~ A Host of Golden Geordie Lasses ~
When Neville and Jimbo turned the corner to be confronted by the lights and noise of Newcastle’s Bigg Market, they both stopped abruptly with their mouths open.
“Holy fuck!” exclaimed Neville.
“Jeez-o,” Jimbo said and whistled softly.
It was the autumn of 1990, and this was the two Ulstermen’s first visit to Newcastle. After checking in at the Copthorne Hotel earlier that Friday evening, they had walked up from the Quayside to the city centre, stopping off at a restaurant in Dean Street for something to eat. They thought Dean Street was lively and friendly enough, but they were beginning to despair that Newcastle was another Leeds. They had gone to Leeds a couple of weeks earlier. Leeds, the city that never sleeps, claimed the publicity, but they had spent a miserable, rainy Friday night tramping the streets in search of its non-existent nightlife.
The pair’s brief visits to Leeds, York before that and now Newcastle were part of their quest to find a suitable location for the new company they wanted to set up in the north of England. They were still riding high on the success of their business back in Glasgow. They had had a taste of profits and wanted more – a lot more. To Neville, profits meant further property investment. He had dreams of purchasing a holiday home in the UK, a pied-à-terre in the south of France and perhaps even a villa in Spain. For now at least, Jimbo, the junior partner, had less expensive ambitions. To him, profits meant a bigger and better car, holidays abroad and that conservatory for his house. Most important of all, though, they meant money in the bank and the attendant security of a good bank balance.
Naturally, therefore, both were keen to expand the business into England. At the same time, however, recognising the need to be cautious not to overstretch themselves or their finances, they agreed that any expansion should be gradual and incremental. To begin with, they would establish a small regional office, a base from which they could promote themselves in the chosen region. They would employ minimal staff initially, perhaps only a PA, but might go on to hire a local manager if enough turnover was being generated. If, after a suitable period, the venture proved successful, turning a fair profit, they would move on to the next region, and so on until they had created a national network of offices. And if they ever reached that stage, they might have sufficient confidence and funds to go on to tackle the Holy Grail that was London, where the big boys hung out and where the big money could be made.
When they first discussed their plans for expansion, Neville had become so fired up by the concept of a network of regional offices that he began to talk of franchising the business.
“We could be like those coffee shops or those printing and copy places that are springing up everywhere. We supply the brand and the support infrastructure, they do the work and we reap the profits. We could be millionaires in no time, so we could!”
“Fuck’s sake, Neville,” Jimbo had snapped at his boss. “We haven’t even set up the first office. And we don’t know how hard or easy it’ll be to get work in a market we know nothing about it. Catch a hold of yourself, will you?”
Having agreed that the initial regional office would become Jimbo’s direct responsibility and should therefore be located within reasonable driving distance from his home in the east of Edinburgh, they had begun their search among cities on the eastern side of northern England. Several weeks and two disappointing city visits later, Newcastle suddenly seemed a promising prospect. Both men could feel a buzz about the place, an excitement they hadn’t even remotely experienced in Leeds and York. Of the three cities, Newcastle was by far the closest to Edinburgh. And if what they were gawping at right now was anything to go by, the city had nightlife aplenty.
Loud voices and even louder music blared from the wide-open doors of the numerous bars that lined both sides of the narrow, winding street only yards ahead of them. Many of the customers of the packed bars had spilled out onto the pavement, bottles and glasses in hand, their strident conversations adding to the overall level of noise. The majority of the men outside were young, had close-cropped hair and wore tee-shirts. The women were also predominantly young with a uniformity of appearance: virtually all were blonde and, despite the mid-October temperature, wore little more than flimsy boob-tubes and micro-skirts, their bare midriffs exposed to the cold night air. This was Bigg Market in full Friday night swing.
The scantily clad girls held Neville and Jimbo fascinated. Neville drooled openly at the sight, but only Jimbo’s dancing eyes betrayed his lust as they drank in the thighs and bellies and partially covered breasts on display. Notwithstanding their different outward expressions, the pair were thinking identical thoughts. Here they were: two well-heeled, smooth-talking, thirtysomething Irishmen, many miles from home and partners, with hotel rooms to go back to and the pick of any number of drunken, half-naked women to go back with.
“Fancy a beer or two?” Jimbo asked at last.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Neville responded.
As they walked towards the nearest bar, Neville decided that Newcastle was shaping up to be his most favourite English city. If all went well in the next few hours, it could turn out to be somewhere he might want to keep returning to. He could think of worse reasons for choosing it as an office location.
“Holy fuck!” exclaimed Neville.
“Jeez-o,” Jimbo said and whistled softly.
It was the autumn of 1990, and this was the two Ulstermen’s first visit to Newcastle. After checking in at the Copthorne Hotel earlier that Friday evening, they had walked up from the Quayside to the city centre, stopping off at a restaurant in Dean Street for something to eat. They thought Dean Street was lively and friendly enough, but they were beginning to despair that Newcastle was another Leeds. They had gone to Leeds a couple of weeks earlier. Leeds, the city that never sleeps, claimed the publicity, but they had spent a miserable, rainy Friday night tramping the streets in search of its non-existent nightlife.
The pair’s brief visits to Leeds, York before that and now Newcastle were part of their quest to find a suitable location for the new company they wanted to set up in the north of England. They were still riding high on the success of their business back in Glasgow. They had had a taste of profits and wanted more – a lot more. To Neville, profits meant further property investment. He had dreams of purchasing a holiday home in the UK, a pied-à-terre in the south of France and perhaps even a villa in Spain. For now at least, Jimbo, the junior partner, had less expensive ambitions. To him, profits meant a bigger and better car, holidays abroad and that conservatory for his house. Most important of all, though, they meant money in the bank and the attendant security of a good bank balance.
Naturally, therefore, both were keen to expand the business into England. At the same time, however, recognising the need to be cautious not to overstretch themselves or their finances, they agreed that any expansion should be gradual and incremental. To begin with, they would establish a small regional office, a base from which they could promote themselves in the chosen region. They would employ minimal staff initially, perhaps only a PA, but might go on to hire a local manager if enough turnover was being generated. If, after a suitable period, the venture proved successful, turning a fair profit, they would move on to the next region, and so on until they had created a national network of offices. And if they ever reached that stage, they might have sufficient confidence and funds to go on to tackle the Holy Grail that was London, where the big boys hung out and where the big money could be made.
When they first discussed their plans for expansion, Neville had become so fired up by the concept of a network of regional offices that he began to talk of franchising the business.
“We could be like those coffee shops or those printing and copy places that are springing up everywhere. We supply the brand and the support infrastructure, they do the work and we reap the profits. We could be millionaires in no time, so we could!”
“Fuck’s sake, Neville,” Jimbo had snapped at his boss. “We haven’t even set up the first office. And we don’t know how hard or easy it’ll be to get work in a market we know nothing about it. Catch a hold of yourself, will you?”
Having agreed that the initial regional office would become Jimbo’s direct responsibility and should therefore be located within reasonable driving distance from his home in the east of Edinburgh, they had begun their search among cities on the eastern side of northern England. Several weeks and two disappointing city visits later, Newcastle suddenly seemed a promising prospect. Both men could feel a buzz about the place, an excitement they hadn’t even remotely experienced in Leeds and York. Of the three cities, Newcastle was by far the closest to Edinburgh. And if what they were gawping at right now was anything to go by, the city had nightlife aplenty.
Loud voices and even louder music blared from the wide-open doors of the numerous bars that lined both sides of the narrow, winding street only yards ahead of them. Many of the customers of the packed bars had spilled out onto the pavement, bottles and glasses in hand, their strident conversations adding to the overall level of noise. The majority of the men outside were young, had close-cropped hair and wore tee-shirts. The women were also predominantly young with a uniformity of appearance: virtually all were blonde and, despite the mid-October temperature, wore little more than flimsy boob-tubes and micro-skirts, their bare midriffs exposed to the cold night air. This was Bigg Market in full Friday night swing.
The scantily clad girls held Neville and Jimbo fascinated. Neville drooled openly at the sight, but only Jimbo’s dancing eyes betrayed his lust as they drank in the thighs and bellies and partially covered breasts on display. Notwithstanding their different outward expressions, the pair were thinking identical thoughts. Here they were: two well-heeled, smooth-talking, thirtysomething Irishmen, many miles from home and partners, with hotel rooms to go back to and the pick of any number of drunken, half-naked women to go back with.
“Fancy a beer or two?” Jimbo asked at last.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Neville responded.
As they walked towards the nearest bar, Neville decided that Newcastle was shaping up to be his most favourite English city. If all went well in the next few hours, it could turn out to be somewhere he might want to keep returning to. He could think of worse reasons for choosing it as an office location.