LEARNING LESSONS DR ROBERT BOYD

© Robert Boyd 2022- All right reserved Version: 2022-10-03 Robert Boyd Houston, TX United States of America https://clanmills.com/RobertBoyd 2

DEDICATION In memory of my beloved wife Irene Elizabeth Boyd 1947-2022 Without Irene, none of this would have happened, and few lessons learned. 3

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would never have started this book without the encouragement of my brother-in-law Robin Mills. I’d never have finished without his help as editor. It has been a pleasure and privilege to work with him. The idea for the book came from late-night chats with Barry Clarke. While traveling to undertake sulphur presentations, we’d chat in the evening and say we couldn’t make this up and should write a book one day. Barry and Marie helped me check the details. Thanks to Donna Collins, Mike Mew, Steve Mitchell, and Ian Service for their input. I was happy and relieved to get encouragement from my daughters Kirsten, Morag, and Fiona. They also helped cross-check dates and facts for me. My brother-in-law Alistair Mills was also helpful, as were Freda Gordon and Guida Hume. My nephew Jamie Mills provided an account of a trip he made to Houston that reminded me of several stories for the book. If anyone mentioned in these stories is offended, I apologize. My aim throughout was to use these yarns to illustrate what a great time I had over the years working with and knowing you all and how much I learned. Thank you. 4

FOREWORD By Robin Mills, brother-in-law, and editor. I’ve known Robert for 54 years as he is the loving husband of my late sister Irene. It’s my honor to have edited this book. My main challenge as editor was dealing with Robert’s hybrid American and Standard English usage. Other than that, I merely fixed the odd word here and there. I’ve always admired Robert’s writing skills. He’s a wordsmith with an engaging style. As the decades passed, we often discussed “you should write a book.” Here it is in about 50,000 words. So what’s the message of this book? Well, on the surface, it’s an autobiography. It takes a chronological approach beginning with his time in school, university, and early career in physics before the epiphany that his calling was market analysis in the field of sulphur. However, I see themes in the book that Robert is too modest to highlight. First, family is important. The love of Irene and their daughters features on almost every page. His long-term cooperation with business colleagues such as Barry, Ian, and many others. His wit to use his analytical skills from an outstanding scientific education to provide market analysis in a 21st-century industry. His flexibility to embrace the opportunities of the digital revolution that marked the decades around the Millennium. And his ambassadorial skills for Scotland and the Burns Community. I admire Robert’s work ethic and charm. His business required subscriptions to be purchased by clients to whom he delivered presentations. His journey was challenging, with little time to coast or take it easy. With justifiable pride, he tells the story of being 5

granted, in retirement, the status of “Legend” by the industry he served. Not bad for a wee boy from Scotland. In my opinion, this book is about building relationships at home, in the office, in the community, and with other organizations. Technology and circumstances will change in the future, yet I believe Robert’s story is fascinating as he threads his way through challenges and opportunities. Read, enjoy, and be inspired. On the occasion of Robert’s 50th birthday, I penned the poem below. In many ways, this poem is a rhyming summary of the stories in this book. There’s an American in Houston from Prestwick (A place in Scotland, not many have heard of it) He’s 50 today and a long way away So we’re sending greetings by email for his Birthday Now let me go back to the start And explain why he has a special place in our heart He married my sister - her name is Irene There’s no doubt of Robert’s heart she is the Queen There was a lad was born in Ayr Oh! what a day for Sam and Mair! They gave him the name of Scotia’s most famous son Robert (not Burns) but Boyd - that’s the one. The years went by and Robert did well at school Our lad was smart - nobody’s fool Heathfield Primary, Ayr Academy, Glasgow University All said "This boy’s clever - he’ll go far, you’ll see” And so from Glasgow to Warwick (via Harlow and AT&T) He graduated and fulfilled the prophecy That Dr Boyd did arise and get his PhD But Physics was not ultimately his destiny 6

No! Market analysis was to be his thing He did Insulation in Stirling And Market Research in Stone Before making Sulphur & Fertilizer his professional home. I must at this time mention in verse About the time he spent in Perth When he worked as a Caped Crusader and made friends With Laurence who tossed cabers for fun at Highland Games. There was also a spell in Whitley Bay About which I have very little to say A bloody cold place on the North Sea And full of people called Geordie. The Queen of his heart, Irene played her part And produced three lovely daughters - Kirsty, Fiona, Morag The bills high were piling, the credit card straining When Robert decided: "Let’s live in the States - there’s a better life there awaiting” So the Boyds upped, and offed and went west To Houston, Texas - one of America’s cities best! It's in the South East, on the Ship Canal West of Florida - on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. And there the Boyds began a new life In Taylorcrest they found a home nice But they knew that life would really be better When they befriended the McNabs, and Lowell and Ginny Stouder. And the girls went off to Stratford High School And the American kids said: "We’ll teach these English fools" Always say "Sure"; Call everyone "Man" It just isn’t cricket, the language of an American. 7

And now the Boyds have their own place in Queensbury It’s only a few years since they left for the States from Yateley But in the land of the Brave, if you play by the rules You can have a wonderful life - including a garden pool. Now Robert’s a successful guy And I’d like to share with you why He’s a man who understands his priority - wife, daughters, friends, and family. So we’re sorry we’re not with you today But these words are what we wish to say From Robin & Ali, Alan & Jamie in Camberley "Happy Birthday, Robert - you look GREAT for fifty” I’d like to update the poem today to say “Robert, you look GREAT for seventy-five.” Robin Mills, Camberley, England. October 2022 8

CONTENTS Dedication 3 Acknowledgements 4 Foreword 5 1 Grooming a Physicist 11 2 Pursuing a PhD 17 3 Physicist sees the light 25 4 Life at Research Associates 33 5 Know your market 39 6 Endgame at RA 47 7 Joining British Sulphur 53 8 Lancaster Cashes Out 65 9 Fitting in at Fertecon 71 10 Moving to Houston 77 11 New Office 87 12 Going it alone 99 13 Business friends 105 14 Building our business 113 15 Acquiring another business 121 16 PentaSul is born 129 17 Selling the company 137 18 Scots abroad 143 19 Pledging allegiance 151 20 Me and Robert Burns 159 Postscript 167 9

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1 GROOMING A PHYSICIST Marry the right person I led a sheltered childhood in Prestwick, a seaside town in southwest Scotland. My parents, Sammy and Mary, were school teachers. They met just before the start of WWII when they were both commuting from there to Ardrossan, about twenty miles north. Mary taught second grade and Sammy mathematics in the same high school that Irene and her brothers attended. My parents married in 1943 in their thirties; I appeared on the scene in December 1946 as an early baby boomer. I was an only child. We lived in a bungalow built in 1938 for Mary and her mother, Margaret, who passed away the following year. The house was within walking distance of the beach and the golf course. Sammy bought his first Ford Popular car in 1954 when his mother passed away. About the same time, he got a new job at Ayr Academy; his commuting days were over. Mary returned to teaching at local elementary schools as soon as I went to school at five years old. The long summer holidays found us golfing or driving on holiday to Scottish resorts like Crieff or Pitlochry. When I was a little older, I spent time on farms in Dumfries and Galloway, run by Mary’s older sisters. Life was good, at least I think so. I knew no different. I was an above-average student early on. I went to Heathfield, the local elementary school. It was in the larger county town of Ayr but still within walking distance of my home. I usually came third or fourth in my class. After sixth grade, in US parlance, we sat the Eleven-Plus exam, which determined one’s next school. Since I lived in Prestwick, I went to a school there that taught only up to 11

tenth grade at the time. Many of my mates at Heathfield went straight to Ayr Academy, the top high school. Admission was selective but without any payment of fees. At Prestwick, we sat another selection test after eighth grade to fast-track the better students. I remember my dad coming in one night after that test in excitement, and I heard him whispering to Mary. I got the gist of it; I had tested at the top of my class and was selected to attend Ayr Academy. I think I heard mention of an IQ of 146. I never let on that I'd overheard. While at Prestwick, I realized I was very shortsighted and still recall the revelation when I put on those ugly freeissue specs for the first time. That might have helped me! I was surprised when I tested top of the class at Ayr Academy. Somehow, I'd overtaken my Heathfield chums with whom I’d reconnected. From then on, I had a target on my back, but I managed to retain my title every year. Now university was looming, and there were choices to be made. It was the norm for those attending college from Ayr Academy to choose the University of Glasgow (UofG). It was a top school, ancient, conveniently linked by rail for the thirty-mile trip from Ayr. In eleventh grade, we sat exams called the Highers, typically in five or six subjects for good students. Those results were the criteria for university entrance; one had the option to enroll immediately or take a further year’s advanced courses at school. It was usual for those majoring in the arts to leave after eleventh grade, whereas science nerds would stay on for grade twelve. I was equally good at science and the arts, but the popular wisdom was that a science degree offered better job prospects. My dad agreed with that strategy. No pressure, mind you!   UofG ran bursary examinations, and the results determined the award of small scholarships. In retrospect, I was lucky that in electing to enter, I was obliged to continue studying English and a foreign language as well as math and sciences. I chose Latin; it didn’t have to be a living language and served me well later in my 12

report-writing career. For the first time, I became aware of the semi-private schools in Glasgow that were fast-tracking their students for this competition and the university. I placed decently; I think I came 32nd overall. One of my Ayr classmates, Margaret Grieve, was above me, which was a wake-up call. So I was on my way. Without much thought, I automatically chose my best subject as my major, physics. I see I just mentioned a girl for the first time. Before discussing my time at UofG, I should offer some thoughts about my broader education at Ayr. Well, it wasn’t that broad. I did go to an AyrshireFrench exchange program in tenth grade, which was good for me. I drank wine for the first time and met some girls with my friend Drummond's guidance. Other than that, not so much. I did play sports. I was a second-team man in rugby and cricket but enthusiastic. Sammy had been an ace athlete, so I think that may have disappointed him, as did my below-average golf game. The arts were not in the picture at all, and I regret that. Social skills, ditto! One good thing about our close-knit family was that we did like to play cards. Sammy played bridge each day at lunch in the staff room. I enjoyed my years at UofG, especially playing bridge, which became a lifelong passion. George Cuthbertson, a pal from Ayr Academy, was my bridge partner at UofG and a fine player. His nominal major was math, but he graduated in bridge with a minor in ladies. We played in the bridge room in the Men’s Students’ Union, dated from 1932, when my dad was at UofG. The Union’s entrance pass was a diary; one day, someone caught us playing for money there. To my chagrin, not only was my diary confiscated, the authorities sent it by registered mail to Prestwick along with a threatening letter outlining my offense. When I explained what had happened to Sammy, he said, “I hope you were winning.”   13

Unlike George, I continued with bridge and physics, and I did well enough in both, but I think I know where the fire lay. I graduated in June 1969 with a decent degree, what they call an upper second. In other words, not quite good enough for a first! My Ayr Academy schoolmate Eoin Lees came top of our year, and I'd easily bested him in high school. Too much bridge, maybe? Sadly, Sammy could not attend my graduation. By then, he was already showing signs of heart disease, and it looked like he’d have to retire early. At UofG, I did one right thing: to live up in Glasgow rather than commute. That served me well when I went to a wedding in Prestwick just before starting my final year. My best mate growing up, Derek Stark, was marrying a girl called Dallas Poole. Her best friend Irene Mills was there. She was from Largs, a town further up the coast; a newly-qualified radiologist, she was living and working in Glasgow. She and I clicked immediately and started dating back in the city. I popped the question at the all-night Daft Friday Ball in the Union that December, and we set the wedding date for October 1969. I soon realized that Irene would change me and that we’d make a good team. When I met the Mills family, I couldn’t believe how boisterous and argumentative the house was. There were a lot of them. Her dad Duncan was a tiny fellow with a twinkle in his one eye. His wife Beanie was a force of nature but with a good heart. Irene’s three brothers, Ian, five years older than her, and twins Alistair and Robin, just over three years younger, completed the group. It was good for me to have to react to this new situation. If I was to hold my own, my verbal and social skills had to sharpen up quickly.   There were many weddings on Mondays in Largs. That’s because the local hotels were unwilling to give up the revenue from their Saturday night dinner dances. So we were gathered in Largs on October 27, a cold, rainy Monday morning. My best man, my school friend Drummond, wisely insisted upon a detour for a beer 14

at the Links Hotel in Prestwick before heading north that day. We wed in St. John’s Church on the seafront. The minister was W. Morton McLaughlin, Bill to his friends. Irene had been to hear Bill preach the night before, of course. She didn’t know until later that he wasn’t feeling well and had planted a spare officiant in the congregation just in case. All went well. The reception was held in the Marine & Curlinghall further along the seafront. We had about 150 guests; it was a grand affair. Both bride and groom had been on tours to meet their respective families in the run-up to the occasion, so there was no stress. The most exciting things occurred after the event. When we left after the reception, the newlyweds thought we’d been clever in concealing our movements. We’d stashed a Ford Transit van with all our belongings at our hotel the night before and took a taxi to catch a train, not at the station in Largs, which we knew guests would likely use, but nearby Kilwinning. We were waiting nervously on the southbound platform when we noticed some familiar figures appearing right opposite on the northbound side. Sammy had agreed to give some of his relatives a ride to catch a train to Paisley! The game was up! “Hi, dad,” I said. We arrived at our honeymoon hotel, the Sun Court, located on the Old Troon championship golf links. It had been a long, exciting day, so Irene said she’d take a bath. I thought I’d read our wedding telegrams while waiting for her. That’s when I heard a gentle moan followed by a thud as Irene fainted clean! I wondered if I should call Beanie to ask for advice. I decided to stay calm and sat down with the telegrams to see what would happen. Irene saw that peaceful scene when her eyes fluttered open a couple of minutes later. She sat up, and we began our life together. She never fainted again. We set off south of the border the following day in that Transit van. The adventure was underway. 15

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2 PURSUING A PHD When the fire’s not in your belly, it dies quickly Many of my UofG classmates opted for grad school immediately. I elected not to do that but rather to explore the outside world to help us discover our future direction. Every job for which I applied was physics-related. Flexibility wasn’t in the picture for anyone in those days. Irene and I reckoned that we should start married life with both of us in regular nine-to-five jobs and give ourselves time to get to know each other. I know, cart before the horse, but that’s how it was. Our parents called setting up a home before marriage “living in sin” in those days. I accepted a job offer at Standard Telecommunication Laboratories (STL) in Harlow, Essex, northeast of London. STL was a subsidiary of AT&T, and its research focus was the relatively new field of semiconductors. As the name suggests, it consisted of numerous laboratories conducting experimental research. I worked on a new material called gallium arsenide. We’d grow single crystals of this stuff in the lab. Our product would then be sliced into wafers and processed into experimental devices. Derek Bolger was my immediate boss and confessed that I was his first assistant. We worked well together, and I enjoyed the laboratory side of things. It was how I imagined it would be to work in an Oxbridge science department. We went on group walks around the grounds and talked the intellectual talk. We had all our meals together in large groups, all most collegial. I felt totally out of my depth. Some unusual characters did help me fit in. 17

I've always been keen on crosswords. Don Manley, one of my new colleagues, was in a class of his own. He could solve any puzzle before I'd had time to fold the newspaper correctly. His particular skill was compiling puzzles. It hadn’t occurred to me that crosswords had to come from somewhere. Don, like me, was a little socially challenged. When Irene came on the scene, she helped him a lot. I was pleased when, almost twenty years later, he came to my fortieth birthday party, wife and family in tow. Charlie Kao worked in a lab in the same section as us. He was in his thirties and was already showing signs of becoming a superstar. Rumor had it that Charlie was working on something new at the time called fiber optics; no one else at the lab even knew what that meant. In 2009, Irene called me and said, “Didn’t you know Charles Kao at STL?”. I replied: “Yes. Charlie. Why are you asking?” and Irene said: “Well, you need to call him Sir Charles now; he’s won the Nobel Prize for Physics!” Harlow was what they called a New Town, built in the 1960s to accommodate the growing population in the southeast of England. It was a good place for a young couple like us. Irene came to visit soon after I started at STL to gauge the lie of the land and to pick a place where we might live. We stayed at the Green Man, registered as Mr and Mrs Boyd, which we weren’t yet. There was ample rental accommodation available, and we quickly settled on what would be our first home, 239 Northbrook. It was a good solid place to start. My colleagues at STL were welcoming to Irene. Derek and Dinah Bolger, in particular, couldn’t have been nicer. We felt we'd come home when we returned a few weeks later as newlyweds. Irene was able to get a radiology position at the local hospital. We’d got off to a good start. Not everything worked out perfectly. Early on, there was a golf outing by coach to a course about fifty miles from the office. Irene chose to wear a pretty white dress to spectate. I think you can guess where this is going. I was addressing my ball in the rough 18

soon after we started playing. I was concerned that Irene was standing too close and suggested she back up a little. Neither she nor I saw that there was a muddy patch right behind her. She slipped, and down she went flat on her back. We had to prop her up in the corner of the bar at lunch that day. Another hard lesson learned.   I began to think that my prospects at STL weren’t too good. There were so many bright people around, and, as a new graduate, I wasn’t standing out from the crowd. The path ahead seemed long and uncertain. I noticed that having the magic letters Dr in front appeared to give a considerable edge around STL. I had also been harboring thoughts about a possible future path in academia. Irene and I talked it over, and she agreed that if I was going to do this, it had to be now. I started looking for openings and went for an interview at Warwick University near Coventry. Mike Lewis was looking for grad students to grow single crystals of new hightemperature materials, which we would then test for mechanical properties. The administrative head of the grad school was Helmut Mykura, a Glasgow alumnus. Once again, Irene had no trouble securing a job at a nearby hospital. So in early 1971, after a respectable eighteen months at STL, we headed for Leamington Spa. The physics department was a friendly place. The research suited me and was more akin to materials science and metallurgy. “My” material was vanadium disilicide, whose hopefully superior properties depended on its layered crystal structure called eutectic. I enjoyed growing the crystals, this time at high temperatures. What was new was that I prepared and tested the material myself and, better yet, looked at the samples afterward using an electron microscope. All this was new to me, and I liked that. I got on very well with my fellow researchers and made friends quickly. The department had a support staff of the most helpful technicians. The department was soccer-mad. We played regular matches 19

between staff and technicians that weren’t for the faint of heart. Pete Drew, another of Mike Lewis’s students and an Oxford man, was best known for being a ferocious tackler, and Gerry Smith was an artist on the ball. At lunchtime every day, we played a complex game called Warwick-ball. It was like badminton but played with a soccer ball in the department’s loading dock. It was hazardous. Later I grew a beard to obscure scars left on my chin from these sessions.    Also new was our life in Leamington. It’s a Victorian town with ancient public baths. We lived in a modern complex of townhouses within walking distance of Irene’s hospital. There were about twenty units grouped around a shared grassy area. Most of the neighbors were young people like us. Here, Irene made good friends with a neighbor called Susan Hill. She’d just given up her day job as a journalist with the local newspaper to become a fulltime writer. Susan knew it had been a good call when BBC Radio booked her to write for ‘The Archers.' Susan and Irene loved this daily soap which had been running for decades. We couldn't believe we were friends with such a celebrity. Little did we know that this was only the start. Within a few years, Susan would become a best-selling author, playwright, and TV personality.   Susan was also into classical music. She played oboe in a local orchestra and never missed the Aldeburgh Festival founded by composer Benjamin Britten. Susan didn’t mention that she was on first-name terms with many famous musicians. One day the unmistakable figure of world-famous tenor and Britten’s life partner, Peter Pears, walked past our window on his way to lunch with Susan. Soon after, we attended a performance at Warwick by lutenist Julian Bream. We weren’t surprised to hear later that Julian stayed with Susan on that trip. After we left Leamington, Susan married Stanley Wells, an eminent Shakespeare scholar at Oxford. When Morag was a year old, Susan visited us in Perth. Later, they had a daughter Jessica, and then a 20

second called Imogen, who died. Susan wrote a book about this tragedy called ‘Family’ which included the following passage: “I got to know the two small Boyd girls with their rich Scottish accents and dark, dark eyes. What would having children be like, I wondered”. Dame Susan was always just Susan to us.     We made many good friends at Warwick and felt good about our life. I met Peter Law, an Ayr Academy man who was two years my elder. Peter was well-established at Warwick, with tenure in the economics department. He helped us to get settled. One of Peter’s colleagues was a guy called Hwyl Jones, whose claim to fame was to have been the roommate, and token Welsh friend, of then-Prince of Wales Charles at Cambridge. He dined out on that for the rest of his career. Jones’s field was statistics; Peter joked that Hwyl was compiling tables, hoping he’d get a chair before too long! A student application from a member of a European royal family came across Peter’s desk. Warwick was beginning to be trendy. In response to the question ‘Father’s Occupation’, the applicant had put ‘King.’ The secretary scratched that out and replaced it with ‘Self-Employed.’   One last story concerning Peter. We heard on the grapevine that there was an army of Scots in the students’ social building for a function. Peter and I grabbed our wives and headed over there. Sure enough, there were lots of men in kilts and evening gear. I knew it had to be a big occasion, and it turned out to be a Burns conference. Later I’d become very familiar with such gatherings. I knew it was a huge deal when I went to the restroom, and there was none other than Jimmy Shand, the famous Scottish bandleader and accordionist. I caught him washing his wallies (that’s dentures for non-Scots) before hitting the stage. Undaunted, I whipped out a piece of paper and asked for his autograph. He 21

proudly wrote Jimmy Shand, MBE! A few years later, he’d be signing as Sir James Shand. We had a pleasant surprise when our best man Drummond Bone and his new wife Vivian joined us. Drummond had taken up his first teaching job in the English department at Warwick, and Vivian was a science editor at Oxford University Press. More namedropping here. Among Drummond's colleagues at Warwick was the feminist celebrity author Germaine Greer whom we occasionally met socially. Drummond himself went on to become ViceChancellor of the University of Liverpool and then Master of Balliol College, Oxford. Arise, Sir Drummond! Things were going so well for Irene and me that our minds turned towards starting a family. In early 1972, we realized that Irene was indeed pregnant, but she had a miscarriage. Neither of us realized how common that is, and we were grieving. Not long after that, I was involved in one of those tense soccer games for our departmental team when I noticed my office buddy Phil Bell striding purposefully across the field and beckoning me. I knew something was up. I left the pitch and went over to him to hear that my dad Sammy had passed away at sixty-two. It wasn’t unexpected, but a shock nonetheless. We headed north straight away to comfort Mary and to attend the funeral. Not the best year. I inherited Sammy’s car. It was a Ford Cortina, with automatic transmission, unheard of in the UK in 1972. One night we went to a party at Mike Lewis’s house. Irene was the designated driver; she was pregnant and not drinking. She had trouble maneuvering out of her parking spot when we were leaving. A helpful neighbor was giving instructions. “Now, ease the clutch,” he said. “I haven’t got a f***ing clutch,” said Irene.    I wasn’t happy with my physics because I felt we weren’t doing fundamental research. I had plenty of material, that wasn’t the problem. I assembled loads of suitable photographs and data and 22

learned to write results and findings. I continued just cranking out stuff and accepted that somebody would sign off on a thesis containing little originality. The fire wasn’t in my belly. One reward did come. Irene was pregnant again. This time, the staff at her hospital, the Warneford, promised they would take extra care of her. She was admitted for several weeks’ bed rest right after New Year 1973, the third and final year of our scheduled time at Warwick. Kirsten Jane Boyd arrived on February 17. As a special favor, since Irene was a staff member, I was allowed to be present at the birth, holding one of Irene's legs at the action end of things. Mother and daughter were both well. The new father was even home in time to watch Match of the Day on TV. I never revealed my doubts about my research to anyone, and I plowed on after Kirsty was born. It soon became evident that I wouldn't be able to finish my thesis by the end of my three-year funding at Warwick. Mike Lewis told me this was normal and that I shouldn’t worry about it. He would help me get a year’s funding via a post-doctoral research fellowship somewhere that would enable me to get it done. I agreed that made sense, and soon he had me lined up with Professor Jack at Newcastle University. Perhaps it was wrong of me to compound the skepticism about the merits of my PhD project by taking the funding for this extra year to finish my thesis. The way I saw it, I’d put in the effort, and the results were genuine. It certainly didn’t make me feel any better about an academic career in physics. So, where would this upcoming year at Newcastle lead? Bob Dylan had the answer. The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind. 23

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3 PHYSICIST SEES THE LIGHT There is a life beyond the laboratory 1974 was a miserable year for the Boyds. We had moved to Whitley Bay. I had taken a post-doc in the Metallurgy Department at Newcastle University, mainly to give me time to wrap up my doctoral thesis on my work at Warwick. We'd chosen the house because we both grew up by the sea. We hadn't considered the sea mist, or haar as they call it, on the East Coast. We barely saw the sea that year, and with Kirsty in the pram and me working in Newcastle, it was tough sledding. Work-wise, things weren't much better. I had begun to realize that young, well-qualified guys, most of whom were much better than me, staffed the new universities built in the UK in the early 1970s. The path ahead in academia that I had planned and in which we invested four years was closed. Irene said, "let's think of something different." So in early winter, I was on a train heading to Scotland for a job interview. Morganite Electroheat, a small factory making hightemperature furnace heating elements, had been given tax incentives to relocate from Battersea in London to Perth. Many staff didn't want to move north of the border, so several positions were open. Via the old-boy network, my professor at Newcastle recommended me for new product development in the technical department. I was going to be interviewed by Laurence Bryce, the newly-minted Technical Manager. He offered to meet me at Perth station. I asked him how we'd recognize each other, describing myself as an average-height, medium-build guy. He replied, "I'm a wee bit bigger than that. You'll see me." It was lightly snowing 25

when the train arrived in Perth. Out of the gloom stepped a mountain of a man with a kind face and an outstretched hand. "I'm Laurence. Let's get going". He gestured towards, of all things, a Mini. I watched in awe as he squeezed his bulky frame into the tiny car covered in ice. Without moving from the driver's seat, Laurence rolled down the window and placed his massive hand on the windscreen. We were off to the start of three splendid years. It was great being back in Scotland. The move to Perth went well. Laurence and his wife Julia were most helpful. Since Irene was heavily pregnant when we moved, her dad Duncan and I were the advance party. The Bryces insisted we stayed with them the night before move-in. If I thought Laurence was a giant, I don't know what Duncan must have thought of him. Duncan was about 5'3" and 90 lbs tops! They made us so welcome, though. We had made what turned out to be a great choice of house. It was in Craigie, an older, hilly part of town, in a self-contained square of fourteen houses built around three sides, with the fourth side where the road came in an undeveloped steep bank. In the middle was a shared garden area. It lent itself to socializing, and the neighbors were friendly. Morag, our middle daughter, was born in Perth Infirmary shortly after we moved. On the day we brought her home, it snowed! New Year is huge in Scotland. On our first Hogmanay in Perth, I was the designated child-minder when there was a party at one of the neighbors. I kid you not when I say that I hadn't had anything to drink at 10:30 PM when I walked back uphill in the snow towards home to check on the kids when I slipped and fell. I broke my front teeth, and they went through my lower lip. Blood everywhere. The first problem was to find someone sober enough to drive me to the hospital. Jim Bremner, a neighbor, was a policeman and a good choice. The next issue was finding someone in the hospital to treat me. When they realized I was stone-cold sober, I got the best help. My dentist in Houston in the 1990s 26

couldn't believe the crowns were from 1976 in the UK. The following day my mother phoned to wish us all a Happy New Year. Kirsty was delighted to report that Daddy had broken all his teeth and cut his mouth wide open! We had a street party for the Queen's Silver Jubilee in July 1977. Morag couldn't sleep the night before. She and Kirsty dressed as angels (which they weren’t, of course). We treasure the group photo of the costume judging. Morag slept through the entire party! The other great thing about our square was that it was linked directly via a footpath to Laurence and Julia's house, which was grander than ours and looked over the town. We were always welcome and had many great times there. Julia has always been gracious. Sometimes she had to be. I hope Laurence doesn't mind me describing him as a man who liked getting value for money. Julia is a Geordie from North East England, and she met Laurence in that part of the world. She'd been married before, and when it came time for Laurence to pop the question, he traded Julia's previous engagement ring as part of the deal. When Julia brought her first baby home, she couldn't understand how Laurence had managed to get the new blankets and nappies so grubby. He confessed to getting a good second-hand deal! The test of Julia's fortitude arrived when the highland games circuit started every Spring. Laurence was, and still is, a champion hammer thrower, holding many Scottish records and appearing in the Commonwealth Games. Douglas Edmonds, another huge guy, fellow Strathclyde University graduate, and highland games athlete, was his best friend. Laurence and Douglas toured the games every weekend, making pocket money. Julia was up to the considerable challenge of feeding the athletes. In May 2022, I visited the Bryces at their home in Southsea on the seafront by Portsmouth. They were utterly unchanged. Laurence told me he's still in training and now throws a hammer half the 27

weight and half the distance. He is the UK champion in the 70-79 age category. Now that he's about to turn 80, he's pretty confident he'll do OK in the 80-89 group when they meet next in September! These highland games athletes are gentle giants. The Bryce sporting tradition does live on. Laurence's son Colin, a Winter Olympian, runs the TV show ‘The World's Strongest Man’ with worldwide franchises. The Morganite factory was small, with around fifty employees, and it was on an industrial estate beside a huge Dewar's whisky plant. Our managing director Lorne Williamson was an intelligent guy for a Londoner. I remember him noticing that our visitors always asked about a tour of Dewar's, yet few of Dewar's many visitors requested to visit us! I got all kinds of experience in the factory. One weekend we were having a barbeque on the banks of the River Almond behind the plant. Everyone was there when things went wrong. An alarm summoned the plant manager from home to handle an incident in the factory. When he discovered that a supervisor was at the party, although the supervisor wasn't on duty, the manager fired him. Later we testified in a wrongful dismissal case—all useful stuff. Outside the factory, I also learned some lessons. We had a young Indian called Raj Govil in our technical department. This bright guy provided insight into some less-palatable racist aspects of an educated foreigner in Scotland. But what I learned with Raj was never to take on an extra outside job just for the money. A local entrepreneur and Morganite customer called Peter Rourke ran a small factory near Dundee. Raj and I made a deal with him to install insulation in one of his furnaces on the side one weekend. There was no funny stuff about it. We thought we could do a good job and make some money. Wrong on both fronts! We quickly realized that the task was way beyond us, and we were rapidly in the red on the job. Disaster, but lesson learned. 28

One day word came into the factory that a brand-new, young Scottish comedian was coming to play the Caird Hall in Dundee. His name was Billy Connolly. We thought we'd take a chance that this guy might be worth seeing, so a busload of us from Morganite went along. Irene and I are sitting there in the packed cavernous old-style hall. Billy comes onto the stage in his banana boots and black tights. We've no idea what to expect. He sets the tone immediately. "Can ye see ma willie?" Well, shock, horror, LAUGHTER. We've been laughing at him and with him ever since. Although the job in Perth was great, the way ahead for me wasn't clear. Laurence wasn't going anywhere. But inadvertently, he helped me when one day he commented that it was OK to dream up new products, but what was the point if we couldn't sell them, especially as they were for entirely different applications from our main line? So I said to him that what he was saying was that we needed to do some marketing. I had no clue what that meant, but I volunteered to do something about it. I started talking to our salespeople, and that's when I first realized that I'd completely underestimated the relevance of the commercial side of the business. A few weeks later, Cape Insulation, down the road in Stirling, advertised for a product manager for their ceramic fiber high-temperature furnace insulation. I applied and got my first non-white coat job. In hindsight, we should have kept our beloved house in Perth. It's an easy seventy miles round-trip commute to Stirling in a company car. I don't recall even considering that option. The upshot was that we hastily bought a house on a ghastly new estate in Causewayhead on the edge of town. The house was a disaster, but there was one redeeming feature. We backed onto a large school playing field, above which loomed the spectacular Wallace Monument, or as Morag termed it, the Wolumonument. We had an uninterrupted view of this incredible landmark. One unusual feature of the house was an inspection pit in the garage. I'd never 29

seen one of these, and it wasn't too long before I wished I hadn't seen this one. We decided it would be nice to build a sand-pit for the girls in the back garden, so one day, we ordered a delivery of sand, which was dumped halfway up our drive. Irene was out in her car then, and when she came back, a neighbor and I joined forces to guide her round the sand into the garage. Guess what – right down into the inspection pit. Our next delivery was a pile of bricks to fill that pit. No inspections are needed. We had friendly neighbors. Alan and Liz Boyd were a delightful Irish couple. It was Alan who helped get Irene out of the pit! Jan and Stewart next door were fun too, and on the other side was a family who had run a posh grocery in Glasgow and fallen on harder times. They had a lovely wee daughter called Henrietta. Her parents misguidedly thought it would be nice for her to have a Tshirt with her name on the front. A smaller font size might have worked, but they went large, so her schoolmates teased the poor girl incessantly! Our neighbor across the street was Mrs. Zabiqui. She was Iranian and felt isolated on her own with small kids, so we visited her as often as we could. At that time, we had yet to acquire sophisticated tastes in ethnic cuisine. So at our neighbor's insistence, we piled into stacks of strange stuff every time we visited—quite a challenge, but once again a helpful experience. There was a unique pub on the edge of the estate called The Birds and The Bees. It was a converted farm cottage, and as barstools, there were model sheep and other farm beasts. That, at least, was fun. A Cape colleague John McConnell also lived on the estate. He was the photographer in our advertising department, and our sessions at the pub gave me a peek at yet another activity of which, up to then, I knew nothing. I just checked on the Internet, and The Birds and The Bees is still there, but it's now officially a gastropub! There wasn't a lot of culture in Stirling, but at the local school where the girls went, Kirsty met a girl called Rachel, whose parents were artsy and musical. They lived in this other world in an older 30

neighborhood on a sort of island called Riverside. One night we were invited to a concert by a local orchestra in which the parents performed. It seems they were having trouble selling tickets. I soon twigged why. Scotland was playing Holland that night in the World Cup in Argentina. We had agreed to take the musicians' kids to the concert. It was great. They played Sibelius’s Finlandia, and we were all fired up. We were walking home with their kids, and all was quiet in Riverside. Suddenly all hell let loose. Goooooaaaal!! Archie Gemmill chose that moment to score the game-winner with one of the most incredible goals ever scored in the World Cup. Finlandia be damned! Douglas Rae, my immediate boss at Cape, was the perfect guy to get me into the commercial world. Company cars! Conventions! Advertising! That's what enthused him. We took space at trade shows in Birmingham. That's when Douglas revealed that he was dating the glamorous young lady we hired for our stand. Wild! With Peter Brooks, our top marketing manager, we went to promote our products to the new-fangled Korff direct-reduction offshore steel plant under construction near Largs. The plant never produced anything and remains a blot on the Firth of Clyde to this day. Far out! Driving around in my brand-new bright-red Vauxhall Cavalier, I felt a new intoxicating freedom. Marketing was my new life. My two years at Cape saw a flood of new and valuable experiences. But I was still searching for my true calling while steadily getting farther away from physics. Then came the breakthrough. We decided that our new Capoflex ceramic fiber products needed market research on potential sales across Europe. My boss asked me to identify an outside firm to carry out an independent study and to be Cape's liaison to the consultant. I was closely involved as the study progressed and ultimately presented. I found this project rewarding and realized that this work would be perfect for me. I 31

enjoyed research and report writing in a commercial context. I also liked the idea of a small company instead of the corporate environment at Cape. The prospect of international travel was a big plus too! Research Associates (RA), based in Stone, Staffordshire, was the company that undertook the market research for Cape. I got a lucky break when I saw RA advertising for a research consultant and applied. It didn't hurt that I was the firm's recent client. From my side, I had worked with Terry Darlington, RA's owner, and his team and liked what I saw. I soon went down to Stone for the interview. It went well, and I was confident I would get the job. I was very excited. My enthusiasm was somewhat curbed when I got some negative feedback from Irene. Terry had invited her to come with me to Stone, and it soon became apparent that Irene should come to the office to meet everyone. Although informal and civilized, Irene felt she was being interviewed. As a modern girl, Irene thought that was inappropriate. Not only that, she took a somewhat different view than I did of the idea of working for a family-owned, familyrun firm that operated out of the owners' house. I thought it was ideal, but Irene said, "these people are going to demand a certain lifestyle from us." The only other time I had this kind of reaction from Irene was at the end of my working career when invited to be president of the Robert Burns Association of North America. She didn't want me to accept, which cost me a double string of pearls! In 1978, bribery was not an option, so I had to work hard to convince her that this was what I wanted and everything would work out fine. The job offer came, and I accepted. Irene was correct; we did take on the RA lifestyle, and I'm relieved that neither of us regretted it. 32

4 LIFE AT RESEARCH ASSOCIATES We’ll all have computers; typing classes are mandatory Terry Darlington is a Welshman from a modest background. He made his way via grammar school to Oxford, where he earned a name as a budding comic writer and had several pieces published in Punch. Upon graduating, Terry joined Lever Brothers and worked in marketing there for eight years. Then, disenchanted with corporate life (sounds familiar), he took a position at a technical college in Staffordshire teaching marketing. He and his wife Monica, by now with three young children, decided they needed a different path (again familiar). In 1976 they founded Research Associates (RA) in the small town of Stone, Staffordshire, where they lived. It lies between Stoke and Stafford, a quiet little place located on a mainline railway and beside the M6 motorway. Terry is a very creative person, well ahead of his time. He was an early marathon runner and founded Stone Master Marathoners with Monica. In retirement, Terry returned to his Punch roots and wrote a trilogy of hilarious best-selling books. The books are about Terry, Monica, and their whippet Jim traveling in a canal boat in France, Florida, and England. Monica is also Welsh and may or may not have been a beauty queen, depending on which “Narrow Dog” book you read. She certainly was a very credible Wonder Woman, legs and all, at a Hallowe’en party at RA when I was there. She looked after the company’s books and hosted client lunches and social occasions. That’s in addition to looking after their three children, Lucy, Clifford, and Georgia. Monica had her hands full. There was a 33

dinner party at RA to celebrate something. We were all having a good time with plenty to drink and started on the dessert when Monica realized she’d forgotten to serve a salad. So she made us eat it after the pudding! Monica was an OK person with whom to work, but she and Terry ruled. The Darlingtons lived in The Radfords, a Victorian pile with extensive grounds on the edge of town. There was sufficient space for the family and office space for RA. The attic space on the top floor housed individual offices, while the second floor was used for administration and report production. The ground floor lounge was Terry’s office during the day. RA used the dining room for client lunches and social occasions. I was never sure where all the Darlingtons lived and slept, but it seemed to work. It was the ideal house to accommodate everything.   Terry sold market research projects to large corporate clients. RA’s niche was multi-country market surveys. When I joined RA in early 1979, about three years after the business started, Terry was in his early forties, with six research executives. Pete Turner was a pipe-smoking experienced researcher. Being a little older than Terry, Pete brought a sense of stability to this madhouse. Dan Park and I had PhDs which brought suitable cachet to the business. I was the technology expert and spoke a little French. Our economist Dan Park provided in-depth knowledge of Russia and Germany. Andrew Butler was an intelligent young fellow with management skills and fluent French. A crucial part of the business process was focus groups which Jane Byrne and Jayne Kirk managed. Paul Hammond, who lived nearby, occasionally joined projects per diem. Terry not only touted RA as the bee’s knees, but as researchers, we thought we were pretty hot stuff! We all had nice cars, and Terry boosted our kind of James Bond image by purchasing what we called a spy kit for everybody. Inside a small leather bag was a top34

quality miniature 35 mm camera and tripod, plus a mini-cassette recorder for taping interviews. We’d take the kit “in the field,” as we called traveling assignments. Awesome stuff. I left mine in the gents’ toilet at Narita Airport, Tokyo, and somehow returned in time to retrieve it. I also dropped the camera in a stream while supervising the Research Associates Man and Dog Race in Stone! The things we did! Then there was the office staff. Linda was the manager; Cynthia, Gerry, and Ann reported to her. Linda ruled this area. She would have been about forty and seemed super-efficient and experienced. I was scared of her at first. One day Linda and I were talking. As I recall, we were standing pretty close together. She was tall and, well, let’s say she was statuesque. Linda said, “I always knew my two big..”. Well, I don’t know if it was my jaw hitting the floor or if I turned red, white, or whatever, but she burst out laughing and said, “Gotcha, Robert. What I was about to say was that I always knew my two big brothers would look after me”. We got on great after that. But it wasn’t all plain sailing. Terry decided one day that Linda should go on an overseas trip so she would have a better idea of how an executive produced our studies. Guess who he chose for her travel partner? Terry always had a mischievous look. Did I tell you he had only one eye? Anyway, with some trepidation, I got home and told Irene that my next trip would be to Copenhagen. She said that would be nice. Then I explained that Linda would join me, and as you can guess, that was not received so well. Fortunately for me, Irene’s ire was directed at Terry’s decision. The trip itself went fine. I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, and I wondered about Linda too. All was above board, and we withstood Irene’s scrutiny when we returned. A few years later, when we were in Yateley, who should turn up but Linda, now divorced. Before going for a job interview in London, she was looking for somewhere to stay the night. It seemed pretty flimsy even to me. Irene said to me that she was sure Linda was 35

scoping out my availability. I’ll never know. After she stayed that night, we never saw or heard from her again. Part of the RA vibe was a top-class presentation. Our logo, an owl in profile, was prominent on everything. I thought it looked a bit like Terry with his one eye. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king! Our color scheme was impressive. Proposals and final reports were printed on heavy cream paper with brown ink and bound in dark brown covers. Our matching business cards were solid and beautiful. Cool, we thought. As I say, Terry indeed was a forward thinker. One of his better ideas came the day he walked in and gathered his high-powered research team. “I’ve got news for you. Within a couple of years, we’ll all have computers on our desks. Secretaries will be a thing of the past, and we’ll draft our reports. So, to do that, you’re all going to typing classes”. There was a stunned silence. But he meant it. We all spent a week commuting to London taking a touch-typing course, and I can honestly say that’s one of the best things he ever did for us, keeping us ahead of that developing curve. Another consequence of the arrival of personal computers was that the office staff would assume different roles. They became assistant researchers and had company cars. It was just as well that The Radfords had ample grounds. So what was it like for the Boyds in the RA years? Of course, we’d made the usual mistake, relocating in the heart of winter, in the snow, with Irene expecting a baby. Despite that, things got off to a pretty good start. We made friends quickly, the house was fine, and Kirsty and Morag liked their school. I started to travel immediately, a novelty for all of us. Everything was exciting for the entire family; best of all, Irene liked Stone. Once again, we were in a new estate, but it was very nice this time and within walking distance of Stone. On the way into town, there was a bridge over the canal lock. The lock-keeper’s house was our local pub, the Star Inn, 36

presided over by Maurice, a Guardian-reading intellectual barman. He wouldn’t give Irene a drink until he was satisfied with the babysitting arrangements. The draught beer choices were Trent and Canal! Decades later, Terry declared in the Star that he would buy a narrow boat and sail across the Channel and through France to Carcassonne. And as we learned earlier, he did so and wrote a best-seller. Our new baby was due in early June, and Fiona made a great impression at RA with her arrival. I should have recognized at the time that this was an omen and that she would play an important role later in my career, as we’ll see. She arrived on Wednesday, June 6. In addition to being the anniversary of D-Day, it coincided with the running of the Epsom Derby, which is the UK’s premier flat race for three-year-olds. The Derby is the only major race that a horse owned by the Queen never won. There was an outsider called Northern Baby running in the Derby that day. With Irene in labor, the whole office placed a large each-way bet at 66:1. For a while, it looked like we’d hit the jackpot when Northern Baby was leading with two furlongs to go. She faded down the home stretch and held on for a terrific third place. The Boyd Family, especially the new arrival, was the toast of RA that night! One thing about the Darlingtons was that although they were hard drivers, they could also be extremely kind. On one of my early trips, I was coming back from Tokyo via Australia and then South Africa and Zimbabwe. I hoped to get a visa in Harare to visit Nigeria. That didn’t work out too well for a white boy. So I was detained for a short period and went off the radar. All this before cell phones, of course. I indirectly got a message to RA about what was happening. Monica jumped into her car and went to hold Irene’s hand and explain the situation. When I returned from that trip, Irene and the girls came to pick me up at the station. Irene couldn’t see me. A suntanned guy was leaning casually against the 37

door. “Daddy!” yelled the girls. Irene had been expecting a wornout warrior! One day when I got home from RA, I said I was a bit worried about Ann, the office junior, who wasn’t feeling well. I described the symptoms. Irene opined right away that it sounded as though she was pregnant. “She can’t be,” I said. “She’s not married.” Sure enough, Irene, as usual, was correct. Even Ann hadn’t realized. But the point is that Terry and Monica stepped right up. Ann was terrified she’d lose everything. Not at all. The Darlingtons made sure she had the best of care and as much time off as she needed. These were good times, great experiences, and more valuable lessons learned. The giddy feelings of success lasted for quite a while, but deep down, we all knew it couldn’t last. It was hard going with all that travel and producing reports on time. The unified team began to fray, and the effort asked of us started to tell. Jane Byrne could have a caustic wit at times. One day we were waiting at The Radfords for Terry to bring a client in for yet another sales lunch. Jane said, “OK, let’s do it; one more round of watered-down wine and rancid pâte.” Laughter, kind of, all around. The best times for me at RA were when we got on the road on projects, away from the tensions building back at base. From the get-go, there was no feeling like getting on that plane with an unknown canvas awaiting. Let’s see now what that was like. 38

5 KNOW YOUR MARKET Never order a large one, especially in the US! The methodology used in RA’s private-client studies was a combination of interviews with top executives and discussions with focus groups, using carefully designed questionnaires. We analyzed these and used market statistics and other data gleaned from public data. Then we ran a draft report past Terry and produced a final version, followed by an in-person debrief of the client. Crucially important was to score the executive interviews and to recruit and schedule the focus groups. Scheduling was especially testing because, in most cases, the work was conducted in several European countries simultaneously. Usually, we used specialist local market research agencies to recruit and schedule the focus groups. We showed up with questionnaires and tape recorders in hand to lead the actual sessions. For executive interviews, what typically happened was that the research executive went out to the given country a couple of days ahead, having researched a list of targets, and scheduled the interviews himself. My very first project was to assess the market for a new product in the fire protection industry. The task was to interview fire chiefs and managers who specified and ordered that kind of equipment, preferably in their offices, so we’d get a feel for the place. My first port of call was in Hamburg, and I checked in and started to make calls. Terry’s recommended tactic was to use an upscale hotel; if for some reason anyone had to call us or come and see us instead of at their place, they would be suitably impressed. It also made us feel more confident, and I needed that on my first foray into the field. 39

Things didn’t start as I had hoped. Getting interviews wasn’t a problem. It turns out that people like to talk and are flattered to have a researcher come from overseas to get their views—another hidden secret of RA’s success. So I was feeling good when I walked into my first appointment with a Deputy Chief in the Hamburg Fire Department. That warm fuzzy feeling didn’t last long. We went through the pleasantries, and I proudly produced my questionnaire to start the session. My new best friend said, “before we begin, Dr. Boyd, I have a comment. No reputable German company would ever send a researcher to England who couldn't speak the language perfectly.” That was me put in my place, and rightly so. I got through the interview but couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And I never forgot that lesson. Soon after, we landed the most significant job RA had ever secured. It was for the mighty General Motors (GM) of the United States. Our task was to test a new type of vehicle with European fleet operators. We had top secret photographs of what turned out to be the Minivan and a questionnaire. The idea was to invite fleet managers to a nice hotel and give them some refreshments. Then, our team would interview them individually about their likely attitude to these revolutionary vehicles. Well, we tried it out in England, and everything went fine. We were delighted with the methodology, which produced exciting results. The whole team, including Terry, went to Paris and booked into the Georges V Hotel. Armed with lists of potential respondents gleaned from the Yellow Pages and our best French, we spent the first day on the phone recruiting and booked interview rooms for the following day. We didn’t need those rooms; few interviewees turned up! Even Andrew, our best French speaker, and Terry, who was pretty good, struck out, so it wasn’t the language that was the problem. We gave it another try the next day, with the same outcome. We headed back to Stone to regroup, tails between our legs, like a kind 40

of mini-Dunkirk. These fleet-operating guys didn't think it was worth their time to drive into Paris on some lunatic errand once they'd had a chance to think it over. We just weren't convincing enough. This weakness hadn’t shown up at home, where we could pick up the nuances on the phone. So Andrew, Dan, and I had to get back there in a hurry; this time, we took the sample photos to the local businesses. We could get only three or four interviews a day each, whereas we’d been counting on at least twice that rate, but we did get there the hard way. Yet another lesson – do the initial test in a tough market, not on your home turf. In late 1980, well into my second year at RA, Dan Park and I landed what seemed to be a dream assignment, an unusual one for us. A UK company was looking at the US market. Gordon's Gin was trying to improve its penetration there and wasn't happy about its advertising. The title of our project was ‘Young Americans' Drinking Habits.’ Our task was to hold focus groups around the US plus some interviews and develop a strategy for the client. In a nutshell, drink with as many young Americans as possible! Sounds OK, doesn’t it? This trip was my maiden visit across the pond, whereas Dan had already been a few times. So he took the lead. We’d start together in New York; where else? Afterward, we’d separately do circuits around the major cities and head back home to write the report. I mentioned that upscale hotels were typical for a project trying to attract higher-level respondents. Not applicable for this job. At the time, we flew over on Laker, a trail-blazing, low-budget airline, £57 each way! No-frills, to say the least. And our travel budget within the US was also modest. I was excited about finally getting to the US and New York. As was typical for us then, we traveled on the weekend. Dan solemnly advised me that a sound policy in the US was never to order a large one! That was about the extent of his advice, as I recall. I was shocked to see how old Manhattan was when we finally landed. Where was the sleek modern city of skyscrapers I'd imagined? 41

When later on, Irene and I took the girls there for a few days, I did discover the city's magic. It could make dollars disappear faster than anywhere else in the world! The first thing I did on that first trip with Dan was to get up early on Sunday morning and take a Gray Line boat trip around Manhattan, and I must say that was interesting. I began to see the power of the place. I was surprised when we went to get a bite of lunch to hear Dan calmly order a large tomato juice, though. We both had a good laugh at his expense at the size of this thing, boosted to twice the measure by a huge doze of ice, of course! Terry had a habit of recommending his favorite places in any given city. The team would then adopt these as RA’s go-to spot. In Manhattan's case, the anointed place was a bar-restaurant called Arturo’s in Greenwich Village. It was okay, but I’d have found it on our own. I must say that carrying out these research jobs solo could be pretty lonely, and having somewhere familiar to go to in the evening did help. When I was in Tokyo with my new spy kit, I did branch out independently, which turned out strangely. I was in a very upscale hotel. I was working on the fire protection job and inviting executives to meet me. Anyway, I was invited to a manager’s reception for guests on my first night there; one of those was a fellow Scot. Naturally, we got talking, and I had a great time. When I got up the following day, feeling a wee bit under the weather, I noticed that someone, doubtless my new friend, had shoved a business card under my door. Believe it or not, it was for a geisha bar called the Glasgow Club. I had to go and try it out. I had no idea what a geisha bar was. Terry had told me about going to one and chatting up a girl there. He used the line that he was an intrepid researcher who just jetted in on the great iron bird. That sounds like Terry. The girl responded, “you must be exhausted.” Even Terry gave up at that. 42

My evening at the Glasgow Club was unremarkable, not a sign of any reason for the name. No tartan, no pipes, no Irn-Bru in sight. As far as I could tell, the idea was to sit and have a couple of drinks, talk to a pleasant young lady, who spoke perfect English, pay your bill, and leave. I‘m still unsure if that’s all there is to a geisha bar. But at least that night, I branched out on my own. The work on young Americans’ drinking habits started fine in New York. My circuit then headed south to Philadelphia. The evening I got there was Election Night 1980. Carter versus Reagan. I was in the bar, no apologies necessary, whenever possible researching young Yanks drinking, right? I was surprised to see Carter coming on at about 9 PM with a concession speech because, having studied my time zones, I knew it would only be 6 PM on the West Coast. The polls there would still be open. Jimmy hadn't done his homework on this, so he took much flak. But it didn’t matter. He lost in a landslide anyway, and the Reagan era was underway. Cheers! Next up were Atlanta and Houston. I loved the feel of these Southern cities. When I arrived at the appointed place and time for the focus groups, things went awry in Atlanta. I realized I’d forgotten to pack the dreaded questionnaires in my briefcase, to my horror! I had to scramble to improvise. My secret Sam spy-kit was no help at all! Who knew then that Houston would be my home for the entire second half of my life? I remember checking into a Holiday Inn near downtown on that first visit the evening I arrived. I told you we were economizing! But I was amazed that the outdoor pool was pleasantly swimmable. In November! The next day on the way to the focus group, on foot, of course, being British, I was sweltering, walking along the sidewalk in my suit. What a prat. Though I did get an early preview of how welcoming Texans were, I had a great time. The bars there were great. There’s nothing like doing in-depth research. 43

The last leg of the trip took in Phoenix, Los Angeles, and Seattle. If the Houston weather had impressed me, LA was way better. It was perfect—ideal for a leisurely drink or two. I scoped out places I’d read about, like Wilshire Boulevard and Beverly Hills. By this time, I was pretty relaxed about these focus groups and enjoyed conducting them. I had an interesting experience in Seattle. Somehow, Irene’s brother Alistair met and went out with a girl called Debbie. He told me she was now a flight attendant with PanAm and was living there. When he heard I was going to Seattle, Alistair had asked me to look her up. I was a bit reluctant, but I did agree to do so. Debbie must have felt the same because when she showed up, she’d brought her mother with her for safety, no doubt! Of course, we had a civilized conversation, if a bit stilted. I even put it down as a research interview as Debbie qualified as “young” even if her mother didn’t quite. My final impression of the US was its size. Flying back from Seattle to New York, I couldn’t believe it took five hours to cross the country to catch my Freddie Laker flight home. After all this build-up, I should give some indication of Dan's and my research findings to present to the client. It won’t take long. It turns out that most young Americans drink beer (shock!). We packaged it all up in a lengthy report with statistics and reviews of the different liquor laws in all the states. But that was the essential answer. I found the various ways alcohol was regulated across that vast country quite fascinating. Later on, when I ran up against issues with banking that seemed to me so archaic, I wasn’t too surprised. Working at RA taught me that it all comes down to knowing your market. This matters to both the client and the researcher. From the clients’ standpoint, RA allowed them to independently review their products and markets unconstrained and unbiasedly, which they couldn’t do internally. More important to me was the realization that a research firm also needs to be similarly self44

critical about what it's trying to do. That is just as hard, and perhaps more so. Although the research projects were fun, I was about to take on a new role when my turn came to work with Terry on marketing RA. As we’ll see, that presented a unique array of challenges. 45

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6 ENDGAME AT RA When the boss suggests you start looking, do it The most challenging part of my three great years at RA wasn’t researching. Terry's strategy was that each of his executives would take turns supporting him in marketing the firm. I remember thinking this was a great concept. But at the same time, I was very apprehensive and not looking forward to the inevitable day when my six-month turn in marketing came. Maybe without realizing it, I’d come to enjoy working on my own most of the time, jetting around the place, and above all, writing reports and presenting them. I did, of course, realize that Terry had to generate contracts and that it would be good for me to work more closely with him. Little did I know that this new role would test me in unexpected ways.   The marketing job was mainly just what you would expect. Very rarely did work come to us. It did happen. Repeat assignments for a client were ideal, and we had our share of those. We also got formal requests for proposals, which was nice too. Most of the time, Terry and his marketer would draw up a list of target clients and set about soliciting work, more or less by cold-calling. We selected a market sector and prepared a comprehensive document showing related jobs we had done. The clever part was to try to identify, even before the client realized it himself, projects with which RA could help. For example, we targeted the Scottish Development Agency (SDA) and its cousin in Dublin, the IDA. As their names suggest, these groups were tasked with enticing new industrial investment in the country and expanding markets for 47

existing firms. One of our successes during my stint as a marketer was appropriately enough with the SDA. Terry and I sold them into the idea of doing a project on expanding the global sales of Scottish wool products. Dan Park did an outstanding job on the research, and the SDA enthusiastically received the final report. I admired Terry for sending a survey to the client after each assignment asking them to rate their satisfaction with every aspect of our work. He invited clients to comment on our initial meeting, proposal, research design, final report, and presentation. Back came the feedback from the SDA, and I’m proud to say that Terry included the following quote in a book: “we liked Mr Darlington, but we trusted Dr Boyd”! We did do some unorthodox marketing. I’ve mentioned that we all had company cars at RA, so the choice of model and the like were frequent topics for discussion among the staff, as you can imagine. Terry’s car was a sleek, black Saab 900 Turbo. Not too flashy, quick, and a bit evil-looking, not unlike the driver, as someone, probably Jane, slyly commented. One day, Terry said it might be nice to investigate purchasing a vanity plate for the Saab. So as the marketer, that task fell to me. I pored over the ads for such things, and sure enough, the plate RA 1600 was available at £2,000. That seemed a bit steep to me, especially as sales were not going that well at the time, but I sensed that this was something that Terry would like. So I told him the cost and said I wasn’t sure. Typical of him, Terry said that he would leave it up to me. So after agonizing about it and talking to a couple of the team, I recommended we go for it. Soon there was a gleaming new number plate on the car. It looked great. I'm still unsure if it was the smartest or dumbest thing I ever did. It certainly wasn't seen by many clients, and I felt guilty that I had second-guessed what the boss wanted to hear. Terry never commented either way, but he certainly seemed even more pleased with his car. 48

The best car in the firm wasn’t the Saab; it belonged to one of our RA team members. Jayne Kirk had moved back to the UK from New Zealand; she and her husband didn’t have kids then, and they indulged in a Morgan. Everyone drooled over it. Not long after she started at RA, Jayne invited a bunch of us over for dinner. They lived in a lovely cottage out in the country. Jayne had pulled out all the stops with an elegant dinner; the pièce de resistance was Baked Alaska. It’s an oven-baked dessert in vogue at the time, piping-hot meringue with ice cream inside. Jayne certainly pulled it off that night. It looked great, golden brown with the frozen surprise inside. Unfortunately, there was an extra shock element. She had decided to go the extra mile, mix whole fresh raspberries into the ice cream, and freeze overnight. When we all excitedly bit into the baked delight, the raspberries were like bullets, frozen hard. There we all were, trying to ignore this unfortunate fact! Of course, we all soon started laughing and were so sorry for our hostess. Not long after that, Jayne lost Irene’s sympathy vote. The Kirks invited us over one weekend. We’d become good friends by then. The weather was beautiful, and lunch in their country garden sounded idyllic. The atmosphere became chilly when Jayne decided to host wearing a rather skimpy white bikini. I never did see what Irene didn’t like about that! Sales were slow, as I said, and in the autumn, Terry and I were mulling over what we might do to advertise RA and generate some interest. He had the brilliant idea of producing a calendar to send to the chief executives of all the biggest companies in the UK. Now, all we had to do was design it. I honestly can’t remember which of us to credit or, as it turned out, blame for the concept. The theme we devised for the calendar was Rules for International Business Travel. Each month, we’d have an amusing item illustrated by a cartoon. The RA team created twelve rules. Example: “The export potential of any market is proportional to the pain of the inoculations 49

required to visit.” Terry had seen cartoons he liked in Running Magazine. He gave me the artist’s contact details and asked me to invite him to RA to illustrate the calendar. A couple of weeks later, I went to the station to pick up a young fellow called Paul Hart. He was very friendly and quiet and seemed flattered to have this opportunity to show what he could do. So we gave him a sample or two of our “rules,” and a couple of days later, he returned with draft cartoons. They were excellent, and he got the job. The calendar came together just fine and was duly mailed out in good time for the holiday season—all in best-quality RA format. The outcome was not what we’d hoped, and I must confess that my contribution caused the problem. I had devised the rule for December. I cringe to quote it now. “In the corner of any hotel bar in any country, you’ll always find a drunken Scotsman.” I must have thought it was funny, and we all okayed it. Looking back now, I'm not surprised that the Letters to the Editor sections of the Glasgow Herald and the Scotsman were full of abusive comments about our calendar. We'd upset some important people and filled them with righteous indignation. Our phones were ringing off the hook for the wrong reasons. They say no publicity is bad publicity, but… The other funny thing was that once we’d paid for his work, Paul fessed up. He'd been so timid about being asked to do the calendar because he had never done any cartoons for Running Magazine. Terry laughed hard when I told him about Paul's confession, and he never blamed me for the Scottish debacle either. We were getting pretty desperate for new work by now. We tried revamping some older research as multi-client studies for a hefty cover price, but that didn’t take off. So in what now seems in retrospect like a Hail Mary move, Terry decided that the thing to do was to open an office in New York. It had to be done the right way, with a Madison Avenue address - the center of the advertising industry. We reckoned Dan Park was our best man for the job, with the most experience in the US market. Very soon, Dan found 50