THE YES MAN

In the concile of anti-no, Alan Hardwaite's affirmative nodes were twitching furiously. One of the great corporate iconoclasts, getting results on his terms, he'd moved on from his job as plastic coatings manager in Worksop and now, as a sports hospitality manager based out of Solihull, was something of a high flyer. He respected his betters and seniors - but not too much. He read ‘The Business' from cover to cover and was an avid letter writer to the business editor of the Birmingham Filter. Risk? Hardwaite had visited and bought the t-shirt a thousand times. 

Gone were the days of supply doubt and dodgy demand - Hardwaite now dealt with people who like him were interested in squaring the circle of every transaction, adhering to the insatiable logic of cutting a deal. And like them, he was a ‘can do' team player, far more ready to say yes than no. Alan never wasted an opportunity to avail people of his employers' identity: "Solutions for Exclusive Leisure." It was Alan who had come in and turned the team around and who at SEL could forget his award-winning sell - "At Paradise branch, your dreams all come attached...."

Alan looked at a list of his clients and it gave him a flush of pride. Positive, proactive men who got things done, who didn't give or expect to take a quarter either way. Men and their data lit up his colour-coded spreadsheet:
* Sir Sean Sure, MD of Surety Security, Files Road, Docs, Recordshire or
* John Function, Bespoke Peepholes, Praxis Avenue. Not to mention
* Peter Sense of Clarity Systems. Understandable Avenue, Comprehension, Yorkshire.
These were guys that wanted winning wining and dining at the Edgbaston test matches or at the Doug Ellis suite at Villa Park, and paid good money for the ‘privilege' (chauffeur supplied).

Accordingly, his language had changed from the ambiguous, evasive conjecture of the production line. For Alan, the sureness of his success couldn't be more absolute if it rewired definite into the yes membrane. His family pointed up the contradictions wrought in his mind since the job change. Alan would only reply: "My name is Keith Agreement. Hello. Absototally" or "if offices were buckets - i'd be swimming in a pool of pure shure... and struggling for breath as the marine raptors try to lash my face." When at the end of the week he'd say, as was his wont, that he was "lining up a drink with the Aberdeen sturgeon", Mrs Hardwaite asked the lord for guidance and thanked Him that this would keep him out of the house.

Occasionally, Alan's libation made him licentious with his guests, but with an astute reading of social mores he reasoned thus: "If you ask me, capitalist convention prevents either party from displaying their true thoughts (ie, them telling us/me to fuck off) so the scenario instead defers to irony and couched expressions as a vehicle for seeing it through. Sincerity to one's feelings? Certainly not.

"In further addition, for my part, I have never done anything out of order. Neither do I issue completely defamatory and irresponsible statements when ‘in company'. If this is about me then you can tell him that I want to talk to him as well."

Absolute incite, his rivals might say. But in the world of markets and transactions the value of true feeling cannot be overestimated and is a commodity not given up cheaply or easily, especially if the potential ‘customer' is pissed out of their face, slurring nonsense. Another day, another meeting.

The next stage for SEL was ensnaring political approval from Downing Street, and if not there then somewhere very close to it. To his sheer and ongoing thanking, Hardwaite was asked to be part of the four-day delegation down to London. Such a trade mission spelt O P P O R T U N I T Y for him and the company (the expedient alliance). As he wrote in his email - "Total approb foods. All these glorious sales opportunities represent a massive PP in their own right. Surely. Having said that, on the parliastenchary menu this week is, among other things, the public flogging of Malcolm Rifkind, the private flogging of William Hague, free dental work for Margaret Hodge, free autographs with David Winnick, Bruce George's Walsall Shakedown, Greg Hands' ‘Hands Up for Hanging' campaign and sundry other tasteless exhibits of nauseous self promotion. I will attend and enjoy all of them." Hardwaite smiled in happy reflection of his off-balance-sheet lunacy. Though the evening train down in the first-class carriage was in his own time, he made sure to keep the creative juices flowing. "Wake up alive" was his mantra.

But getting the right kind of access wasn't easy. Down at St Stephen's Gate on the invitation of Colif Bostrick, local MP for Largely Head, he altercated former defence secretary Jeff Hoon in the gothic atrium. Both were inpained by the ankle lashing but true to form Hardwaite applied his ineluctable transaction theory to the situation: "He was owed that for his defence secretary work; I gave it to him; he was hurt; we all laughed. "We've seen your performances in support of an expedient war, so we're paying you back in slapstick - Lunch." His corporate accomplice, Drapier Victory Souwester, Fax Secretary in The Pinched Lounge, Sneer Street offices, didn't see the funny side. Likewise, his attorney, Keith Sure, Yours-in-Sure, Sure & Sons Tort, Maidenhead, made sure the incident was brushed over with due proxy.

Dejected, he returned to the West Midlands tapping on his BlackBerry: "The stench of parochial anticipation drifted through the Pay-on-entry/Parliamentary estate this morning. People rose then fell in expectation of another scintillating contribution from Bob Laxton MP, Chappy Grove. We could not wait for more neutered chat in those Houses and left not so much with the tail between our legs as in need of a new tail."

Failure didn't fit Alan's face. So it was back to bringing clients on line and networking, not a bad comedown, he reasoned. His digital workbook was kept constantly open just in case it needed new virtual logs, and the staff would hear the sounds of a horn accompaniment if a deal were cut. Over months he delivered his "freaky agreement" technique of highly charged persuasion in the main office's breakout rooms - this wasn't extortion though, these were equitable agreements, expensive corporate suites were exchanged for the client's prized financial particulars (that he would then sell on to third parties). Every night he would update open a fresh cell with a new name: ‘Martin Envie, Pathetic Towers & Co., 7 Seven Avenue, Collideshire'; ‘John Haven, Artifice Manipulator, Midsomer Turders'; ‘Sir Stanley John Sure'; ‘Sorricks Brockle Esq.'; and ‘That's Useful & Co! Doncaster Jo, Small Tree Nonce, Smedleyville' all took SEL Elite Plus subscriptions - it was going to be a heavy summer in those sport suites. With the allure of Alan, John Unconvinced IV of Doubt-Town soon became Sid Amity, Brassville, Crombieshire Thanks. And his commission? "Six and four, naturally, mes amigos. Now grease my palm with dollars".

But Alan now saw a gap in his life that the dining with ministers would have filled. For a while late-night Dutch football filled the gap - there was surplus admiration of Certo van der Sure of PSV. Ha made the Certain-Half or Right Sure Back positions his own. But often the ex-plastic coater's downtime was filled with work thoughts. As well as offering bespoke corporate leisure products Alan was constantly reminded of the importance of presenting new packages and the latest propositions. His head, a crazy riff of leisure streams, needed to connect with his laptop: Nodding is the new yes registration format... Eye panorama highs are the new speedball... Dangerous trysts with experienced heath pervs are so well no way... Flexing them joints is the new sofas... Walking is the new w*nking (pace me)... Cattle are the new sheep... Glenn is the new Gavin... Feet are the new shoes... Cottaging is the new camping... Sex is the new lunch (hmm)... Unfortunately, all these twists and arguably petty variations on a theme looked worthless on his Windows XP. Neo obsession is the new new - a vicious and illusory circle. Perhaps he should lay off the ephedrine, certainly he needed something new. Alt F4 it was.

[From this at least he divined that Christian homophobe Brian Souter and his Turpinesque Stagecoach now own Virgin Trains, allowing strap-on Branstunt to follow his dream of wanking in space. Nice that they've kept ‘faith' with the virgin brand, he agreed with himself.]

Night after night Alan left the rush of the office and soon became deflated. What was on offer for office obsessives like him. Six pints of racism and a jingo kebab with the other guys appealed, but it wasn't enough. Where would his bepickled brain turn to next? "I want to be more than David Bowie's spunky suburban paradigm". I want to be more than just ‘In grey, on puce'.

Turning off one screen and putting on another - his transient saviour was Jools Holland, a man he admired for his weekly, somewhat incongruous, bills of musical acts: As ever, Alan made a note of the smiling honkytonker's roster, in case something proved of value for one of the firm's "Evenings with..." With hand extended and an adenoid voice, the joyful Jools introduced Alan to: "Neil MOWISSEY... with Anais Nin!" (covering the Stereophonics); "The PURE PUCE!!... with Akela!"; "Steve HODGE! ...and the Twin Chin Sisters!"; "Richard CLAYDERMAN... with Chuck D!"; "JODIE LAWRENCE'S IMMINENT TRAIN SUICIDE! With Foolishly!"; and, most memorably, "Ralph NADER!.... with the crew of the Exxon Valdez!". The hospitality executive loved those crazy but careful indie bands.

Eventually, he looked back in to the family unit, dreaming of MBA progeny. When wife Claire said she'd like more chil-drren, Alan replied in typically ebullient fashion: "Absolute Smashing & Co... That could be an absolute possibility, total yesoff, on the affirmation scales of Yazlee"

Bien sure, Hardwaite saw reproduction as necessary, but he got ahead of himself in his husbandly emailing: "Any progress on the foeti, Clairsicles? Any thoughts on names?? I'm thinking of Cider (if it's a Graham) and Spoynty (if it's a Delila). But I would say Geoff if it comes out a Susan and Suede if it comes out with three hoofs.... other than that anything extremely Victorian and pretentious should do it...." Claire could sense the stench of his coffee breath as she deleted the message. But later, both of them were in bed as he turned over to sleep. No use. "I am the son of a crazed mass retailer. The line must continue," he wailed apropos of nothing.

The issue wouldn't be put to bed, either. The next night he sent a memo to his wife (he was with ‘clients'. "I think you have hoisted the issue flag that we would all (me and them) like to see run up the discussion mast. To say that Sure is a name is to confirm its acceptability and stability in the nomenclature fraternity. Our next child will be called Sure Absolutely No Question. Our fifth will be called Deesmump Six."

On this neither Mrs Hardwaite or any of the sex workers in the Selly Oak Leisure Lodge could scarcely be bothered to disagree with him.

You've read the article, memories and thoughts were triggered, so you should give back the 19 apprecipence issued from your bankulture yesterday. Relaxation.