcards.
The first thing was to meet up with John and Pam Dibbs. I spent a wonderful afternoon with them, looking through John’s extensive archive. After much debate, I chose a Spitfire, Hurricane, P51D Mustang, P38 Lighting, Me109 “Black Six”, Mig15, F86 Sabre and DH Mosquito. There was something for everyone. I paid £705 in cash, and was invoiced the balance (another £705).
My advisor was Denis Jopling. He was brilliant in supporting my business. But I didn’t always take his advice, and this was to prove my downfall. Soon after securing funding, I asked him for recommendations in choosing a printer. I had been burnt once and didn’t want to be let down again. A few days after Denis suggested one printer, he phoned again to withdraw the recommendation. Basically the printer had a poor reputation for quality, and I was advised to go elsewhere. Not accepting this advice cost me dear.
When I decided on becoming a publisher of quality aviation postcards, the emphasis was going to be on quality. I chose the best images, the best card and the best finish. I was probably the first in the UK to produce matt laminated postcards. But when my order was delivered (80,000 Postcards), I was devastated. Firstly the cards were too muddy – something picked up on by John M Dibbs, who initially asked that his name be removed from the postcards.
The images I chose were crisp and clear – something that any good printer should have replicated. However, the real problem was the matt laminate (a thin layer of plastic glued down). The printer should have waited 48 hours before cutting the sheets of card into blocks of postcards. He didn’t, and the still tacky glue stuck the postcards together. I tried to sell some of the less affected cards, and did manage to process eight orders, but the poor quality scared away a number of important customers.
Thankfully, after several telephone calls and meetings, the printer agreed to reprint the job.
Hull, Hell and William Booth
During the middle of my business crisis, I found myself being evicted from my rented home in Bridlington. I had neglected to pay the rent. On April 20th 1996, I caught the East Yorkshire Motor Services’ No.121 bus from Bridlington. That afternoon, I ended up at the Salvation Army’s William Booth Hostel on Hessle Road in Hull. I booked in, and was lectured on the rules and regulations. That was over ten years ago and just thinking about it still upsets me. The hostel was a refuge for the less fortunate in our society.
I was allocated my own room, no bigger than a prison cell, which was apt, as some of the other inmates were former inmates from Hull Prison. The staff were excellent, albeit a little too officious. They wore white shirts and black trousers, similar to those worn by prison officers, and as they kept their keys on the end of long chains, the place did have the feel of a prison.
I felt sorry for the kids, whose parents had nowhere else to go. This was no place to bring up children. More so, as on one occasion, someone spotted a convicted paedophile in the dining hall, during lunch. He was quickly removed from the hostel for his own safety. Another sex offender – an alleged rapist – was less fortunate. Apparently, he was cornered outside the hostel and beaten up.
Queuing up for either dinner or evening meal was an eye-opener, as the young thugs would boast about their criminal escapades. One individual was rather proud of giving the police the chase (in a stolen car), while another described being apprehended by armed police officers – their weapons drawn. Until then, I had lived a rather sheltered life. So much so, that I was dumfounded by one chap, who stood up during lunch and asked the gathered diners if anyone wanted to go halves on half a gram? And I thought tobacco came in ounces!
Keen to keep my distance, I often remained in my room, listening to BBC Radio Four. All my hopes and aspirations were now directed towards having these postcards reprinted. I had a few unfulfilled orders, and I still dreamt of expanding the range to 24 designs. But it was not to be. Weeks after returning my stock, the printer decided not to reprint. Knowing my predicament, he decided to cut his losses. Since then, the company has changed its name; probably to escape its accumulated bad reputation.
With no money to fight my corner, I was powerless, and the PYBT weren’t that keen to get involved either. So I threw in the towel. My debts were considerable, but Keith Taylor was responsible for writing off my PYBT debts. That said, the damage had been done, and I was a broken man. Suicide was on the cards, but an old friend saved me. Although I only managed to sell around £700 worth of postcards, my legacy lives on. Impressed with my endeavours, someone else copied my style and today ‘my’ postcards are still available at Duxford.
Four months, three weeks and two days after entering William Booth, I moved on. Eventually, I found a new, rented, home in Hull. Around the same time (April 1997), I became a volunteer with Hull Time Based Arts and in 1999, I was officially employed by them as a combined receptionist/caretaker. I was also to gain valuable experience as a video camera operator.
Banners, Wetwang and the Dot.Com Boom
Around the same time that RAF Driffield closed in 1996, the internet took off in the UK. All you needed was a good idea, and you were almost assured to make a killing. And so I caught the internet bug. There was movielinks.com (concept only), waste-no-time.com (modest web directory – very modest with less than 2,000 links – 80% complete, but never finished) and then there was wetwang.com, which was to have been a free email service to rival hotmail. Amazingly, I almost finished that project. The backend was provided FREE by an American internet company. They did all the hard, technical work, and all I needed to do was work on the various templates to create an eye catching web presence. In return for providing the backend, they secured 50% of the advertising space. Looking back, I’m surprised how simple it all appeared. More surprisingly, I’m now astonished that I didn’t finish the project, which was around 99% complete. It might have worked?
While others made their millions through the selling and manipulation of shares, my interest was in making money through banner advertising. In the beginning of the internet revolution, websites were charging around $24 per thousand page views. But banners proved a big turn off and advertisers started to pay per click. This meant you were paid around one cent every time someone clicked on a banner, and who clicks on banners? No one. Not then. Not now.
This did not stop me progressing onto the mother of all RAF Heritage sites, which would have cost a packet to launch. The site would have featured thousands of archive images and articles copied from old aviation magazines. But like all my internet adventures, it wasn’t to be. A lack of confidence in my own abilities resulted in me giving up on the internet – around the same time that the dot.com bubble burst. The problem with having too many ideas is that you become too cautious in choosing the right product or service.
OPNHE, SHIELD and Me
While volunteering at Hull Time Based Arts, I heard about a new self-employment scheme aimed at the unemployed. SHIELD was a new course that helped you visualise new products or services, that would then become your new business venture. SHIELD was ‘bought in’ by Orchard Park and North Hull Enterprises (OPNHE), which was a Hull City Council supported job creation and regeneration concern.
The premise was simple: each participant (through a lengthy process of creative analysis) had to realise approximately 200 new ideas, then whittle the list down to a final product or service. Previously, SHIELD had made a lot of people very rich, including its creator, but sadly not those attending our course. SHIELD wasn’t flawed, but its application was. SHIELD was designed with big business in mind, and some of the biggest companies in the UK have used the program to maximise their profits.
The problem wasn’t a lack of motivation either, though that did wane towards the end of the course. The main problem was a lack of funds, as each person was only allocated around £100. Go down the wrong path, and you’d end up wasting both time and money. SHIELD worked well for those able to expend both manpower and more than £100.
Many of us on the course became disillusioned – more so as time passed, and we slowly discovered or realised that SHIELD wasn’t only a waste of money, which could have been spent elsewhere, but it also gave us false hope – hope that some of us still hang onto – hope that maybe one day, an abstract thought still might make us millions. We felt cheated when the secret of SHIELD was revealed. We were told that a successful business is one that started earning money on day one. We knew that. The secret of SHIELD, we were told, is that you don’t start your business until you start making money.
SHIELD cost a lot of money, yet I don’t know of anyone on our course that made it big. Those who did manage to start in business usually had a product or service in mind before starting the course. Looking back, it would have been better to dish out the money directly to those attending SHIELD. I am sure that quite a few of us could have done wonders with £2,000 each.
Aerodrome Models and Train Spotters
Running almost concurrently with SHIELD was SCEPTRE, a ten week product prototyping course run by Sheffield Hallam University. This was excellent, and it was good to actually do something creative – making things. Twice a week, I would travel from Hull to Sheffield and turn a concept into something physical. The staff were really helpful, and they knew their stuff.
One concept, born out of SHIELD, was Aerodrome Models, which were to be a series of 1/72nd scale card model airfield buildings, suitable for Airfix model makers. Similar models were already available to model railway enthusiasts – the most famous company being Superquick. Their range of model railway buildings (stations, signal boxes and other trackside buildings) are renowned for both their quality and accuracy.
I spent many a happy hour learning ParaCAD software in Sheffield, recreating a miniature control tower (identical to the one at RAF Driffield) and Bellman aircraft hangar. Again, each participant was allowed some cash to spend on materials. The course gave me time to think, as the 90 minute train journey to Sheffield was long enough to get the old grey cells working. I kept asking myself, what else could I achieve on the course? On the journey to Sheffield, we stopped at Doncaster – the train spotting Mecca of the North. Look at them. Daft idiots. I knew that the souvenir market for railway enthusiasts was greater than that for aviation enthusiasts.
It was just an idea born out of frustration, really. I wouldn’t say it came suddenly to me. Truth be known, I can’t even remember the actual moment of eureka, but I thought: paperweights made from old rail track, cut into thin slices and chrome plated, might work. I got out my trusted companion (my calculator) and starting to add up a few figures. When I got into Sheffield, I was able to order 3ft of Bull Head rail track, from a local scrap dealer, which was later delivered on the back of a lorry.
Four chunks of 8mm thick track were carefully cut by machine. These slices of track were then sandblasted (to remove rust) and thereafter ground down to a smooth surface – ideal for plating. With so many types of rail track in the offering from around the world (mostly cheap scrap), the concept was a sure winner. Unfortunately, Bull Head rail track is tough material, and each £16 blade, used to cut the metal, lasted only three or four cuts before it too became scrap. Add the cost of grinding down each paperweight, plus the cost of electroplating, and you are looking at around £18 per unit. Now, even I know that a thin slice of dressed scrap metal isn’t worth more than a tenner (retail price), so the project was reluctantly dropped.
After SCEPTRE, we were left to our own devices and work on Aerodrome Models continued apace. I was lucky enough to secure the services of Pete West, a brilliantly talented illustrator, who worked predominantly for Flypast magazine. Using my CAD drawings, he was able to render my line drawings of the control tower. But my meagre funds ran out, and the project was never finished. The cost of printing and producing the cutting tool was also deemed prohibitively expensive. Although the few model shops I contacted were interested, their numbers were, and are still, declining. That was the end of my little 1/72nd scale adventure.
It was around this time that the MoD decided to sell RAF Driffield, though they later withdrew the site from sale in late 2000. Because I was struggling to come up with 200 ideas for my SHIELD course, I wrote down “RAF Driffield – development opportunity”.
FOR SALE – RAF Driffield
Following on from SHIELD, some of us continued to seek help and advice from OPNHE. Looking back, it was clear that my presence and my ‘dream’ of saving RAF Driffield were used to justify both OPNHE and the thousands spent on SHIELD.
It was a joke. I had worked out that the cost of rebuilding former RAF Driffield ran into tens of millions. Yet, my naivety was only matched by the ability of others to exploit the situation. OPHNE accommodated my ‘obsession’. With each visit to see an advisor, OPNHE secured my signature on a form that went towards justifying its continued funding. I knew that moments after leaving the office, the copious notes taken were probably consigned to the waste bin.
You were told one thing one week, and another thing the following week. One week, they warmed to the idea and the following week they were evasive to either the idea or my presence.
Now, I honestly don’t mind being told to wake up and smell the coffee. My proposal was too ambitious for someone unemployed and with no experience in property redevelopment. OPNHE no longer exists. The organisation was forced to close due to financial problems (irregularities?), though it was impossible to prove any wrongdoing on the part of the management, as the business records either disappeared or were destroyed.
My final encounter with OPNHE was indicative of the whole affair. After buying a can of Pepsi Max from the café at OPNHE, I noticed that amongst my change was a fake one pound coin.
RAF Driffield – Working the Problem
“Work the Problem” is an American phrase. My problem was how to save former RAF Driffield. Actually, that wasn’t the problem. I knew that by 2001, the only way this former wartime bomber base was going to be preserved was through profitable, yet sympathetic, redevelopment. It had to be profitable, because there was no heritage funding available, and my own position was not going to improve.
The premise was simple: start small and work your way out of poverty. That was always a priority. Then I would I look at creating a business that would make me enough income to start another, more ambitious enterprise – one that would secure me the funds to set up my own property development company. Thereafter, I could afford to hire the right management staff, who would themselves bring to the table the credibility to make things happen. That was to be the key to unlocking or securing former RAF Driffield. Preserving RAF Driffield was only going to happen if [on paper] it was profitable. That’s how all developers work their magic. They hire the right people, and through them, they secure the right investors.
This was my plan. Accordingly, it’s much easier to secure £500,000 than £50m. I also envisaged profit share as being a major incentive in securing the right people.
To make £500,000, you create a business that costs £50,000 to start up. And to make £50,000, you create a business that cost £5,000 to start up. It has been this concept that has kept me going: not to aim too high, but to work in stages. I envisaged that it would have taken me eight years to achieve my goal, but I had to start at the bottom. Without spoiling the plot, I’m still at the bottom – trying to escape both poverty and debt.
The Aerodrome (Postcards and Prints) Ltd
In 2001, I decided to resurrect my aviation postcard business expanded to include prints, which were more profitable and therefore a priority.
I decided to gamble £300 from my wages on commissioning a profile of Charles A Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis. I used the early drafts to sell the idea to potential customers in the USA. Luckily, there was also a £1000 marketing grant available for small businesses starting up in Hull. So with the help of a local internet company, I was able to establish American Flying Legends – a brand that was aimed squarely at the US market.
Working full time at HTBA meant I wasn’t able to research an individual P51D Mustang or B17 Flying Fortress. I needed an American icon (easily recognisable) and the Ryan NYP was ideal. Again, I asked Pete West to undertake the illustration. Pete lived in Lincoln and we met up at Humberside Airport to discuss the finer points of the aircraft’s design. We discovered an online resource for aircraft plans, while dozens of still images were downloaded from the internet, to help create the perfect illustration. Every few days, Pete would email his work and I would correct him, when required.
The good news was that there was huge interest in my print, with several well known museums in the USA keen to see the finished product. The biggest prize of them all was the National Air and Space Museum in Washington DC, where the Spirit of St. Louis is preserved. Talking to the museum on the telephone, they were interested and couldn’t wait to see the finished product. I simply couldn’t lose. After many months of hard work, Pete West delivered the goods. The printing was going to be the best of the best. This time I was determined I wasn’t going to be burnt by yet another incompetent printer.
The next phase was to secure a bank loan, and employ the services of a graphic designer to create the perfect 12in x 16in print. Things were really working in my favour, and the print would be ready by December 2001.
Ironically, it was only after work started on the print that we discovered that 2002 was the 75th anniversary of Charles A Lindbergh’s epic transatlantic flight. Many museums, not to mention the Lindbergh Foundation, were planning to mark the anniversary with a series of special events across the USA. I couldn’t lose. Nothing was going to stand in my way. This time, I was going to be lucky.
Living in Hull gradually enticed me out of my shell. I had changed for the better. Working for Hull Time Based Arts was an incredible, life-changing experience, something few of my contemporaries still don’t fully comprehend. I travelled. I made friends. I went out – enjoyed a few (non alcoholic) drinks with my mates. My mates introduced me to their mates. And then…
Being with others made me realise that for the first time in my life, there was more to life than Airfix models, not that I had made one in nearly twenty years. Gradually I realised that I was terribly lonely. Strange, but in my formative years, friendship and relationships didn’t enter the equation. I don’t want to dwell on those crazy-in-the-head days – partly to protect my friends – but during Christmas 2001, I had a mental break down, just as my business was taking off.
I wanted to run away. I still want to run away. I fantasised about living in a small cottage on the North East coast, above the harbour of some isolated fishing village. During the summer, I imagined, I would go snorkelling, and during the winter, I would keep myself warm by the fire. I would find a partner and start a family. Then again, I also thought about living on the Fair Isle for a year. One persistent obsession revolves around me living in a shack, located in the middle of a dense forest; a simple home, with a bed, table, chair, stove and microwave. Microwave! I’m definitely too comfortable with the trappings of a contemporary urbanite to end up living the life of a hermit. I guess I just wanted to escape from it all – obsessions and self-imposed obligations. Today, I would add financial debt to those things I would like to run away from.
It would be years before I finally sorted myself out, but the damage was done. My reputation was tarnished, and I never fully regained control over my destiny.
Back then, and just after Christmas 2001, I managed to secure a hefty bank loan. This I used to cheer myself up with by blowing the lot on everything but my business. My only saviour was that I didn’t drink – I just spent a small fortune getting my mate blathered. One or two individuals said he took advantage. Not so. In reality, he saved me from total meltdown. Looking back, I actually spent more on steak, snooker and sushi than on Stella.
Finally (following a reprint), my profile of Charles A Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis was delivered – unfortunately too late to coincide with the 75th anniversary celebrations in the USA. The museums in the USA were all disappointed with the delay and none of them converted their initial enthusiasm into firm orders. Basically, I had missed the 2002 summer vacation, with most museums having already spent their annual retail budget earlier in the year.
Only the National Air and Space Museum were still interested, but there was a problem. How do you sell a delicate 12in x 16in print? The museum wanted them mounted on card and shrink-wrapped. I was so transfixed with print quality or my own personal tragedy, that presentation was something I simply overlooked. Add the cost of shipping the increased weight, and I had unwittingly priced myself out of the market.
I had big plans for The Aerodrome (Postcards and Prints) Ltd and American Flying Legends, which was a great brand name. There was going to be a range of much larger 16in x 20in prints depicting the profiles of famous British and American warplanes, and one special print measuring around 18in x 48in, which would have depicted a famous American WWII aircraft. I envisaged selling hundreds of thousands of these superior prints, but with no money and my inability to think straight, sadly it was never to be.
To add to my despair, my work at HBTA suffered. As a result, during one staff appraisal, I was given two options: shape up or ship out. So I decided to throw in the towel. I left Hull Time Based Arts in May 2002, and immediately signed off sick. As a result, my financial commitments immediately turned into £12,000 worth of debt. Although I continued to decline (things becoming worse), the dark days are now over. I have a few regrets, and I made a few enemies and lost a few dear friends, but the worst is over.
My biggest regret was not being able to pay the printer £641.55. I don’t even have to look up the debt – the amount is forever imprinted on my conscious. Like the John M Dibbs postcards, I probably gave away more samples than I sold. I only had one firm order for around 30 prints, while I managed to sell a few more on eBay.
Third time lucky? Maybe not. An attempt at producing a number of P51D Mustang prints and a series of RAF Fire Service vehicle prints in 2002/2003 also failed. If anyone is interested, I still have several hundred Ryan NYP ‘Spirit of St. Louis’ prints left.
Hot Head’s and Dragon Juice
After a failed attempt to write a book on the history of the RAF Fire Service, again down to a lack of funds, I returned to the idea of becoming a film-maker.
Earlier in 1997, and after becoming a volunteer with Hull Time Based Arts, I decided to make my first documentary film. In November 1997, I travelled to Manchester to meet Bob the Fire-Eater. This remarkable man has taught thousands of people how to manipulate fire. After interviewing him at his home, we travelled to a country hotel near Sheffield, where members of SPICE, an adventure club for adults, had gathered. That day was unbelievable. While I filmed, a bewildered bunch of SPICE members slowly overcame their fear, and became fire eaters. By the end of the day, I was totally envious of their achievements. But I didn’t do too bad myself, and was overjoyed with the footage. I had enough material to make a 26 minute film, which should have been easy.
Sadly (there’s that horrible word again), I never finished Hot Heads and Dragon Juice. I found it impossible to secure an edit suite, at least long enough to edit my film. Being an unpaid volunteer meant I was only able to use the editing suites at HTBA when they weren’t booked by paying clients. After several false starts, I became despondent. Weeks turned to months, and eventually I grew tired of wiping my work off the 9Gb HD, which in 1996 cost around £2,000. Nowadays, I would have provided my own external 320Gb HD, costing around £80.
Bomber Boys
I first wanted to produce a documentary film on Bomber Command back in the mid 1980s. In those days, there were only the four TV channels in the UK, and no Discovery Wings or DVDs. It was also impossible to make a professional broadcast quality film on a budget. My original, madcap idea was to create a three hour epic, featuring audio interviews and archive footage, a dream I cherished for nearly two decades. Then reality set in.
Good things come to those who wait, like camcorders and personal computers to drop in price. It has never been so easy to produce a broadcast quality film, using domestic DV cameras and budget editing software. Accordingly, I decided to work on another film, called: ‘Bomber Boys’. That said, he title will probably change, there already being a ‘Bomber Boys’ documentary about the 8th Air Force, and a ‘Bomber Boys’ book, about RAF Bomber Command.
During 2006, I interviewed three veterans, George Martin (wireless operator/air gunner), Len Broadhurst (pilot) and Bill Bell (navigator). I have also filmed at the Commonwealth War Cemetery in Harrogate, North Yorkshire and a couple of disused airfields. The trip to Harrogate was poignant; some of the crew from Halifax LW172 are buried there (see chapter nine). It was good just to sit there amongst so many brave men. I didn’t want to leave them.
My biggest concern in creating a short film is that I'm covering old ground. As a subject, Bomber Command has been done, and it feels like I'm not creating anything new. Being innovative is problematic. I feel passionate and respectful towards the gentlemen I interviewed, and don't wish, or desire, to rock the boat. I don't have a buyer and I'm not commissioned. That said, the IWM have agreed to let me make my film and then seek a buyer, before discussing reproduction fees. My proposal is to create a nicely crafted short film, a montage of archive footage and audio reminiscences.
It would be wrong to suggest that the pressure is finally off, now that RAF Driffield has been sold. I would still like to prove a point, and create a better life for me through self-employment. Running a successful business is also the only way that I will be able to repay those who have stood by me all these years. I want to better myself, and maybe, one day, secure a tiny part of RAF Driffield for myself.
It all started with a postcard. After attending the first ever Driffield Steam Traction Rally in the mid 1980s, I thought the photographs I took were good enough to be made into a souvenir postcard, to be sold the following year. That was my first ever business idea, but it wasn’t to be. That’s how it is; you think of a product or service and sit on it until it either hatches, or you drift away and lose interest. Over the years, good ideas came and went, while I remained a free spirit (unemployed). I left school in 1982 with a few average CSE qualifications.
After finally leaving school, that first summer could best be described as spellbinding. Firstly, there was our annual trip to meet the extended family in Sussex (mum’s side of the family) and then Kent (dad’s side of the family), but with the added bonus of visiting the RAF Museum on our return journey. During that same summer, I made it to the Farnborough Air Show, courtesy of the ATC. Yet I remember that summer now for different reasons. It would be our final holiday together as a family. It would also be the last time I would visit the farm – my grandparents’ home. All my grandparents are now dead, and those holidays in Sussex and Kent are but distant memories.
My Wilderness Years 1982 – 1992
I’m not like my sister. Unlike me, she works for a living. She has always had this strong work ethic. Her first job was in a café in Driffield when she was 14. She has worked in shops and factories and in care homes for the elderly all her life. I don’t even think she has ever signed on. She currently works as an auxiliary nurse. I don’t know anyone who works harder than my beloved sister.
And what about me? After that glorious summer of 1982, I travelled to Bridlington by train and signed the unemployment register. Thereafter, I signed on the dole every fortnight and 25 years later, I am still signing on the dole. That said, I have done the odd paid job, plus several compulsory Government training schemes and tried numerous attempts at self-employment. I am very proactive and keep myself busy, yet I am still unemployed.
However, there was a time (in 1983) when I desperately wanted a job. But with Driffield being a small market town, there were few vacancies, and at the end of the day, I simply gave up. I used to visit the Job Centre in Driffield every day, and sometimes I would check the boards two or even three times a day – but there was nothing. There were several boards, each detailing numerous jobs printed on cards. Yet only one display board featured local jobs for local people.
Then, success. I found work at the pram factory where my mum made pushchairs. My job was to check imported stock made in Taiwan. I was quite good at my job – too good, as I rejected pushchairs for even the slightest blemish. I was sacked after only four days. This was in 1983. My next paid job was in 1999.
Life is in the Detail
I would sign-on every other Monday, with my giro cheque arriving on Wednesday morning. It was important to get out of bed and across to the Post Office before 1pm, because Wednesday was half-day closing in Driffield. After cashing my giro, I would go straight into a nearby supermarket and buy two cans of Coke Cola, a Mars bar and a jar of Hayward’s sweet pickled onions. Occasionally, I would also buy a box of Twiglets. All rather sad, really. Next stop was the Driffield Home Bakery for a pre-packed, ready-made sandwich (beef and pickled onion or egg and mayonnaise), which was something of a novelty in the early 1980s.
Every month, I would buy the latest copies of Flypast and Aeroplane Monthly. I would stay indoors all day and rarely did I venture far. I had no friends, nor did I have the inclination to excel in anything worthy of noting down here. This was my life for about ten years. The only thing I enjoyed was photography. Accordingly, I enrolled onto a photographic course with the local college, then another course that would result in an “A Level” in the subject. I even managed to scrounge a two week work placement with Granada Television, and it was this that changed everything.
Film-making and television production – I was mesmerised by the cameras – both 16mm film and broadcast video. My two weeks spent photographing the stars of Coronation Street, and behind-the-scenes of television production, resulted in my ambition to become a documentary film-maker.
I would request brochures from Sony and Arriflex, detailing the latest broadcast cameras. All very erotic, really. Yet, I wasn’t thinking straight. Instead of being obsessed with the latest technology, I should have gone back to college and then onto university, before starting on the bottom ladder in broadcasting. But I wanted instant results. I thought about making my own films, but the equipment was too expensive. This was 1986, and DV hadn’t yet been invented. I did however manage to secure a placement with a video production company in Leeds. Every day, I would get the first train out of Driffield and would arrive home very late at night.
I found it difficult to learn the complex technology. The company was a facilities house, where local producers would employ our services – ranging from studio hire to video editing. Our clients mostly specialised in making low budget TV adverts and corporate videos. As a trainee Production Assistant I was incompetent and immature. I simply couldn’t spark into life. I lasted six weeks before they pulled my plug. That said, I still found the subject of film-making interesting enough to make it my ambition. Yet, it would be 1997 before I even attempted to make my first film.
We now fast forward a few years. I have left Driffield. The family has drifted apart. My parents are divorced, and I live in Bridlington. For a few years, I have contemplated becoming self-employed. The year is 1995 and cue: HRH Prince of Wales.
Prince’s Youth Business Trust
Picture House Productions (a sole trading company) was established with the advice and financial support of the Prince’s Youth Business Trust (PYBT) in 1995. My proposal was to create a number of products, relating to both local and aeronautical history.
Berth 24, a documentary filmed in 1949, depicts the arrival at Hull's Alexandra Dock of the SS Bravo, a passenger and cargo ship sailing from Gothenburg. This 40 minute film provided the opportunity to dramatise the life of the port, by focusing on individual workers, from the stevedore to the shipping clerk – all of whom had vital parts to play in maintaining a complex schedule, as the ship was first unloaded and then reloaded. Instead of actors, the film employed local dockers, some of whom became minor celebrities, including foreman docker George Moore.
Berth 24 was “repackaged” on VHS video and released on September 9th 1995 (my 30th birthday) for less than £2,000. I reckoned that if I couldn’t make my own films, then the next best thing was to market other people’s work. With the help of a successful marketing campaign, sales exceeded expectations and the limited production run of 1,000 copies sold out within weeks.
Well, that’s what I’ve got written down on my CV. In reality, it was a disaster. Firstly, I employed “Botch’it Bingham”, a local printer, who printed the cassette case cover – badly. Not only were the colours all wrong, but there was no consistency in the print run. On the eve of launching my business, I sat in my rented office with tears running down my cheeks, as I tried to match up 1,000 video covers. Luckily, I had three thousand inlays printed and I was able to use the surplus to create some kind of uniformity.
Another mistake sat squarely on my shoulders. Wanting to make as much money as possible, I decided to sell the £8.99 video direct to the public, from a market stall, located in Hull city centre. The publicity I secured was superb. Being a PYBT business meant I secured a regular slot on BBC local radio, as they tracked my progress. I also secured a full page article in the Hull Daily Mail, and later I was interviewed by Calendar News, the local TV station. That was fun. They just turned up to the Trinity Square Open Market, where I was selling my video and did the interview there and then. I wish I had shaved that morning.
That evening, before I travelled back to Bridlington, I celebrated by having a burger and fries at a well known fast food franchise. Brilliant. Super. I was off for a week with food poisoning. There I was on TV and the following market day (Tuesday) I had loads of new customers looking for my stall – this while I was at home, hugging the toilet.
Because the market was only open Tuesday, Friday and Saturday, customers found it difficult to buy my video – especially those who lived out of town. What I should have done in hindsight was place the video in every appropriate shop in Hull and in East Yorkshire, from Bridlington to Goole. Instead of selling around 800 copies in three months, I might have sold a thousand in the first week, then another thousand in the following month or so. Thereafter, I might have made enough money to release a second video before Christmas 1995, and instead of being penniless over the festive period, I could have been £10,000 richer.
What I remember most about those early days were my high levels of confidence and motivation. I was proactive, but I was also inexperienced in both life and in business. Not wanting to make a fuss, I let things slip, like the poor printing. I also didn’t look after the money I did make. I had too many misguided preconceptions about running a business. I thought you needed an office and a PC and a telephone to run a business. You don’t. I think another problem is that I was too honest. I could have worked from home (without telling my landlord) and I could have stayed on the dole for another month or two – declaring myself self-employed, albeit someone not actually paying himself a wage.
Aviation Postcards
Luckily, the PYBT gave me a second chance. During my first trip to Duxford in November 1995 (a memorable day out), I met the manageress of the Concorde Gift Shop. We talked about postcards. Knowing that video sales dropped in January through April following Christmas, I thought about producing a range of quality aviation postcards. Being an avid reader of both Flypast and Aeroplane Monthly, I became an admirer of John M Dibbs – considered the world’s best aviation photographer. Hoping he might be able to help in supplying the images, I telephoned him. He was interested. And yes, he could supply me with eight images. How much was I prepared to pay? My mistake was to offer £150 per image plus VAT. What I should have done in hindsight is offer £50 x 24 images.
My market research clearly indicated a demand for top-quality postcards. At the time, most aviation museums stocked the same old, tired “After the Battle” postcards, especially the RAF Museum. Accordingly, an order from Hendon was my main ambition. The problem is they didn’t have a shop manager circa 1995/96, and subsequently it was impossible to secure any feedback or firm order.
In the end, the Imperial War Museum provided me with a kick start. They faxed the PYBT direct, clearly stating that if I could deliver both on price and quality, they would order thousands of postcards. That fax did more than anything to secure additional funding from my bank.
In early 1996, I attended my second PYBT interview and I was awarded sufficient funds to proceed. I was ready to roll. Then I received a telephone call. Apparently, I was now too old to receive additional funding. No one within the PYBT noticed the discrepancy. I was absolutely devastated. Everything I had worked hard for now lay in tatters. Overnight, I became a zombie.
Life just ended. I hated being on my own. During the train journey to and from work, I would try and sit near other people – I needed the company. I didn’t speak. I just sat there. I read several books – trying anything to keep my mind occupied. Everything appeared to be a concoction of dark greys. I had worked on becoming self-employed for three years, and now it was over. I was a mess.
The PYBT regional manager for East Yorkshire was Keith Taylor. It was he who came to the rescue. He contacted the director of the PYBT (one down from Prince Charles) and after much discussion, my funding was reinstated. The relief was palpable. With funds made available, I was able to start work on the postcards.
The first thing was to meet up with John and Pam Dibbs. I spent a wonderful afternoon with them, looking through John’s extensive archive. After much debate, I chose a Spitfire, Hurricane, P51D Mustang, P38 Lighting, Me109 “Black Six”, Mig15, F86 Sabre and DH Mosquito. There was something for everyone. I paid £705 in cash, and was invoiced the balance (another £705).
My advisor was Denis Jopling. He was brilliant in supporting my business. But I didn’t always take his advice, and this was to prove my downfall. Soon after securing funding, I asked him for recommendations in choosing a printer. I had been burnt once and didn’t want to be let down again. A few days after Denis suggested one printer, he phoned again to withdraw the recommendation. Basically the printer had a poor reputation for quality, and I was advised to go elsewhere. Not accepting this advice cost me dear.
When I decided on becoming a publisher of quality aviation postcards, the emphasis was going to be on quality. I chose the best images, the best card and the best finish. I was probably the first in the UK to produce matt laminated postcards. But when my order was delivered (80,000 Postcards), I was devastated. Firstly the cards were too muddy – something picked up on by John M Dibbs, who initially asked that his name be removed from the postcards.
The images I chose were crisp and clear – something that any good printer should have replicated. However, the real problem was the matt laminate (a thin layer of plastic glued down). The printer should have waited 48 hours before cutting the sheets of card into blocks of postcards. He didn’t, and the still tacky glue stuck the postcards together. I tried to sell some of the less affected cards, and did manage to process eight orders, but the poor quality scared away a number of important customers.
Thankfully, after several telephone calls and meetings, the printer agreed to reprint the job.
Hull, Hell and William Booth
During the middle of my business crisis, I found myself being evicted from my rented home in Bridlington. I had neglected to pay the rent. On April 20th 1996, I caught the East Yorkshire Motor Services’ No.121 bus from Bridlington. That afternoon, I ended up at the Salvation Army’s William Booth Hostel on Hessle Road in Hull. I booked in, and was lectured on the rules and regulations. That was over ten years ago and just thinking about it still upsets me. The hostel was a refuge for the less fortunate in our society.
I was allocated my own room, no bigger than a prison cell, which was apt, as some of the other inmates were former inmates from Hull Prison. The staff were excellent, albeit a little too officious. They wore white shirts and black trousers, similar to those worn by prison officers, and as they kept their keys on the end of long chains, the place did have the feel of a prison.
I felt sorry for the kids, whose parents had nowhere else to go. This was no place to bring up children. More so, as on one occasion, someone spotted a convicted paedophile in the dining hall, during lunch. He was quickly removed from the hostel for his own safety. Another sex offender – an alleged rapist – was less fortunate. Apparently, he was cornered outside the hostel and beaten up.
Queuing up for either dinner or evening meal was an eye-opener, as the young thugs would boast about their criminal escapades. One individual was rather proud of giving the police the chase (in a stolen car), while another described being apprehended by armed police officers – their weapons drawn. Until then, I had lived a rather sheltered life. So much so, that I was dumfounded by one chap, who stood up during lunch and asked the gathered diners if anyone wanted to go halves on half a gram? And I thought tobacco came in ounces!
Keen to keep my distance, I often remained in my room, listening to BBC Radio Four. All my hopes and aspirations were now directed towards having these postcards reprinted. I had a few unfulfilled orders, and I still dreamt of expanding the range to 24 designs. But it was not to be. Weeks after returning my stock, the printer decided not to reprint. Knowing my predicament, he decided to cut his losses. Since then, the company has changed its name; probably to escape its accumulated bad reputation.
With no money to fight my corner, I was powerless, and the PYBT weren’t that keen to get involved either. So I threw in the towel. My debts were considerable, but Keith Taylor was responsible for writing off my PYBT debts. That said, the damage had been done, and I was a broken man. Suicide was on the cards, but an old friend saved me. Although I only managed to sell around £700 worth of postcards, my legacy lives on. Impressed with my endeavours, someone else copied my style and today ‘my’ postcards are still available at Duxford.
Four months, three weeks and two days after entering William Booth, I moved on. Eventually, I found a new, rented, home in Hull. Around the same time (April 1997), I became a volunteer with Hull Time Based Arts and in 1999, I was officially employed by them as a combined receptionist/caretaker. I was also to gain valuable experience as a video camera operator.
Banners, Wetwang and the Dot.Com Boom
Around the same time that RAF Driffield closed in 1996, the internet took off in the UK. All you needed was a good idea, and you were almost assured to make a killing. And so I caught the internet bug. There was movielinks.com (concept only), waste-no-time.com (modest web directory – very modest with less than 2,000 links – 80% complete, but never finished) and then there was wetwang.com, which was to have been a free email service to rival hotmail. Amazingly, I almost finished that project. The backend was provided FREE by an American internet company. They did all the hard, technical work, and all I needed to do was work on the various templates to create an eye catching web presence. In return for providing the backend, they secured 50% of the advertising space. Looking back, I’m surprised how simple it all appeared. More surprisingly, I’m now astonished that I didn’t finish the project, which was around 99% complete. It might have worked?
While others made their millions through the selling and manipulation of shares, my interest was in making money through banner advertising. In the beginning of the internet revolution, websites were charging around $24 per thousand page views. But banners proved a big turn off and advertisers started to pay per click. This meant you were paid around one cent every time someone clicked on a banner, and who clicks on banners? No one. Not then. Not now.
This did not stop me progressing onto the mother of all RAF Heritage sites, which would have cost a packet to launch. The site would have featured thousands of archive images and articles copied from old aviation magazines. But like all my internet adventures, it wasn’t to be. A lack of confidence in my own abilities resulted in me giving up on the internet – around the same time that the dot.com bubble burst. The problem with having too many ideas is that you become too cautious in choosing the right product or service.
OPNHE, SHIELD and Me
While volunteering at Hull Time Based Arts, I heard about a new self-employment scheme aimed at the unemployed. SHIELD was a new course that helped you visualise new products or services, that would then become your new business venture. SHIELD was ‘bought in’ by Orchard Park and North Hull Enterprises (OPNHE), which was a Hull City Council supported job creation and regeneration concern.
The premise was simple: each participant (through a lengthy process of creative analysis) had to realise approximately 200 new ideas, then whittle the list down to a final product or service. Previously, SHIELD had made a lot of people very rich, including its creator, but sadly not those attending our course. SHIELD wasn’t flawed, but its application was. SHIELD was designed with big business in mind, and some of the biggest companies in the UK have used the program to maximise their profits.
The problem wasn’t a lack of motivation either, though that did wane towards the end of the course. The main problem was a lack of funds, as each person was only allocated around £100. Go down the wrong path, and you’d end up wasting both time and money. SHIELD worked well for those able to expend both manpower and more than £100.
Many of us on the course became disillusioned – more so as time passed, and we slowly discovered or realised that SHIELD wasn’t only a waste of money, which could have been spent elsewhere, but it also gave us false hope – hope that some of us still hang onto – hope that maybe one day, an abstract thought still might make us millions. We felt cheated when the secret of SHIELD was revealed. We were told that a successful business is one that started earning money on day one. We knew that. The secret of SHIELD, we were told, is that you don’t start your business until you start making money.
SHIELD cost a lot of money, yet I don’t know of anyone on our course that made it big. Those who did manage to start in business usually had a product or service in mind before starting the course. Looking back, it would have been better to dish out the money directly to those attending SHIELD. I am sure that quite a few of us could have done wonders with £2,000 each.
Aerodrome Models and Train Spotters
Running almost concurrently with SHIELD was SCEPTRE, a ten week product prototyping course run by Sheffield Hallam University. This was excellent, and it was good to actually do something creative – making things. Twice a week, I would travel from Hull to Sheffield and turn a concept into something physical. The staff were really helpful, and they knew their stuff.
One concept, born out of SHIELD, was Aerodrome Models, which were to be a series of 1/72nd scale card model airfield buildings, suitable for Airfix model makers. Similar models were already available to model railway enthusiasts – the most famous company being Superquick. Their range of model railway buildings (stations, signal boxes and other trackside buildings) are renowned for both their quality and accuracy.
I spent many a happy hour learning ParaCAD software in Sheffield, recreating a miniature control tower (identical to the one at RAF Driffield) and Bellman aircraft hangar. Again, each participant was allowed some cash to spend on materials. The course gave me time to think, as the 90 minute train journey to Sheffield was long enough to get the old grey cells working. I kept asking myself, what else could I achieve on the course? On the journey to Sheffield, we stopped at Doncaster – the train spotting Mecca of the North. Look at them. Daft idiots. I knew that the souvenir market for railway enthusiasts was greater than that for aviation enthusiasts.
It was just an idea born out of frustration, really. I wouldn’t say it came suddenly to me. Truth be known, I can’t even remember the actual moment of eureka, but I thought: paperweights made from old rail track, cut into thin slices and chrome plated, might work. I got out my trusted companion (my calculator) and starting to add up a few figures. When I got into Sheffield, I was able to order 3ft of Bull Head rail track, from a local scrap dealer, which was later delivered on the back of a lorry.
Four chunks of 8mm thick track were carefully cut by machine. These slices of track were then sandblasted (to remove rust) and thereafter ground down to a smooth surface – ideal for plating. With so many types of rail track in the offering from around the world (mostly cheap scrap), the concept was a sure winner. Unfortunately, Bull Head rail track is tough material, and each £16 blade, used to cut the metal, lasted only three or four cuts before it too became scrap. Add the cost of grinding down each paperweight, plus the cost of electroplating, and you are looking at around £18 per unit. Now, even I know that a thin slice of dressed scrap metal isn’t worth more than a tenner (retail price), so the project was reluctantly dropped.
After SCEPTRE, we were left to our own devices and work on Aerodrome Models continued apace. I was lucky enough to secure the services of Pete West, a brilliantly talented illustrator, who worked predominantly for Flypast magazine. Using my CAD drawings, he was able to render my line drawings of the control tower. But my meagre funds ran out, and the project was never finished. The cost of printing and producing the cutting tool was also deemed prohibitively expensive. Although the few model shops I contacted were interested, their numbers were, and are still, declining. That was the end of my little 1/72nd scale adventure.
It was around this time that the MoD decided to sell RAF Driffield, though they later withdrew the site from sale in late 2000. Because I was struggling to come up with 200 ideas for my SHIELD course, I wrote down “RAF Driffield – development opportunity”.
FOR SALE – RAF Driffield
Following on from SHIELD, some of us continued to seek help and advice from OPNHE. Looking back, it was clear that my presence and my ‘dream’ of saving RAF Driffield were used to justify both OPNHE and the thousands spent on SHIELD.
It was a joke. I had worked out that the cost of rebuilding former RAF Driffield ran into tens of millions. Yet, my naivety was only matched by the ability of others to exploit the situation. OPHNE accommodated my ‘obsession’. With each visit to see an advisor, OPNHE secured my signature on a form that went towards justifying its continued funding. I knew that moments after leaving the office, the copious notes taken were probably consigned to the waste bin.
You were told one thing one week, and another thing the following week. One week, they warmed to the idea and the following week they were evasive to either the idea or my presence.
Now, I honestly don’t mind being told to wake up and smell the coffee. My proposal was too ambitious for someone unemployed and with no experience in property redevelopment. OPNHE no longer exists. The organisation was forced to close due to financial problems (irregularities?), though it was impossible to prove any wrongdoing on the part of the management, as the business records either disappeared or were destroyed.
My final encounter with OPNHE was indicative of the whole affair. After buying a can of Pepsi Max from the café at OPNHE, I noticed that amongst my change was a fake one pound coin.
RAF Driffield – Working the Problem
“Work the Problem” is an American phrase. My problem was how to save former RAF Driffield. Actually, that wasn’t the problem. I knew that by 2001, the only way this former wartime bomber base was going to be preserved was through profitable, yet sympathetic, redevelopment. It had to be profitable, because there was no heritage funding available, and my own position was not going to improve.
The premise was simple: start small and work your way out of poverty. That was always a priority. Then I would I look at creating a business that would make me enough income to start another, more ambitious enterprise – one that would secure me the funds to set up my own property development company. Thereafter, I could afford to hire the right management staff, who would themselves bring to the table the credibility to make things happen. That was to be the key to unlocking or securing former RAF Driffield. Preserving RAF Driffield was only going to happen if [on paper] it was profitable. That’s how all developers work their magic. They hire the right people, and through them, they secure the right investors.
This was my plan. Accordingly, it’s much easier to secure £500,000 than £50m. I also envisaged profit share as being a major incentive in securing the right people.
To make £500,000, you create a business that costs £50,000 to start up. And to make £50,000, you create a business that cost £5,000 to start up. It has been this concept that has kept me going: not to aim too high, but to work in stages. I envisaged that it would have taken me eight years to achieve my goal, but I had to start at the bottom. Without spoiling the plot, I’m still at the bottom – trying to escape both poverty and debt.
The Aerodrome (Postcards and Prints) Ltd
In 2001, I decided to resurrect my aviation postcard business expanded to include prints, which were more profitable and therefore a priority.
I decided to gamble £300 from my wages on commissioning a profile of Charles A Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis. I used the early drafts to sell the idea to potential customers in the USA. Luckily, there was also a £1000 marketing grant available for small businesses starting up in Hull. So with the help of a local internet company, I was able to establish American Flying Legends – a brand that was aimed squarely at the US market.
Working full time at HTBA meant I wasn’t able to research an individual P51D Mustang or B17 Flying Fortress. I needed an American icon (easily recognisable) and the Ryan NYP was ideal. Again, I asked Pete West to undertake the illustration. Pete lived in Lincoln and we met up at Humberside Airport to discuss the finer points of the aircraft’s design. We discovered an online resource for aircraft plans, while dozens of still images were downloaded from the internet, to help create the perfect illustration. Every few days, Pete would email his work and I would correct him, when required.
The good news was that there was huge interest in my print, with several well known museums in the USA keen to see the finished product. The biggest prize of them all was the National Air and Space Museum in Washington DC, where the Spirit of St. Louis is preserved. Talking to the museum on the telephone, they were interested and couldn’t wait to see the finished product. I simply couldn’t lose. After many months of hard work, Pete West delivered the goods. The printing was going to be the best of the best. This time I was determined I wasn’t going to be burnt by yet another incompetent printer.
The next phase was to secure a bank loan, and employ the services of a graphic designer to create the perfect 12in x 16in print. Things were really working in my favour, and the print would be ready by December 2001.
Ironically, it was only after work started on the print that we discovered that 2002 was the 75th anniversary of Charles A Lindbergh’s epic transatlantic flight. Many museums, not to mention the Lindbergh Foundation, were planning to mark the anniversary with a series of special events across the USA. I couldn’t lose. Nothing was going to stand in my way. This time, I was going to be lucky.
Living in Hull gradually enticed me out of my shell. I had changed for the better. Working for Hull Time Based Arts was an incredible, life-changing experience, something few of my contemporaries still don’t fully comprehend. I travelled. I made friends. I went out – enjoyed a few (non alcoholic) drinks with my mates. My mates introduced me to their mates. And then…
Being with others made me realise that for the first time in my life, there was more to life than Airfix models, not that I had made one in nearly twenty years. Gradually I realised that I was terribly lonely. Strange, but in my formative years, friendship and relationships didn’t enter the equation. I don’t want to dwell on those crazy-in-the-head days – partly to protect my friends – but during Christmas 2001, I had a mental break down, just as my business was taking off.
I wanted to run away. I still want to run away. I fantasised about living in a small cottage on the North East coast, above the harbour of some isolated fishing village. During the summer, I imagined, I would go snorkelling, and during the winter, I would keep myself warm by the fire. I would find a partner and start a family. Then again, I also thought about living on the Fair Isle for a year. One persistent obsession revolves around me living in a shack, located in the middle of a dense forest; a simple home, with a bed, table, chair, stove and microwave. Microwave! I’m definitely too comfortable with the trappings of a contemporary urbanite to end up living the life of a hermit. I guess I just wanted to escape from it all – obsessions and self-imposed obligations. Today, I would add financial debt to those things I would like to run away from.
It would be years before I finally sorted myself out, but the damage was done. My reputation was tarnished, and I never fully regained control over my destiny.
Back then, and just after Christmas 2001, I managed to secure a hefty bank loan. This I used to cheer myself up with by blowing the lot on everything but my business. My only saviour was that I didn’t drink – I just spent a small fortune getting my mate blathered. One or two individuals said he took advantage. Not so. In reality, he saved me from total meltdown. Looking back, I actually spent more on steak, snooker and sushi than on Stella.
Finally (following a reprint), my profile of Charles A Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis was delivered – unfortunately too late to coincide with the 75th anniversary celebrations in the USA. The museums in the USA were all disappointed with the delay and none of them converted their initial enthusiasm into firm orders. Basically, I had missed the 2002 summer vacation, with most museums having already spent their annual retail budget earlier in the year.
Only the National Air and Space Museum were still interested, but there was a problem. How do you sell a delicate 12in x 16in print? The museum wanted them mounted on card and shrink-wrapped. I was so transfixed with print quality or my own personal tragedy, that presentation was something I simply overlooked. Add the cost of shipping the increased weight, and I had unwittingly priced myself out of the market.
I had big plans for The Aerodrome (Postcards and Prints) Ltd and American Flying Legends, which was a great brand name. There was going to be a range of much larger 16in x 20in prints depicting the profiles of famous British and American warplanes, and one special print measuring around 18in x 48in, which would have depicted a famous American WWII aircraft. I envisaged selling hundreds of thousands of these superior prints, but with no money and my inability to think straight, sadly it was never to be.
To add to my despair, my work at HBTA suffered. As a result, during one staff appraisal, I was given two options: shape up or ship out. So I decided to throw in the towel. I left Hull Time Based Arts in May 2002, and immediately signed off sick. As a result, my financial commitments immediately turned into £12,000 worth of debt. Although I continued to decline (things becoming worse), the dark days are now over. I have a few regrets, and I made a few enemies and lost a few dear friends, but the worst is over.
My biggest regret was not being able to pay the printer £641.55. I don’t even have to look up the debt – the amount is forever imprinted on my conscious. Like the John M Dibbs postcards, I probably gave away more samples than I sold. I only had one firm order for around 30 prints, while I managed to sell a few more on eBay.
Third time lucky? Maybe not. An attempt at producing a number of P51D Mustang prints and a series of RAF Fire Service vehicle prints in 2002/2003 also failed. If anyone is interested, I still have several hundred Ryan NYP ‘Spirit of St. Louis’ prints left.
Hot Head’s and Dragon Juice
After a failed attempt to write a book on the history of the RAF Fire Service, again down to a lack of funds, I returned to the idea of becoming a film-maker.
Earlier in 1997, and after becoming a volunteer with Hull Time Based Arts, I decided to make my first documentary film. In November 1997, I travelled to Manchester to meet Bob the Fire-Eater. This remarkable man has taught thousands of people how to manipulate fire. After interviewing him at his home, we travelled to a country hotel near Sheffield, where members of SPICE, an adventure club for adults, had gathered. That day was unbelievable. While I filmed, a bewildered bunch of SPICE members slowly overcame their fear, and became fire eaters. By the end of the day, I was totally envious of their achievements. But I didn’t do too bad myself, and was overjoyed with the footage. I had enough material to make a 26 minute film, which should have been easy.
Sadly (there’s that horrible word again), I never finished Hot Heads and Dragon Juice. I found it impossible to secure an edit suite, at least long enough to edit my film. Being an unpaid volunteer meant I was only able to use the editing suites at HTBA when they weren’t booked by paying clients. After several false starts, I became despondent. Weeks turned to months, and eventually I grew tired of wiping my work off the 9Gb HD, which in 1996 cost around £2,000. Nowadays, I would have provided my own external 320Gb HD, costing around £80.
Bomber Boys
I first wanted to produce a documentary film on Bomber Command back in the mid 1980s. In those days, there were only the four TV channels in the UK, and no Discovery Wings or DVDs. It was also impossible to make a professional broadcast quality film on a budget. My original, madcap idea was to create a three hour epic, featuring audio interviews and archive footage, a dream I cherished for nearly two decades. Then reality set in.
Good things come to those who wait, like camcorders and personal computers to drop in price. It has never been so easy to produce a broadcast quality film, using domestic DV cameras and budget editing software. Accordingly, I decided to work on another film, called: ‘Bomber Boys’. That said, he title will probably change, there already being a ‘Bomber Boys’ documentary about the 8th Air Force, and a ‘Bomber Boys’ book, about RAF Bomber Command.
During 2006, I interviewed three veterans, George Martin (wireless operator/air gunner), Len Broadhurst (pilot) and Bill Bell (navigator). I have also filmed at the Commonwealth War Cemetery in Harrogate, North Yorkshire and a couple of disused airfields. The trip to Harrogate was poignant; some of the crew from Halifax LW172 are buried there (see chapter nine). It was good just to sit there amongst so many brave men. I didn’t want to leave them.
My biggest concern in creating a short film is that I'm covering old ground. As a subject, Bomber Command has been done, and it feels like I'm not creating anything new. Being innovative is problematic. I feel passionate and respectful towards the gentlemen I interviewed, and don't wish, or desire, to rock the boat. I don't have a buyer and I'm not commissioned. That said, the IWM have agreed to let me make my film and then seek a buyer, before discussing reproduction fees. My proposal is to create a nicely crafted short film, a montage of archive footage and audio reminiscences.
It would be wrong to suggest that the pressure is finally off, now that RAF Driffield has been sold. I would still like to prove a point, and create a better life for me through self-employment. Running a successful business is also the only way that I will be able to repay those who have stood by me all these years. I want to better myself, and maybe, one day, secure a tiny part of RAF Driffield for myself.
