Real Business

Once in a while, someone new comes along and makes a major difference. When Martin arrived, my son James and I didn’t realise he was going to change our lives.

I have spent the past 40 years visiting our shops throughout the country. I used to drive 40,000 miles a year. Now, thanks to Martin, I am seldom behind the wheel.

In the thirties, my grandfather was driven around in the back of a Bentley by his chauffeur, Livesey. There were no speed cameras or traffic wardens and not much traffic. Livesey would park right outside each shop and stand guard to protect the gleaming limousine
from children’s fingerprints.

Sixty years later, I had to set off at 5am to beat the rush-hour traffic around Birmingham before battling with the M25. I found all our branches without SatNav, knew the nearest McDonald’s to every Timpson shop, and became an expert on car parks of Great Britain.

I tried to get to the furthest shop by 9am, even if it was in Exeter or Edinburgh and hoped to get home before 8pm in the evening. I always tried to do too much. James is much more sensible. “Never visit the last shop!”, he says.

Visits to Plymouth, Inverness and Norwich needed at least one night away, sitting in solitude, dining in an anonymous hotel, trying to do the Telegraph crossword.

For several years, I was driven by Ben Potts, an ex-policeman with a dry sense of humour, who was much better than me at the Telegraph crossword. When Ben retired, trading was pretty tough so I didn’t replace him. Through the nineties, I drove 500,000 miles on my own.

“I’m amazed you survived,” said Alex, who reckons I’m the worst driver in the world. She was relieved when we employed Alec, another ex-policeman, but after three years, he retired to Cyprus.

Then James found Martin. Martin has seen life: ex-SAS; Olympic fencer; serious rugby player; parachuted into the opening ceremony at the Sydney Olympics; and, more recently, bodyguard to big stars at celebrity events – Katherine Jenkins, Amy Winehouse and Michael Jackson. Names now replaced by a couple of cobblers; instead of the Brits or the Baftas, Martin now drives to Bootle and Bingley.

The car has become my office. Briefcase on my knee, linked to the world via mobile and Blackberry, I sit next to Martin, who politely listens to the Timpson saga as I complain about current problems and describe every difficult deal. Humdrum stuff compared with Martin’s adventures in the Falklands and experience working in boxing booths. Much of the time, though, Martin drives in silence, while I write another column for Real Business or sketch out my newest Timpson strategy.

Martin plays a vital role. We now have more than 850 shops and, in a relentless quest to see them all,  James and I try to visit 15 to 20 shops a week, recently helped by a small plane – a King Air, with two propellers, two pilots and seats for six passengers. Within about an hour, it can fly from Chester to any part of the UK. But the plane doesn’t go right to the shop itself, Martin does.  Poor Martin often drives overnight to greet us at the airport steps.

In eight hours, we can make ten to 20 visits with Martin parking as near to each shop as physically possible. To Martin, double yellow lines, taxi ranks, restricted access and traffic wardens are all a challenge. The SAS and his work as a bodyguard have given him a presence that deters criticism. He is seldom moved on and somehow manages to do some vital shopping – newspapers, Costa Coffee and tomato soup from Greggs.

And Martin has been awarded the highest accolade possible – he is such a good driver that even Alex is happy to be his passenger.

I enjoy my days out on the road now – visiting more shops and getting more work done – all thanks to Martin. Never underestimate the role played by your support team. You won’t find his name on our management structure, but Martin makes a key contribution to Timpson’s success.