Just after nearly losing my shirt in the financial collapse sparked by Lehman Brothers, I was the subject of much harassment for payment of all manner of outstanding bills. Massive bills in many instances. The worst by far was the persistent, pestering of collectors.
All caused by one man, who’s name for me had become synonymous with the financial collapse — mine in particular — Punch.
Late in 2006, we had a fabulous business that was poised to reverse into a shell plc and go on to do great things. We were introduced to a broker and his team of advisors, whose job was to get us over the finishing line in some style.
During the early part of 2007, everything went according to plan, with the reversal poised for the spring. Everyone pressed on hard. But one man in particular stalled matters with his continual interference and selfish desire for a string of family vacations. Matters moved slowly.
Cutting a long and tortuous story short, the end of summer drew nigh and the exit loomed close. But even closer still was the imminent collapse of the financial system as we knew it. Lehman went bust, and took with it many US backers — and our deal.
All down to selfish personal delays. My partners and myself had lost personal fortunes in the US overnight.
And so it had become a daily routine, a daily dance and clever sword fight with all manner of credit controllers in search of the slightest whiff of cash. The trick was to keep them hanging on as long as possible, without making any substantial commitment, to allow time — to keep plates spinning elsewhere and dance with everything else that was threatening.
The wheels had to be kept on the bus.
On one such occasion, I was caught — in fact trapped — on a call with a very wily collector who would not take no, nor my bullshit, for an answer. The conversation dragged on and on and I felt I was losing the will to live.
When suddenly my laptop pinged with a LinkedIn contact request from:
‘Credit Punch’.
My eyes were firmly fixed in disbelief at the laptop screen as my mouth spit out the words:
“FUCK OFF.”
To which the controller in my ear fell to silence.
Eventually a quiet voice said:
“I’m so sorry you feel that strongly about it and I’m sorry I’ve upset you, would it help if I leave it 30 days before I call again?”
THE MORAL
Being direct sometimes pays off.