What’s the best bit of advice you’ve ever had? It’s a common question to lob in at the end of an interview. I mean the kind of interview you might be doing to promote a book or a film or something, rather than an interview for a job. Although I suppose it might crop up there too. I wouldn’t know, as I believe the last interview I had of that kind was for a job at the Birmingham Post in 1992. Not quite sure how I’ve managed to swerve all that stress ever since.
When I’ve asked the question of someone, on the radio, the interviewee has invariably been stuck for an answer. Now I see why. I’ve been asked it several times in recent months, at literary festivals and whatnot, talking about a book of these columns. In the absence of a prepared answer, it’s difficult to come up with anything interesting in reply. And preparation has never been my strong point, even though I’m well aware of its importance, thanks in part to all the sage advice available on the subject: “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail” (Benjamin Franklin); “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity” (Seneca); “Success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure” (Confucius); “Chance favours the prepared mind” (Louis Pasteur).
Accomplished as I am in the fine art of retrospective preparation, I gave the question some thought and soon came up with several wonderful bits of advice I feel blessed – genuinely – to have received. Great. But there’s a big but. In each case, I’ve listened, considered, acknowledged the wisdom and truth of what’s been said, nodded appreciatively, expressed my thanks, and resolved to put the wise words into practice. I’m ashamed to say that in each and every case I have singularly failed to do so.
Sometime in my mid-teens I recall my grandad saying something to me, with great feeling. I can see him now. He was standing on the bottom step of his stairs. I don’t know why this detail has stuck with me. Nor do I know the specifics of what I’d done to lead him to say, rather severely, “If you’re late in the morning, you never catch up all day.” OK, it’s not Confucius, but it was true – for me anyway – then and now. Despite this, to this day, indeed every day, I’m either slightly or very late getting up in the morning for whatever I’m doing. And I never subsequently feel on top of things. By my reckoning, that’s more than 14,000 days marred by morning lateness, on each of which I see him on the bottom step of my mind and nod sheepishly in apology.
Sir Alan, now Lord, Sugar once advised me against acting rashly on some career matter. He told me he’d done so in his business life many times and wished he hadn’t. I explained the reasoning behind the decision I’d made and dared to suggest that he’d do the same in my shoes. He said, “Yes, but the difference between me and you is that I’ve got more than a hundred million quid in the bank, and you haven’t.” Point taken. Point ignored.
“Happiness,” said someone random I met once, briefly, in a bar 15 years ago, “is a lifestyle choice.” Another bit of wisdom I’ve honoured, to my shame really, much more in the breach than the observance. I could write a very long book indeed, called Great Advice for Life (Which I Failed to Take).
Oddly, as much as I’ve failed to comply with stuff about mind management, I’ve honoured practical advice with quite fanatical fervour. My grandad also told me always to wipe down a tin of food before I opened it, “because the warehouses are full of rats”. This I do, without fail, in good time, every time I open a tin. He’d be so proud.
