It had been a successful visit to New York. Despite my youth I had convinced the board of the Kellogg's Corporation to allow us to handle the risk management for their European operations. Further kudos - and a nice fat bonus - would be mine.
Although I was just 28 years old, I had built a reputation in the City for being one of the hottest young stars on the London risk management scheme. Last year my earnings had topped £200,000 - and I expected this year to be even better. The hours were long, but the benefits were phenomenal. I had combined this business trip with a weekend break in New York - and a delightful encounter with a gentleman I met at The Townhouse. I ordered a gin and tonic to help me relax before settling down to sleep - I had to head straight from the airport to the office when I landed.
I never enjoy Monday mornings and that Monday morning was to prove even worse than normal. The tube in from the airport was as horrifically crowded as always, and I had to fight my way off at Bank station. Julie, my secretary, gave me a worried look when I arrived in the office. "Da Big Boss wants to see you, Darren, and he sounded fairly arsed off about something", she said, "he said don't bother waiting, just get up there as soon as you get in."
"By 'Da Big Boss' I take it you mean Sanderson?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, he ought to be offering me a pay rise this morning after clinching the Kellogg's deal on Friday!" I said indignantly, "Right, I'll pop up and see him now."
Sanderson was head of risk management, and was on the Board of Directors of the whole organisation. He could be a bit of a bruiser at times, a real big mouth to be honest, but he looked after you if you did well for him. He always seemed fairly fond of me in particular, took me out for dinner for no apparent reason a few times, even passed on a tip which got me my frankly undervalued flat in Chelsea. I suppose the company likes to look after its young high-flyers. I had no idea what he could be annoyed about. His office was up on the 19th floor - he liked the view or something.
I knocked his door and stuck my head around it. He was on the phone, but motioned me in. Here he was, in classic Sanderson mode, conduction a telephone conversation with hands free on, while he typed an e-mail, ubiquitous cigarette between his mouth - expensive brand as always, he smoked some weird Swiss import. Sanderson was always a snazzy dresser, and today was no exception as he sat with his dark Gucci three-piece complete with chain and Albert. Sanderson was a bachelor, though in his late fifties he could still turn more than a few of the young secretaries' heads. He had a little too much weight, but still went hill walking and did weights. He was very well muscled indeed, has a well tanned complexion and had rugged, rugby-player style good looks. He chucked me over the packet of fags and while I lit up, he concluded his telephone conversation.
He started at me angrily. I didn't like his tone. "Well, sunshine, you took your time turning up this morning - of all mornings!"
"Well, I'm just off a plane from New York. Remember that Kellogg's deal thing you've only been on at me about every day for the past three months. You ought to be pleased."
"Not after yesterday - don't you read the newspapers." He chucked a copy of that day's Daily Telegraph at me, open at an inside page. _s_h_i_t_! Civil war had broken out in Tangania, and already the two sides had managed to cause severe damage with the industrial infrastructure. Tangania of all _f_u_c_k_ing places! Tangania where, three years ago, the ever so wise Darren had spent six months investigating the country - and convinced more cautious heads higher in the chain of command that a civil war was unlikely to break out. Tangania, where because of my recommendation, the company was covering massive investments by Shell and De Beeres to name but two companies. Tangania, where I had made the company millions several years ago, and made my breakthrough into the Premier League. Tangania would now probably cost the company of millions - and possibly cost me my career.
"Oh, _s_h_i_t_!" I whispered as I read the story.
"Oh, _s_h_i_t_, is right, sonny boy - you've just cost the company sixty million pounds, at a preliminary estimate. Sixty big ones. You ought to be sent away to run a filling station in Barnsley."
I was in trouble. Big trouble. I would try the pre-emptive appeal for clemency. There was no other option. I bowed my head and said meekly, "If it's my resignation you want, I'll tender it right away."
"No, that won't be necessary." I was safe - thank Christ! "No, there are other penalties we can apply for this sort of thing. Overall, you've been an asset to the company over the past few years, even with a sixty million loss in Tangania. We still want you on board - but I think your recommendation in Tangania was based as much on your own desire to break into the big time rather than the interests of the company. We'll just have to make sure you remember that the interests of the company come first in future." The bark was gone from his voice now - in its place an ominous gentleness.
'Well, there go my hopes of making three hundred grand this year', I thought to myself. I wondered how much it was going to hurt - my basic salary would make sure the mortgage payments were OK, but I was going to have to live a little frugally in other areas. There would be no more five-star hotels in Manhattan for a while. Oh, well, no risk, no reward. And without Tangania I would never have got where I am today.
Then I noticed Sanderson was continuing to talk, ambling over to a cupboard in the corner of the room.
"However, a financial penalty will only make you even more likely to defect to another company. No, I think this might make you think more carefully in future." From the cupboard, he lifted one of those funny teachers' canes like you used to see on the comics. You know, one of those big heavy ones with the big curvy handles. It looked absolutely hilarious - it was exactly like those ones out of the comics. I began to giggle. Sanderson wasn't a bad sort - he could be pretty witty at times.
"OK, you win, Mr. Sanderson - or should I say Mr. Chips! I'll be more careful in future. After all I haven't made a decision like that for three years." I was laughing quite freely now as Sanderson swished the cane in the air
"You haven't got the point, yet, have you lad." He was pretending to be really angry, now, "You have cost this company sixty million pounds. As all other penalties are inappropriate for various reasons, I intend to punish you with the cane. You will receive six strokes - one for every ten million pounds you lost. Not a bad rate of going, you should count yourself lucky."
I was roaring with laughter now, "Sanderson, stop it, I'll choke if I don't stop laughing. I take the point, OK."
"This is no laughing matter, boy." He moved towards me with frightening speed, and pulled my hair, causing me to raise my hands to protect myself. He then put his knee into my backside and forced me down over his heavy oak table. "Grip the far end of the table with both hands. Quickly! Now put your arse high in the air, let me see it stretch the material of the suit. That's it. Now don't move or you'll spoil my aim and I might hit you somewhere where I could really do some damage. And if you so much as think about getting up before I'm done you'll get a double dose."
"Sanderson, this is going to far. I'll have you up before an industrial tribunal if you don't cut it out."
"This is no game, son. You can take these like a man or I will have your letter of resignation. Now shut up and behave yourself."
Before I could raise any further objections I heard the cane swish through the air and...THWACK! He hit me right up at the top of my arse near my tailbone. The cane stung like hell. I was astonished how much it hurt. It was a warm early summer afternoon, and I was wearing one of my summer suits, a light Prince of Wales check. It offered little protection against anything.
Another swish and then...THWACK. "Aaargh!" I couldn't stifle a cry of pain this time. The cane felt like someone had scored across my rear end in hot lead. This stroke was right across the middle of the cheeks. "Sanderson, cut it out. What if your secretary hears?" I pleaded.
"Mary is perfectly aware of my methods with young executives - and approves fully. And call me Sir, not Sanderson. Keep up that disrespectful tone and I'll have to beat it out of you."
Again the cane swooshed through the air. I felt sick. Crack! It landed slightly diagonally and ran across the second stroke. "Aaaargh!" I screamed loudly now. It hurt, hurt so badly I couldn't stop myself from gasping out. Well if Sanderson was going to do this to me I'd make sure the whole floor knew what the sadistic bastard was up to.
Another cruel stroke landed on my backside, crossing the previous diagonal stroke. I couldn't contain myself any more and after a scream I began to sob like a little boy. "Stop, please stop. This is going too far. Please."
"Too far? I don't think so. Will this make you more cautious before recommending serious risks in the future?"
I didn't reply.
"Well, will it?", he roared, "Answer me or you'll get more of the stick."
"Yes, Sir!" I moaned quietly.
"Well, you should be thanking me, shouldn't you lad?"
"Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir."
Sanderson paused to take a draw of his cigarette, then laid into he again, hard, using all his gym-honed muscle power. This stroke landed lower now, at the fleshy bridge between the backside and the legs. It hurt like nothing I've ever experienced before. I screamed as fire and brimstone seared my vulnerable flesh. I cried now louder, with big choking sobs up and down like a siren.
"I've seen schoolboys of eleven take six of the best with more decorum than you have." Sanderson's harsh voice grated on my ear. "Pull yourself together, man!"
My bum felt as if some demonic schoolchildren had being playing tic-tac-toe on it. I didn't know how I would walk for the rest of the day, I tried to gather myself together but...
WHACK!
The sixth stroke landed almost directly on top of the fifth stroke. Again I screamed. I just lay over the desk crying and crying. My poor arse. Oh, it felt like someone had been using barbed wire on it!
"Right, you can stand up now!"
I got to my feet slowly, and Sanderson extended his hand.
"What do you say, lad?"
"Thank you Sir.", I replied hesitantly, my voice fluttering with nerves.
"Right," said Sanderson, his tone changing to normal, "that's it then. No hard feelings, the slate's wiped clean. Go off to the bog and clean yourself up. By, the way, you're invited out for dinner on Friday night, 8 o'clock at the Savoy. Some big Sony people over from Japan. Thought you might be interested."
He shook my hand and then left the room as if nothing had happened. I got my self cleaned up in his en suite, and as I left his office I saw his secretary, Mary, smirking at me. The bitch knew and didn't do a thing!
I limped back into the office somewhat uncertainly. It would be a while before I would be sitting with any comfort. Julie must have noticed that I still looked a little uncomfortable.
"Well, what was Sanderson after?", asked Julie when I got back to the office.
"Oh, he just gave me a bollocking about something that happened years ago, before you knew me. It's all cleared up now."
"Well, you look shattered," she asked, full of sympathy, "it must have been an awful bollocking."
"It was." I replied, "You could say he made quite an impact."