Like many of our era, I spent my youth watching sport, drinking beer and becoming rather handy with a pool cue.
The Who’s Pinball Wizard was a song of choice in those days, fine encouragement to invest a coin or two to hone our hand-eye over the flippers of of a James Bond-themed machine. Dr No rings a bell.
Times were good, but an overseas trip beckoned and I headed to Europe.
It would in hindsight seem time in Ireland was ill-spent in dark corners of newsrooms to pursue a career in journalism.
Instead, I should have cut my teeth at Qantas before moving abroad in search of a role at Aer Lingus where I could have become CEO and steered the company to a healthy financial position during times of turmoil.
Forget two years of a pandemic, I’d have had 30 years of civil war to hang my hat on, leaning on the government for support as I quietly racked up profits.
Sure, there’d have been times when we’d cry poor. That’s the way it’s done. We’d have been months – maybe weeks – away from bankruptcy, and what worse hit could a country have taken in the eyes of the global world than the collapse of their international airline.
The barometer would have been grim, so the government – either of them – would have stuck by this Australian as I stood in front of cameras telling the people they were counting their lucky shamrocks they had me as their leader in times of turmoil, as I shed staff, cut costs and carefully managed a sister airline in the name of national pride.
Then, as civil war continued, the handouts from government would stop, but I’d already stripped the business of its unwanted and unnecessary fat.
The world would be my oyster.
Maybe the business could have been clever enough to sell 8000 tickets on planes to nowhere.
Surely the regulators wouldn’t mind a cunning little plan to boost cashflow in times of need. Or would they?
You see, by that time I’d have served 15 years with Aer Lingus and the shareholders would have thanked me for shoring up their investment.
They, and probably me, would have realised I probably wasn’t much of a people person, but they wouldn’t have minded.
With the company in such a good financial position, I’d hand in my resignation in the comfort I’d been smart from the outset.
My watertight contract would pay me handsomely for my tour of duty, and I’d walk away with $21 million in my back pocket.
I’d use the money to return to Australia, build a nice house on a hill somewhere in Shailer Park, and lay in the sun for the next 30 years beside a heated pool, sipping cocktails and being fed as many of those little party sausage rolls as my stomach could handle before handing the keys of my Jaguar convertible to valet while dining out in private rooms of our finest restaurants.
This is of course, hypothetical. I’m sorry to say I don’t have the skills to run an airline.
Neither have I yet chosen the right numbers to pick myself up $21 million in Powerball.
I don’t have a pool or a luxury car. I do however, have a wonderful wife who occasionally picks me up a packet of party pies from the supermarket freezer, a dog that prefers his share without sauce, and a loving family who brings fast food treats when they visit.
I realised 50 years ago not to be fooled by the Guinness and funny green hats. The Irish are smart people. Perhaps a level or two above this lonely traveler who was happy to work for board and biscuits.
Well, at least one Dubliner was.
He sold himself to the Australian people with his Brogue accent and made his mark as one of the most successful business figures in the country.
After 15 years in the Qantas hot seat, he steered our national airline from the brink of bankruptcy. And now he’s likely to take a little holiday to Ireland.
His contract negotiation skills should be applauded. Or did he get lucky in Powerball.
Hey Wanda, are there any party pies left?
