Eric Sellers

Octogenarian former Managing Director Eric Sellers – the last in the family line – still called in from time to time. Probably to free up others, I was encouraged to spend time with him during his visits. Although in retrospect I realise that Eric was already displaying dementia symptoms, he enjoyed going over the ‘good old days’ of his worldwide business travel. In particular, he relished recalling with me his 1950s visit to Moscow in the Soviet Union as part of a British delegation. Indeed, Eric presented me with an original copy of the Russian language programme of a Bolshoi Ballet production he had attended of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake’. I kept this for many years; I may still have it hidden somewhere.

What is it that had attracted those family veterans of the Holset, Samuel Birkett and Sellers companies to me over the years? I think that the simple answer is that my affinity with foreign languages presented them with the opportunity to recount their treasured memories to an obviously attentive audience. 

There was a second passion I shared with Eric: A love of Rugby League. He was the man responsible for bringing favourite players from my youth over from Fiji to Huddersfield RLFC. The names of Tomasi Naidole, Tomasi Waqabaka, John Ravitale and Josepha Saukuru are still familiar to me. Tomasi (“Tom”) Naidole I knew personally. He finished his working life as a labourer at Sellers. One non-playing memory stands out for me of Tom, that is of the day a sneak thief was spotted in the offices. He was chased out of the building and the next thing I recall was hearing a man’s voice yelling out “Tell him to let me go!” 6ft plus Tom had caught him and held him one-handed by the collar up against the wall, apparently off his feet. Tom was a lovely man, but it didn’t pay to cross him.

Specialist Training

Sellers & Co (Huddersfield) Ltd designed and manufactured a range of machines for processing textiles. Originally concentrating on supplying dyeing and finishing equipment to nearby mills, the decline of the local worsted industry forced the company to look to other opportunities in the textile machinery field. It made the move to providing process equipment for the carpet industry, in particular with a best-selling range of shearing machines. Lancastrian Tony Nield was instrumental in bringing his industry expertise to add carpet backing machines to the company’s product portfolio. This then advanced to designing and producing complete carpet finishing lines, where exports played a greater part in sales.

Within hours of starting work at Sellers, the requirement for my Russian language skills was made apparent. Engineers from the company’s assembly department (“Fitting Shop”) were already working on a £2million project in the Soviet Union, at Kishinev in the Moldovan Republic. As soon as I was up to speed, I would be travelling there. Also, a bid for a second larger carpet finishing line project for the Soviet Union was being finalised at that time. I was to be included in the Sellers’ negotiation team for this.

I was allocated a personal office (down the stairs, behind the garage) and then put on a three months’ training schedule. I spent time in each of the manufacturing departments with the two hundred strong workforce of the company. As all machines were first built and tested in the Fitting Shop, before being pulled down and packed for despatch, I naturally spent most of my time there.

I noticed, however, that my boss – Sales Director Keith Bottom – insisted that I spend an inordinately long period in the shearing cylinder sharpening section of the Fitting Shop. I later realised that his claim to fame was an article written on the sharpening of shearing machine cylinders. This had been published in a leading textiles magazine (and regularly mentioned by him in business conversations), hence his demand for my extended instruction. I should note here that, in my time with Sellers, I never ventured into final negotiations for the sale of a single shearing machine, never mind having to describe the routine of precisely honing cutting cylinders.

In the event, I learned a lot from Keith, though not necessarily in the manner which he intended. I know that it’s not given to speak ill of passed colleagues so, using reverse logic, I remain grateful for the example he set. From the very start it was obvious that, at best, he only tolerated me. The decision to employ me had been taken by other directors. I saw many things in his behaviour for which I immediately thought “I’d not do that”. I like to feel that these instances contributed to making me a better manager. He highlighted my weaknesses, which also was beneficial in the long run. 

I recall one early journey I made by car with him to visit customers in Germany. He spoke fluent German, although with recurring mistakes which would make my former tutor Harry Kistenmacher fume with rage, but he was extremely confident. I then realised that this was the key: accuracy is not that important in foreign language communications. If both sides understand the contents, does it matter if mistakes are made?  Unfortunately, Keith had a (possibly unknowing) habit of dominating conversations. Nearing the end of a meeting with a couple of his good friends at a German factory, I said something like “The next time I’ll speak more” in German. On the way back, Keith told me that “There won’t be a next time unless you start to contribute.”   I was going to respond that he didn’t allow me to get a word in, but I didn’t fancy being dropped off at the side of the autobahn. Let’s just say I never went back to Germany with him. Not that I was particularly concerned. I had enough to deal with on the Russian front.

Once it became obvious how involved I was expected to become in Russian language, initially as an unannounced listener-in during negotiations, I asked if I could be permitted an update on my abilities. I seem to recall that I took this to query first to Financial Director Tim Sugden, knowing that he had the ear of Managing Director David Armitage. (Their offices were adjacent to each other, behind the company typing pool). I quickly received their permission to go on a one-week refresher course run by Berlitz. Ironically, this was conducted in Leeds by the wife of a lecturer from the university; possibly the same lecturer who had interviewed me three years earlier. She was a young native of Leningrad who had only arrived a couple of months earlier in UK. I was her first pupil. As she didn’t like the way that the course had been laid out for her, we agreed that the best way to complete the refresher undertaking was to spend much of the time walking around the city in conversation. I recall that we received some puzzled looks from locals, perhaps wondering what language we were talking in or, more likely, what that beauty was doing with someone like me. (I was already turning grey). Irrespective, the catchup sessions regenerated my confidence in using the Russian language.

It is noteworthy that this undertaking was completed without the involvement of my nominal boss, Keith Bottom. It didn’t take me long to realise that he was happy for me to keep the Russian side of operations away from his desk. He was more interested in shearing machines and his German customers. I used Tim Sugden, who also became a good friend, as the main point of contact for the greater part of my work at Sellers.

Kishinev, Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic

Given its official name, Moldova was one of the 15 republics which made up the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, i.e., USSR. Also officially known as the Soviet Union, it was more common in most parts of the world to simply call the overall country “Russia”. This error was hammered home to me by the locals I met on my first visit to the Soviet Union in late 1985. Although local citizens were Soviets, their nationality was Moldovan, and only the language was Russian. On the breakup of the USSR in 1989, Moldova became an independent country, reverted to its indigenous Romanian language, and changed the name of its capital city from Kishinev to Chișinău.

If asked “What was the greatest achievement in your work record?”, I answer “Getting signoff on the two Soviet turnkey projects.” (A second, larger Soviet Union project came a little later). Both the General Directors concerned said to me something along the lines of “We do this out of respect for you and the way that you have worked with us over the years.” I still take that as a big compliment.

All journeys to the Soviet Union were made via Moscow. To fly down to Kishinev, it was necessary to make an overnight stop in Moscow, before travelling to another airport for the internal flight. I recollected my impressions of my first visit in an article which I wrote for the RAF Linguists Association News:

My first flight into Moscow was, as would be expected, unforgettable. Our Aeroflot aircraft – on which curiously smokers were seated on the left and non-smokers on the right – seemed to be on its gradual approach descent for nigh on an hour; I was later told that this was a deliberate fuel saving policy with the airline. However, nothing prepares you for that initial experience of passport control. 

Incoming passengers were guided down a flight of stairs into a wide Arrivals Hall with queue lines painted on the floor, each line leading to one of the several booths at the far end of the room. Half of the booths, reminiscent of football stadium turnstiles, were signed “For Citizens of the USSR Only”, the others “For International Travellers”. After a period of slow advance of our queue, made longer by anticipation of what was to come, the booth light went on calling me forward. 

Now trapped inside the narrow gap between gates, I turned to face the officers in green uniforms sitting behind the high counter. “Passport!” was the only test of my Luffenham training. Indeed, it was the only word spoken to me. I handed over my passport with landing card and waited. Lots of looking down and looking back at me followed, interspersed with the clicking of a keyboard. After what seemed an age, the officer grunted, handed over my passport and landing card, the gate opened, and I was free to walk into the Baggage Retrieval area. I had made it and not been arrested!

I was to go through this procedure well over a hundred times after this. (I know this because when applying for a visa, it was originally necessary to state “Number of previous visits to the USSR”. I had already exceeded a century when this question was removed from applications). At times I even got into brief conversations with officers. They weren’t all as morose as those first encountered.

The highway from Sheremetevo Airport in the north to the centre of Moscow was, without doubt, the widest I had ever seen. It is said that Stalin insisted that all major routes through the city must be wide enough for a battle tank to turn completely around. This stretch was then decorated with huge communist propaganda posters and flags. Anyone taking this route now will note how these have been replaced with illuminated advertising boards which would do Las Vegas proud.

I cannot leave the subject of the airport without mentioning an occurrence I witnessed there, this time on departure. The process on the way out was to first have your baggage examined, and flight ticket stamped, before going through to the check-in desk. On this particular day in 1988, a flight to Ho Chi Mihn City in Vietnam was also being prepared on our departures wing. I found myself directly behind a young female – possibly a student or immigrant worker – who was being thoroughly checked out. I knew from previous experience that the officers gave such foreigners a hard time. (It’s a sad thing to report, but I came across open racism often in my times in major Russian cities). This time, the customs officers struck it lucky. They found a small packet of cigarettes she was carrying, opened it and took out a few forbidden US Dollar notes hidden inside. The officer did no more than take the money, rip up her flight ticket, thrust her case back at her and pointed for her to leave. She left slowly in tears. At which point, the officer called me forward and, with utmost politeness, stamped my ticket without opening my case for examination. To this day, I wonder what happened to that young lady.

All travel for foreigners was organised by the Intourist organisation, including hotels. Under this system, I had my first taste of Russian accommodation on this stayover. The following extract from another RAFLing News article records my experience:

Sheremetevo is located to the north of the city, as thankfully was the hotel to which I was heading. The first monument noted en route towards the centre was the huge anti-tank memorial at Khimki. This marked the nearest point to Moscow to which the German army had advanced during World War 2. It’s ironic that Khimki is probably now equally as well known as the location of the first IKEA store established in Russia.

The further we travelled, the more impressed I was with the width of the main roads in and out of the city. Six unmarked lanes in each direction, if I remember correctly. And overtaking on either side was not only allowed, it appeared to be encouraged. I never hired a car at any of the Eastern European locations in which I worked; this first taste was enough to put me off for life.

After forty minutes we arrived at the location that the Intourist travel agency had booked for me – the Cosmos Hotel.

The Cosmos was built for visitors to the Olympic Games in 1980 and, with 1,777 rooms, is still the largest hotel in Russia. Until the late 80s it was just about the only hotel available to foreigners in the city.

Even on my first one-night stay I encountered one of the peculiarities of this edifice: There are two sets of lifts – to the left and right behind reception – one serving floors 1 to 13; the second serving floors 14 to 25. For the first of many times, I selected the wrong lifts. I wanted to get out at level 12, but the lift went sailing past. The floor buttons were there, only they weren’t active. When I returned there several years later, this weakness had been corrected, but that didn’t stop newcomers selecting the wrong lift set. Even now, they’re probably still turning right instead of left.

On the numerous occasions that I was to stay at the Cosmos over the following years, I experienced how these lifts had a life of their own. A blockbuster could have been written about the happenings there.

I once had to console a pair of elderly Italian tourists who, courtesy of the dual lift system, were becoming increasingly vexed that they could not reach their hotel floor. I took them back down to the reception floor, over to the other lift, and then escorted them to the correct level. Copious “mille grazie” followed. When I mentioned this to my work colleagues, who were permanently based at the hotel whilst working on a nearby installation, they assured me that this was not unusual. They carried out similar Good Samaritan acts on a weekly basis.

In 1988 the Atlanta Hawks professional basketball team came from the USA to play against a Soviet Union select team in three matches, the final one taking place in Moscow. This was in the run up to the Seoul Olympics. The team stayed in the Cosmos. One day returning from the city, I squeezed through closing lift doors to find a huge black guy in a tracksuit standing there. I said “Hi”. He answered “6 feet 10 inches”. I said something like “Really?” and remained silent until I got out at my floor. Exiting the lift, I thought “That was a strange conversation”. Which is probably exactly what he was thinking. 

I was reminded of this interaction a few months later when I read a report about the result of the Olympic Games basketball tournament, won by the Soviet Union team. The USA team only got a bronze medal. The American article suggested that the Atlanta Hawks were partly to blame, as they had taken the communist dollar in agreeing to these warmup games, thereby providing the very best competition for the USSR team in the critical final preparation period. One noticeable aftermath of this: the USA put together the so-called “Dream Team” for the 1992 Olympics.

On another occasion, when my room was on one of the higher floors, I decided to go for a drink in the bar – hard currency only – on the 25^th floor. When the lift arrived, the doors opened to reveal three North Korean highly bemedaled officers in military uniforms. They silently looked me up and down. We all know the saying “If looks could kill”; this time it was highly appropriate. 

I compared this situation subconsciously to the 'Fart in the Lift' scene with Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther film. This made me smile and, consequently, their stare became even more intense. When I got out at the top floor, my fellow travellers stayed in the lift.  The doors closed and they were gone. 

Having got a drink, I mentioned what had just happened to another guest at the hotel. He said “Oh, yes, the North Koreans. We know them.” He went on to explain that the group – seemingly always a trio – would never get into an occupied lift. Neither would they exit a lift when there was still someone in the cabin. It appeared that they did not want to let it be known which floor they were staying on and would ride up and down until the lift was unoccupied at their level. Knowing what we know now about North Korea, perhaps what I experienced was just an early outward manifestation of the neurosis of the nation.

The Intourist influence extended to the management of all our travel. Foreigners were constantly kept apart from the locals. Accordingly, for the first of many times, I was directed to the separate Intourist Lounge at Vnukovo Airport in Moscow. Please do not imagine that this was the equivalent of a modern airport Business Lounge. Apart from a few moth-eaten copies of flight magazines, it had all the charm of a doctor’s waiting room. Foreign passengers waited here until their flight destination was called. “Kishinev!” was announced and I went forward to the waiting bus, along with Intourist clients for other flights. We were then driven out to the aircraft waiting on the parking area. “Kishinev!” was shouted again. I got off and mounted the steps to the aircraft, where responsibility for my welfare was passed by the Intourist representatives to the waiting flight attendants.

This Intourist method of separately handling foreign travellers, which still had a propensity to malfunction, continued for some time after the breakup of the Soviet Union. This was typical during this changeover period, a reluctance to drop systems with which they had worked for years. My recollection of how this can go wrong is described in yet another RAFLing News extract:

I remember that on one occasion I was the only passenger left on the coach when we ran out of aircraft to board.  The escorts just smiled, apologised, and took me back to the terminal. But later the mismanagement went even further. Flying from Moscow Vnukovo to Tashkent, I was directed to my seat on the aircraft – the last one in the back row, as it happened – when I heard the stewardess start her address “Welcome on board this flight to Novosibirsk”. I started to rise, when the announcement suddenly stopped and an attendant came running down the aisle. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Tashkent” I answered. By now the interest of my would-be fellow passengers had been raised. To cries of “Stay on board! You’ll love Novosibirsk”, I was quickly escorted from the flight. When I eventually boarded the correct aircraft my host crew were in hysterics. Apparently, the Japanese passenger loaded in my place did not speak Russian or English and had been repeatedly shouting out “Novosibirsk!” until the situation was resolved. And I was treated to the best of service in a premier seat on the four-hour flight down to Tashkent.

More often than not, Intourist would direct us to a front row seat. On one occasion I was positioned next to a young man with a striped blue and white t-shirt. As soon as he realised that I was a foreigner, he made urgent arrangements to change seats. I am certain that I had inadvertently been placed next to the then equivalent of the ‘air marshal’ on the flight (he was probably armed). His t-shirt, standard issue to soldiers, had given this away. This was, I suppose, much better than one of my colleagues who had been placed next to a lady with a live chicken in her shopping bag on the Kishinev-Moscow leg of the journey. In those days, air travel was relatively cheap and a quicker alternative to train travel in a country as vast as the Soviet Union. (Even broken down, Russia remains the largest nation by area in the world).

The climate in Kishinev was changeable, to say the least.  One day in early May we woke up to a temperature of minus 5 degrees. By evening it was 25 degrees plus and stayed that way for the next month or so. In the two years or so of my repeated visits, I got into the habit of enquiring about the weather in advance. (Discussing the weather is, after all, a British pastime). In this case, it was to ensure that I packed the correct clothing. 

The climate was apparently conducive to viticulture. The locals were very proud of their wines, indeed insisting that traditionally the Queen received a case of Moldovan Red at Christmas every year. The factory director once gave me a case of local wine to bring home. The 12 bottles cost us a fortune in excess baggage and, once opened, proved to be to no one’s taste. I think that I gave at least a couple of bottles as raffle prizes, so unpopular were the contents. Nevertheless, one of the first post-independence contracts signed by the government was with a French wine producer who was able to introduce new grapes and cultivating techniques to the Moldovan wine industry. I’ve never tasted the results, so I cannot comment on how successful this venture became.

One morning in autumn, our driver brought his minibus to ferry us the short distance to the factory. I sat next to him, chatting. He hit black ice and, without comment or breaking the gist of our conversation, skilfully steered the vehicle round 360° before carrying on driving down the road. The Soviet vehicles may have been basic and the roads irregular, but drivers learned quickly how to deal with all situations. I was later to be the only passenger in a similar vehicle which took me miles on remote Russian roads covered with frozen rain. I am a nervous passenger at the best of times, but I knew instinctively that I was in safe hands there. It was only when western models – particularly BMW and Mercedes – became the “must have” means of transport in post-Soviet Union times that drivers started to lose inherent skills, relying too much on the deemed superior driveability of the imports. Drivers took risks they would have not dared with Soviet equivalents, often with horrendous results.

The young Chief Engineer I first worked with at ‘Floare’ was killed in a car accident, when reportedly he would not give way in his high-power Mercedes to a similar vehicle coming in the opposite direction down the central “Emergency Lane” on the main highway through the town. This bi-directional strip, with three to four lanes in both directions on either side, was nominally for emergency vehicles only. In practice it was regularly commandeered by communist party hierarchy and local mafia bosses – both identifiable by their shiny black vehicles – whose determination to maintain their central position led to situations where the equivalent of a western gunfight standoff was carried out at closing speeds in excess of 200 mph. A non-survivable crash was often the inevitable result.  Even at the time of my last visit to Moscow in 2012, a favourite evening programme on local TV was still dedicated to showing unedited footage of car crashes around the city. Officially it was shown to deter bad driving habits; in actuality it allowed ‘rubber-necking’ from the comfort of your own sofa.

The ‘Floare’ Carpet Factory in Kishinev, built in 1978.

Within weeks I was involved in the negotiations for a second major turnkey project in the Soviet Union, this time at the Lyubertsy Carpet Combine. Lyubertsy is a town located in the Moscow District, south of Moscow city, but within daily commuting distance. The project this time would be even larger, a finishing line to include a computer-controlled store with monorail service, a rug preparation section, and a microdot rug marking system. This meant, in effect, that three companies would be involved in providing equipment for the line, with Sellers & Co being the senior and controlling partner.

When the negotiations got to the final stage, a party from the “Technopromimport” (Technical Industry Import) governmental department in Moscow came over to Huddersfield. My job at the meeting was to sit and listen and report back anything I might hear. Jeff was our interpreter, whilst a representative from the Soviet Trade Delegation in London was present to ensure that his translations were correct. It soon became apparent to me that one member of their five-strong party – Mr Berezin – was the ‘main man’, capable of making executive decisions, whilst others were technical specialists, plus the Trade Delegation representative. I noticed that one young man remained silent throughout. I wondered if he, like me, had the task to listen and report.

During one of the later breaks in negotiations, I recounted that I believed I had heard one of their party say “19 khvatit” (“19 is enough”). Whether or not coincidental, I’ll never know, but I was pleased when the negotiators shook hands on a 19% discount on our £4 million plus proposed package price. All participants in the negotiations seemed genuinely delighted with this outcome, marking it with a champagne toast in the boardroom at Sellers & Co.

I accompanied the Moscow party on subsequent visits to local textile machinery manufacturers, followed by a night out in London. A visit to Raymond’s Revue Bar (a high-class strip club) did not appeal to the visitors, so we left there for one of their hotel rooms, where we continued to empty the minibar and play ‘manly’ games such as arm wrestling. The previously very serious Mr Berezin turned out to be a most engaging host, whilst the formerly silent young man (whose name I have since forgotten) started to talk to me in German. After a very late night, for the one and only time in my life, I slept through my morning alarm. When I eventually met up with my Russian guests, they had already had breakfast and were completely ready for the day. Thus, I experienced for the first time the Russian male’s capacity for speedy recovery after a heavy drinking session.

I leave it to yet another RAFLing article extract to comment on a follow-up to our negotiations:

Later in the day, I discovered that one of the ministry representatives spoke German, so we started to converse in that language. Over the next few years, he and I used to be in regular contact about the contracts, dropping all pretences when we met; he would talk to me in English and I would answer in Russian. This act would often bring puzzled looks from bystanders, but it was our private joke of recognition of the silent roles both of us had played during the negotiations. 

As part of the contract, the Lyubertsy Carpet Combine sent out a representative to England to oversee the final construction and testing of the equipment destined for their factory. The manager they sent was Nikolai Orlov, who was to become a great personal friend. Although educated in nuclear physics, spending time on an unspecified project in Siberia instead of completing national service, for reasons unknown he ended up being employed as a production manager at the carpet factory. I never asked about his past, as both of us knew that this was a confidential matter. Similarly, he didn’t enquire about my RAF service, although everyone was aware that I was a military veteran who spoke Russian. I am sure that, to receive permission to travel unaccompanied from the Soviet Union to the UK, he would have gone through a comprehensive security check by the KGB or equivalent. No doubt also that he would have been expected to make a report to the home security services on return. In the event, our cooperation was based on a standard supplier to customer relationship throughout. His nationality was of minor significance.

I already knew Nikolai when he arrived in Huddersfield, escorted by a representative from the Soviet Trade Delegation in London. I had been introduced to him on a preparatory visit I had made to Lyubertsy, along with Jeff Nutter and a couple of Sellers’ engineers. Interestingly, we were never requested to report on Nikolai’s movements for the couple of weeks that he was at our factory; he was free to go wherever we took him. 

His arrival escort, however, was of interest to the Special Branch. We were first asked by them to verify that the Trade Delegation representative’s upcoming visit was expected and necessary. (For permission to travel outside London, these representatives had to submit a prior application to our authorities). Then I was called personally to confirm that he had arrived at our factory and later departed.  I believe that the representative who came that day was called Valery Shirshov. He was the nominal textile industry expert at the London Soviet Trade Delegation. He was later to be declared “Persona non grata” and deported for “Conduct unbecoming of a diplomat”, i.e., for spying. Jeff saw him afterwards in Moscow, where he treated his deportation as a joke. 

We literally “put the flag out” for Nikolai. Sellers had a tradition of flying the national flag of foreign visitors prominently on the Sports & Social Club’s flagstaff. We bought a Soviet Union flag, with hammer and sickle, especially for his arrival, as shown on the above photograph. Like many before him, he was visibly touched by this gesture.

During his first visit, I just didn’t want to leave him alone in his hotel room after days at the factory. He made it obvious that he would prefer to just do what we do. It was all new to him. We welcomed him into our home.  The children just took it as a normal everyday happening that all communications with Nikolai came through me. Barbara’s inherent hospitality made sure that he was made to feel comfortable; however, she drew the line at his repeated desire to accompany us whenever we went supermarket shopping. Our first visit, normally around twenty minutes in length, took over two hours. Nikolai wanted to know the contents of just about every supermarket shelf. 

This not only tried my language knowledge, but also it exhausted Barbara’s patience. Later shopping trips were made unannounced by her and me or by Nikolai and me alone. He loved discovering what was on offer, particularly anything which satisfied with his obvious sweet tooth. In this, he bought several packets of Skittles to take back to his family. I would often include a few packs in my case for him on future visits to Lyubertsy.

Regarding the fascination of visitors from the Soviet Union for supermarkets, the mother of a Russian girl married to a British friend of mine came to visit them in London around that time. When taken to the local Tesco superstore, her mother stopped at the entrance and exclaimed “Nas obmanuly!” (“They have deceived us!”). In line with Soviet propaganda, she had been informed all her life that our shops were empty or stocked with poor quality products. It is possible that Nikolai had the same feeling, although he was too much a diplomat to say it out loud.

I was later to have the hospitality returned by Nikolai when I visited Lyubertsy. I got to know his family, wife Lyuba Orlova, and children Aleksey and Maria, plus the largest dog I have ever made friends with, their Russian Wolfhound “Nord".

Lyuba was a doctor with the local Emergency Services, a profession that son Aleksey was later to follow.

One of Nikolai’s habits from that time has stayed in my memory. Whenever I went to their flat next to the factory at Lyubertsy, he would sit me at a small table near the window and turn on the radio above our heads. This was still a time when contact with foreigners should be reported. The radio background noise was to prevent our conversations from being overheard. Old habits died hard then.

In the nearly ten years that I worked at Sellers & Co, I did so alongside a wide mixture of personalities. Thank goodness, the good ones far outnumbered the bad ones. There were, however, two management representatives who openly disliked me: my boss Sales Director and the Buying Department head. I tried for a long time, perhaps too hard and counter-productively, to get them to change their opinion of me. I then realised a valuable lesson for my future business relationships. Accept the hostility situation, live with it, and concentrate on doing your job. To do otherwise is just a waste of time. Besides, I wasn’t alone in the negative evaluation of these two at the company. That soon became apparent and reassured me. 

In my time on the Soviet projects, however, I worked closely with a couple of likeable characters: one an absolute gentleman and the other a bloody-minded Yorkshireman. 

The gentleman was Peter Thewlis, the experienced Technical Manager at the company. He was in charge of the engineering input to both projects, being the coordinator of all factory-based support for work in the field. It was Peter to whom I reported in my liaison role. He seldom travelled to away from Huddersfield; it was up to me to be his eyes and ears on site. It would be Peter that I called with update reports and requests for assistance from Kishinev and Lyubertsy. This task called for dedicated teamwork. I could not have had a better partner in this than Peter. As someone who still prefers to be the quiet arranger in the background (others can take credit if they want), I am simply repeating what I learned then from Peter.

The professional Yorkshireman was Jonathan Hirst, the chief fitter on both Soviet projects. An experienced installation engineer at Sellers, he specialised in erecting and commissioning carpet finishing lines. He was the constant element in the installation teams sent out from the factory, rigidly leading operations on site. His Broad Yorkshire accent, which was a constant problem for translators, could lead others to easily undervalue his abilities. He was simply one of the most pragmatic engineers I ever came across. When problems occurred, he would inevitably include a solution with his report. 

One final celebrity story – I promise – similarly happened unexpectedly. Leaving an early afternoon meeting in Moscow, I decided to take advantage of the fine weather and make a convenient diversion from the Metro back towards my hotel near the Foreign Ministry. This involved going down the “Arbat”, a pedestrianised road with rows of souvenir, crafts and arts shops, supplemented by temporary market stands all along its way. As I stopped to examine something on one stall, I was aware that I was surrounded by a group of suited men. I looked up, straight into the smiling face of former US President Jimmy Carter on the other side of the table. I noticed a camera crew filming this situation. I simply smiled back and waited for the group to move off.

Later that evening – just for interest’s sake you realise – I decided to see if I had made local TV.  It took repeated attempts, but I did eventually find my three seconds of fame. “Who’s that person with Brian?” I hoped was the response, but no one ever asked. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Kustanai, Kazakhstan

50+ Exhibitions

One personal joy from my twenty-plus years of sales work came from my close involvement with industrial exhibitions. Not including shows I visited – these too must have numbered well over a hundred – I had a hand in managing and/or participating in over fifty exhibitions around the world. This duty started at Sellers in 1985 and continued all the way through until the end of my time at Norbar Torque Tools in 2012.

My job title at Sellers was “Sales & Marketing Engineer”. It was taken for granted from the Marketing description that I was to be the focal point at the company for administration of all exhibitions, from beginning to end. It was my job to organise the layout of the stand to best fit the allocated space, in addition to coordinating all actions to get equipment and personnel safely to and from the site. Although lacking prior experience, I just fell into the post seamlessly.  Without doubt, the administrative skills I learned in the RAF – which I use to date – contributed greatly to this success.

My first task was to finalise the layout of the stand we would use. In the days before computers, I would first take details from the organisers of the floorspace allocated to us at the exhibition and draw its shape out on a large blank sheet using a draughtman’s mechanical board. (I had one in my office for just such marketing tasks). Then I heard from the directors which machines we would be exhibiting. Accordingly, I copied the machine outlines to scale on card and cut out the shapes.  At my next meeting with the directors, the cut-outs were moved around on the background drawing of the stand space allocation to determine the final desired layout. At this point I was able to invite in local exhibition stand erectors to design and quote for the booth we would use.

Nowadays the stand layout would be finalised quickly and accurately on a Computer Aided Design (CAD) programme but, to my lasting credit, I do not recall a major mistake made in my pencil-and-paper approach. This included showing connections to the services points at the exhibition ground. In this I am grateful for the wise advice given to me by the soon-to-retire Fitting Shop Foreman – who in the past had managed the setup of many exhibitions – that I should never trust the accuracy of the services supply points indicated on provided drawings. And, of course, he was right. Thanks to his help, we always took additional cabling and piping to counter the inaccurate information. This overcame any problem we might otherwise have had in having to obtain extra connections, at an inflated cost, from the exhibition store. I recall that other exhibitors suffered from the inaccuracy of provided information in this way. They complained, but still had to pay out.

When I think back about exhibitions, I find that I recall them best in the form of stop-frame images. First the blank canvas of an empty hall; the marking out of the allocated space; the installation of machinery; the building of the stand; the addition of furniture and hosting facilities. All is then ready for the arrival of the rest of the sales team, including a nervous wait during the inevitable first inspection by the company directors.

As we had to install at least one working machine on our display area, our exhibition setup routine was to first erect the machinery in position, connect the services, and only then bring in the hired contractors to construct a stand around the equipment. As our machines weighed around one ton each, it was vitally important at the beginning that we put the positioning chalk marks correctly on the flooring. 

I once located a machine back to front. To this day I don’t think anyone noticed. Other than my fitting team colleagues, that is. And they simply commented “You’ll have turn it around on your own. We’ve finished our bit and are going home tonight”.

The action then moves on to the opening of the show, requiring me to change out of overalls into a suit and tie. Old friends are met, new ones encountered, demonstrations are given and, of course, business matters discussed. All too soon, the show has run its course and the visitors and company representatives have departed. If we’re lucky, someone will have purchased the displayed machinery “Off Stand”, meaning that we won’t have to strip down the heavy equipment for transport back to our factory. The buyer will take care of everything.

My final vision is of an emptying hall; no longer a blank canvas but now littered with paper, boxes and stand remnants. It’s as if a whole village has been built here from scratch, to flourish briefly and then be vandalised and abandoned.

The secret of successful exhibition participation? Two basics: become good friends with the hall manager and - most importantly - get to know a cooperative forklift truck driver.

The main exhibition in the life of the Sellers’ company was the four-yearly International Textile Machinery Exhibition (ITMA) event. During the 1980s and 1990s, this huge trade show was reportedly the second-largest exhibition in the world in terms of floorspace used. As part of the preparations, for a short period I was a member of the Exhibitions Committee of the British Textile Machinery Association (BTMA), based in Manchester.

Each of the ITMA Exhibitions hold special memories:

• ·      Paris, France, 1987

As I was involved with our exhibitions from the very beginning to the bitter end, I spent nearly three weeks in France: arriving just after the erection team from the factory; working as a representative for the duration of the six-day show; supervising the pulldown and disposal of the exhibits. I still shudder to think about my introduction to Paris. My fitter colleague picked me up from the airport and navigated his way in our small company van with righthand drive through rush hour traffic around the Arc de Triomphe “by using accelerator and horn – just like the French” on the way to our hotel in Montparnasse. Thereafter I travelled by the Metro Underground to and from the exhibition site. It was safer.

On the second night, we decided to go to a restaurant near our hotel. We found a table and were given our menus – all in French! As the man known for his language skills, my colleagues left it totally to me to navigate the selection of meals for each. A real test of my schoolboy French. Having, sort of, given our order, the waiter looked at us and said – in perfect English – “You have ordered…” and continued to list our selections. “If you speak English, why did you watch me struggle with the menu?” I asked. “You are in France. Speak French!” was his reply. My mates thought that this was hilarious, insisting on giving him a good tip at the end of the evening. The waiter’s last words to me: “Bonne Nuit et Bonne Chance!” [Good Night and Good Luck!].  Then he smiled. An unforgettable welcome to France…

One evening a few days later, we sat outside a small corner café in Paris drinking beers. Almost unnoticed, a group of vans pulled up nearby and the occupants started to lay down a small railway track in the road and put up lighting units. A film team! Then a man came over and spoke to us in French. Quickly realising, he switched to English, asking us if we intended to stay there whilst they were filming. We said “Why not?” and he sweetened the request by going inside and then coming back to tell us that all our beers were paid for. Things happened quickly then. The scene where a car screeched round the corner and bundled a passing girl into the vehicle was practised a few times by a lady carrying a clipboard. Then we all spotted a stunning blonde take her place and the scene was played out for filming. The take must have been good, because the French director (the man who had spoken to us earlier) shouted “That’s a wrap!”, perhaps for our benefit. Thereafter the crew disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, but not before one had told us that the actress was indeed Catherine Deneuve. He told us the working title of the film, but I later searched Catherine’s film archive without success. Somewhere out there is a film scene with five Sellers’ engineers drinking at a French café, unless it was cut in the final edit.

As mentioned before, finding a friendly forklift truck driver is a must. The earlier you can get him on your side, the better. This can ensure that you are the first to receive your boxes in the build-up and break down phases, as well as guaranteeing the demanded skilled assistance when swinging heavy equipment into position. 

How you achieve this is up to you. For this Paris exhibition, I promised the driver that he could have the opened spirits bottles from our bar at the end of the show. We weren’t going to take them back with us. As soon as the exhibition closed, he was at our stand. Having inspected the various options on offer, he took a selection and returned minutes later with our boxes. Mission accomplished. 

We packed up and made ready to leave a couple of hours later. On the way out we saw our friend driving his forklift at speed down the aisle, radio blasting, with a bottle to his lips. He saw us, waved and shouted “Santé!” [Cheers!]. Thank goodness he wasn’t the driver of the heavier truck which moved our machinery on the following morning.

• ·      Hannover, Germany, 1991

One major advantage here was that I speak German. This has more significance in the build-up and pull-down periods, as English is the working language used by all once the exhibition has been opened. In this way, I was able to establish a relationship with the forklift driver (using the same rewards offered earlier in Paris) and, most importantly, with the hall manager. This rapport had immediate benefits. With typical German thinking, the toilets in our hall were kept locked until the show was open, to maintain their cleanliness for visitors. The nearest open toilet was a few halls away. I made up an excuse to talk with the hall manager about security, taking a few examples of the executive give-away items we needed to keep safe to show to him. He was obviously bored and enjoyed the opportunity to talk to an Englishman in German. Twenty minutes later, I had a spare key to the toilets in the hall (only for our team’s use!) and he had a few souvenirs to take home. International negotiation at its basic best.

We were put up in a chalet type B&B in a nearby village. At first, I had a large loft room to myself but, to my great surprise, a second bed was added when our office team arrived from UK. I had to share with one of the designers for a couple of nights, a situation neither of us enjoyed. Apparently, there had been a mistake in communications in booking the rooms, leading to this situation. Unusually for this ITMA, I was not involved with the booking of accommodation; my German-speaking Sales Director had made the arrangements. Apparently, he had said “Brian won’t mind” to the female owner, overlooking the fact that I too could communicate freely with her. Just another grouse about my boss to add to the list. Afterwards, I tried to make sure that, in my planning of future events, no one would ever have to share rooms. If this was unavoidable, I would at least ensure that this situation was not inflicted on someone who was staying long-term.

On the evening of the day after closing of the show, we returned to the B&B to be met by the owner offering us pieces of a cake she had baked that day. To be polite, we took up her invitation to sample the wares, although we had plans to set off quickly for an evening meal in a local restaurant. When I paid the final bill for our stay a few days later, I was astounded to see that we had been charged a significant amount for the cake and coffees. Back in UK, I offered to meet this payment personally, as I had obviously missed something in translation. My Financial Director told me not to worry; they had already noted similar additions to the interim invoice they had brought back a few days earlier. A lesson learned.

• ·      Milan, Italy, 1995

The final ITMA show I worked on was memorable for me for several reasons: the preparations; travel arrangements; accommodation; and visitor behaviour. All capped with a prophetic warning from the head of ITMA.

Sellers International, the umbrella company formed to control the engineering firm with other recent undertakings such as a business travel agency and a corporate hospitality temporary structures outfitter, took over a well-known local restaurant in the early 90s. Ramsdens Landing was a large, modern structure at the Aspley Marina on the Huddersfield Broad Canal, run by a renowned local chef the late Peter Midwood. (Incidentally, I absolutely delighted Peter at that time by producing quality menu cards for him on my computer at Sellers Engineers.  He had taken up my initial casual offer, quickly realising the capabilities of the coming digital revolution.  As a result, I didn’t have to pay for meals for an age, as long as I continued to provide him with the weekly menu updates. A perk of my position!).

One of the waiters at Ramsdens Landing – Ignazio (“Nats”), if I remember correctly – was Italian. When talking to the Sellers directors about the upcoming trip to Milan, he made a suggestion. Although originally from Sardinia, he had worked for years in the Lake Iseo district. Perhaps the team for the exhibition could consider staying there, as the costs of accommodation were much cheaper than in central Milan and tourist orientated Iseo was in commuting distance to the city?  The idea was accepted, and Nats was invited to go out on a scouting mission to Iseo to select hotels. I would accompany him. He agreed on one condition: that a free ticket to an AC Milan (his team) versus Inter Milan football game be provided.

The first task I had on arrival in Milan was to obtain tickets for the game taking place two days later. This was much easier than I imagined: tickets were on sale for inflated prices at a booth in the airport arrivals hall. A very happy Nats took me to Lake Iseo, where he met up with hotel proprietors of previous acquaintance. I don’t speak Italian, but I realised from his tone that he was driving hard bargains on our behalf. We returned home with two booked options, as requested. One quality hotel for the directors and a large B&B with restaurant for our erection and sales team. In retrospect, we got the better end of the bargain. The owner/chef of the B&B had worked in London and spoke great English, whilst his food was first class. Even the directors came to dine with us on one occasion.

On the Sunday “We went to church for the second time in one day”, as Nats described his dream trip to the San Siro Stadium. We joined the crowds flocking to the game on a tram. Suddenly Nats yelled out a greeting. In a coincidence typical of my life experiences, he had spotted friends on the tram. These school mates were now members of the Coast Guard in Sardinia. (Sardinia, for some reason, is a hotbed of AC Milan fans). Meeting up with them brought a major advantage for us. We didn’t have to join the long queues at the turnstiles for this sold-out match. We were waved through the special gate reserved for representatives of the military and civil police.

I cannot say that I saw a game to enthuse about, although the 2-0 victory for AC Milan made Nats’ day. All I remember is that, when we arrived at the pitch, a new Fiat 500 car of the game’s sponsor was parked on the halfway line. Once the teams had come onto the field, the car was driven away, gouging two deep parallel lines in the soddened earth! I found it fascinating to witness how players avoided these areas throughout the game.

Having completed our scouting mission successfully, then came the decision on how best to manage our daily commutes to and from the show. An ingenious solution was found – we hired a forty-seater coach with driver for the duration of our two weeks’ stay in Italy. Once more personal contacts had come to the rescue. Sellers & Co had a resident driver/mechanic Tony, whose best friend Hedley had recently opened a local coach travel company. It suited the plans of both sides to use his new coach to take our exhibition preparation team all the way to Italy by road and remain there at our convenience for the duration of the show. At the time of writing in 2023, this coach company – B&H Travel – is still in existence. There is no doubt that the initial boost to their earnings from our Italian transport undertaking provided a solid foundation for the firm.

On this occasion I did not travel alone to the exhibition; a team of four sales engineers with a couple of erection fitters took the bus from the factory to Lake Iseo. We all came back the same way. On our leisurely three-day trip down to northern Italy, Hedley was our driver, with his wife Barbara in support. On the way through Switzerland, he asked did we prefer to take the direct Gotthard Tunnel into Italy (which would possibly be subject to delay) or perhaps travel by the alternate Alpine route? To my lasting gratitude, we opted for the ‘over the top’ choice. Riding through the picturesque mountains and valleys on a beautiful summer’s day, with increasingly impressive vistas around every corner, is a memory for life. The real pity is that I didn’t have a camera with me. These was, of course, at a time before mobiles – with and without built-in cameras – had even been introduced.

The hour-long daily commute to and from the exhibition was no problem at all for us, as it was undertaken in the comfort of a luxury coach. Only one person had to deal directly with madcap Italian driving habits: Hedley. And he admitted to sufficient experience of local traffic idiosyncrasies to cope well. We would sit up on high, commenting at the regular sight below of Lamborghinis and Ferraris racing past at idiotic speeds on the motorway stretches of our commute. There were to be many exhibitions after this when I longed for the similar comfort of a coach taxi.

We also found accommodation in Iseo for business associates. They liked the cheaper costs offered in the region, particularly when coach travel was available from us. Three of the visitors in this category arrived from the Institute of Wool Technology in Moscow. This group – Vyacheslav and Vladimir with diminutive translator Boris – were senior influential government employees who had become good friends to me. On their final day, they had met up with fellow Russians at an exhibition stand and had got into a traditional vodka session. I recall vividly how disgusted David Armitage’s visiting secretary was to realise that our noisy guests at the back of the coach were steaming drunk. I tried to explain to her that such drinking behaviour was typical of Russian menfolk – who consequently had the shortest life expectancy in Europe – and that this was accepted without comment in their country. It was then that I realised how I too had become tolerant of such behaviour. She was, of course, correct. I was later, in around 2010, to give up drinking, following participation in a similar vodka session after a contract signing in Belarus. Even at the time of writing this, although I am not a teetotaller, I limit myself to perhaps a couple of small beers once a week when meeting RAF veteran colleagues. The final vodka I drank was in Minsk and the situation will remain that way.

During the exhibition, I heard from others how the Director of the International Textile Machinery Association had given an enlightening – and frightening – synopsis of the industry’s position in an open forum which ran parallel to the show. In essence, he had stated that the textile machinery production industry was a victim of its own success, in that its latest models were simply too efficient and productive to maintain sales demand in the long run. He stated that, even if our supply of new machinery halted completely that very day, our textile industry customers would continue to grow their yields without a break. The machines already supplied to them were that good, capable of progressively greater output without replacement. Put simply, the market was now saturated. Changes and new approaches would need to be made by ITMA firms to continue trading textile machinery successfully. Otherwise, the option of leaving the market completely (perhaps for another product group) would have to be addressed. An honest but brutal judgement; it proved to be totally correct. Within months, my position at Sellers & Co was made redundant, along with around a third of the then two hundred plus workforce. 

[Today – in 2023 – Sellers Engineers still exists, although employing less than forty workers who specialise in manufacturing infrequent capital project finishing lines for carpet manufacturers worldwide and the repair and maintenance of previously supplied machines in the USA].

• ·      “Inlegmash”, Moscow, Soviet Union, 1988

Outside the ITMA sphere, the largest and most significant exhibition in which I was also deeply involved was the “Inlegmash” [Light Industry Machinery] Show in Moscow in August 1988. With Mikhail Gorbachev at its head, the country was in a state of major changes because of his “Glasnost” [Clarity] and “Perestroika” [Restructuring] policies. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) was destined to start breaking up within a year.

As a condition of the recent £4 million turnkey installation contract it had signed with the State Buying Authority “Technopromimport” for supply to the Lyubertsy Carpet Factory, Sellers & Co was obliged to take part in the “Inlegmash” textile machinery exhibition in the capital in August 1988. 

As usual with such undertakings in the Soviet era, the exhibition – held at the Expocentre on the banks of the Moscow River – lasted a full ten days. The justification for this extended period: to allow representatives from combines all over the country to take turns in attending. In practice this occasioned that the invitation-only first two days were taken up with ministerial and factory director visitors; their subordinates just had to wait. Perish the thought that the proletariat might actually be allowed to mix with the secretariat.

This meant that any contracts were negotiated in the first 48 hours. The remaining show time was taken up by repeatedly demonstrating our equipment’s capabilities. To be fair to these factory representatives who came later to the show, they soaked up information like a sponge on techniques that they had probably only read about and certainly not observed in practice. I had great respect for the Soviet industrial engineers of this time. They were able to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear in situations where our specialists would simply have downed tools. Dealing with poor quality parts was an everyday obstacle for these Soviet mechanics.

I met many special people during my time working on or around industrial fairs. The history of the first special person I met via exhibitions goes back to the preparation stage for the “Inlegmash” show. As usual, the machinery to be featured was erected and tested at our factory, before being taken down and packed for transportation. On this occasion, we booked a Surrey freight forwarding company to supply the lorry with driver to take our load all the way by road to Moscow. The experienced driver would stay in the region, performing local transportation tasks where available, to be immediately on hand to bring our goods back to UK at the end of the show.

During the loading process at our factory, the driver - whose name I have long ago forgotten - mentioned that he went to school with a member of Status Quo who, all being well, he would meet again in Moscow. He explained that the group would be completing a three-week concert stay in Moscow around the time of “Inlegmash”. Being typically cynical Yorkshiremen, we quickly discounted his claims.

Gerhard Aigner

UEFA General Secretary 1989-1999   UEFA Chief Executive 1999-2003

On leaving the meeting, I had the instant feeling that things had not gone well.  I admitted to myself that, judging on my lacklustre performance at the interview, even I wouldn’t give me the job. Consequently, it wasn’t a surprise a week later when the Swiss recruitment specialist rang to say that I had been unsuccessful in my application. This was what I had expected. 

However, my Swiss contact was not so sanguine. He was livid that, having gone out of his way to find the only candidate who could meet all their given criteria - me - UEFA had given the job to a German ex-international footballer who reportedly neither spoke Russian, nor had a business qualification. It was “The Old Boy Network” in action. He apologised profusely, but such is life.

As a footnote to this, when my redundancy was announced a year later, David Armitage said to me privately “Anyone who is good enough to be considered for a job with UEFA will not have problems finding other work.” He had known all along. Apparently, before my flight from Geneva had landed back in Manchester, UEFA had called Trevor Cherry, who in turn had phoned David with full details. David added “I would have taken the job too, if offered”. The next time I saw Gerhard Aigner was on television, presenting the Champions League Cup in his new role as the Chief Executive of UEFA.

It’s never worth dwelling on the question of “what would have happened, if…” but in this instance it merits the odd moment of reflection. Nevertheless, if I had been hired by UEFA, I would probably not have been able to do all the other interesting things that I have been able to experience in subsequent work in Eastern Europe & Central Asia. These are yet to be covered here.

2024 FOOTNOTE:  Of the Sellers' directors named here, only Tony Nield now survives.  Tim Sugden died in 2008 from a brain tumour at the tragically young age of 55.  Thankfully, I had been able to build up email correspondence with him towards the end, but I don't recall him reporting his diagnosis in our messages.  I couldn't attend his funeral due to work commitments, although in 2022 I was able to pay my respects at Keith Bottom's cremation service.  I may not have had a good opinion of him professionally, but Keith did have a shaping influence on my life and I was pleased that I could attend.  Whilst there, I came across David Armitage once again, where we arranged a later meeting at his Sellers' office.  I spent a good hour or so with David, where I was able to bring him up to date with my career after Sellers, not forgetting to thank him for taking the chance to employ me back in 1985.  His faith in me was a major influence in my life.  David passed away earlier this year.  I was honoured to join the huge numbers at his commemoration service in Halifax Cathedral.  It was obvious that I was not the only one proud to know David and his wife Carol.  It is to my lasting gratification that I had been granted the opportunity to inform him face-to-face how his backing had assisted me greatly.  I learned a great deal from his gentlemanly demeanour.   Thank you, David.

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