Approaching Berkhamsted, we again had the debate about how best to keep
to the spirit –or indeed letter - of the laws of the Quest. Which route were
we to follow? Berko is a large village, or possibly a small town, through
which runs the Grand Union Canal, the West Coast Mainline and the old route of
the A41. The new A41 now bypasses to the east, leaving Berko in relative peace
compared to the constant gridlock that ruled until a few years ago. Danny
was desperate that we should stop there, find somewhere safe to park for the
night, and then go to the pub. He’d already talked us out of stopping in
Hemel Hempstead, on the grounds that “it’s too big and unfriendly”. “OK,
Danny – what’s so special about Berkhamsted?” asked Brian. “Posh
birds.”“What?”
“Posh birds. Berko is full of well-paid, younger females. Exactly the type
that will go out on the town without male accompaniment on a Friday evening.
And, on an evening like this, exactly the type that will go out without
wearing too many clothes. And I’ll have a much better chance of not having
to sleep in the Metro.” Well, with a summary like that, how could we
refuse? Although not suffering the over-excitement of the hormones that always
seems to afflict Danny when he’s in the vicinity of females of breeding age,
Brian and I could see the attraction of drinking in a place with an attractive
view.I suppose I really ought to explain Danny’s last comment. I don’t
know what on earth we were thinking of, but we had added on the Terms of the
Quest that we would spend each night sleeping in the Metro. There was a
proviso added by Danny, which consisted of “unless I get off with some
decent woman and stay at her place.” Brian, as the only unattached member of
our merry band, hadn’t bothered to stipulate the same caveat for himself.
And I knew I didn’t need to bother. As we drove around, trying to find
somewhere to park that was out of the way, I asked Danny about the progress of
Project Doom.
“Not bad, should have sign-off to the revised design, version 7.0, from the
board by mid-September.”“What’s different about version 7?” asked
Brian.“Well, it includes all the issues arising from the re-design due to
the merger, and expands the scope to take into account the need to develop the
system to run the automated warehouses.” Danny had been
working on Project Doom for eight years. It had become one of the
longest-running IS projects, apparently, in the entire world. At any one time,
there could be anything up to twenty people, including consultants, working on
the project. But Danny and his boss were the only two people who had been
working on it for its entire life so far, and Danny had been a fairly junior
programmer when he started work on it. In summary, Danny has spent the last
eight years working quite hard, and been promoted four times, without ever
actually delivering anything.
At first, it was called Project Foresight. Initially, the project had been a
simple one – to put a system in to enable the buyers to predict their sales
for the next month, based on a price elasticity model. This basically answers
two questions: if we put the price up, we’ll sell less but will that be made
up for by the better margin? If we put the price down, we’ll sell more, but
will we sell enough to make up for having a worse margin? Or will we sell it
too cheaply and lose money? Actually, that’s not really that
simple. In the “it’s not rocket science” definition of hard things, it’s
definitely rocket science. But at least the scope was manageable. But then
Danny’s boss expanded the size of the project, to interfacing Project
Foresight directly into the system where we managed our prices. And then into
replacing it. And then into replacing the systems that ran the tills. And
every time technology moved forwards, he wanted to evaluate the new
technology. And after evaluating it, he always wanted to use it to make
Project Foresight even more cutting-edge. So the project team was constantly
up against a moving target. The original specifications were irrelevant, and
all the people who’d agreed to the project starting had left the company so
most people didn’t even know what the point was in the first
place. Also, in an attempt to take over the IS department, Danny’s boss
kept promising to each member of the board that it would do exactly what their
department required. So of course he was very popular with the board, and in
fact ended up on the board. So he did take over the IS department. At this
point, people started calling it Project Doom. On one occasion, four
years into the project, the team got as far as testing the new system. They’d
written all the code, they’d got all the screens designed. They had a
complete version of the system, with all the data to run the whole company, on
a second mainframe they’d rented. They were going to test the system by
pretending to run the company on it for a month. Meanwhile, of course, the old
systems continued to run the company in reality. They had 31 days’ worth of
tests to carry out, including four weekends and a financial year-end. It was a
disaster. The problem went back to the boss’s promises. The system
could work out the Marketing department’s definition of profit. But it was
different to the Trading department’s. The Finance Director had his own
view, which was incomprehensible to organic life-forms. The programmers had
apparently given up on the specifications in the end. Faced with the
contradictions in the spec, the complexity of the requirements and the total
confusion caused by the different things the system was expected to do, they
had just binned the specs. It turned out they had just written the application
they thought seemed more interesting. There was so much wrong with the system,
so many bugs. So many screens that didn’t do what the users had wanted, so
many requirements the analysts hadn’t understood, that it simply didn’t
work. The project team worked 24 hours a day for two weeks trying to fix
the system. Then they realised this wasn’t going to be a quick thing. They
scaled back to 12 hour days for the next six months. They recruited short-term
testers on £500 a day. It took, in total, eighteen months to get through that
first “day” of testing. By the time they were ready for “day 2”
of the test, the world had changed. The company had poured millions of pounds
into Project Doom, paying for consultants, for computers and for programmers.
The consultants’ expenses alone had gone over a million pounds. Also,
because the company had spent five years developing a system that had so far
delivered nothing, it was five years behind its rivals. It was being driven
off the High Street.Eventually, in a bid to rescue some shareholder value, it
was sold off to a competitor. By the bizarre economics of takeovers, many of
us managed to keep our jobs. And Danny looked forward to working on another
project.
But he had reckoned without his boss’s ability to promise stuff without ever
having to deliver it. Danny’s boss persuaded the new chief executive that
what was really needed, to ensure a decent integration between the two
companies, was a new combined computer system. Project Foresight. And off they
went again. With an expanded scope. “Danny,” enquired Brian, “am I
right in thinking that, over the last eight years, your project has had in
total over a hundred people working on it, at one time or another?”Danny
agreed that this was indeed the case.“And you’re the only relatively
senior person – other than your boss, who’s mad - to have worked on it all
that time, without leaving due to stress or ill health? In fact, you’ve
outlived five senior project managers. Four of them in the sense that they
resigned, and the fifth after that unfortunate business about the suicide
attempt. Danny agreed that this was also true. He pointed out for good
measure that one of the business analysts had, while the balance of his mind
was disturbed by the latest change to the deadline, gone off to live under the
pier at Brighton. The West Pier. And one of the testers had changed his name
to Daffodil. He was last heard of building a yurt in a field near the
Rollright Stones, and living only on rainwater and three-litre bottles of
Diamond White.
“So how did you manage to survive?”“Well, I guess I’ve had a great
advantage over all the others. You see, the thing is, most of the people who’ve
worked on the project over the years have been very keen. They’ve been
really committed to Project Doom, and they’ve been able to see its benefits.
And I haven’t.”“So how has your negative frame of mind helped?”“Well,
that’s the whole point. You see, I spotted that the project was a disaster
from the day it was first suggested. But I knew no one would take any notice
of me if I pointed out. In fact I’d get the sack. So I just kept quiet. But
because I’ve always known the project was doomed, I’ve never tried too
hard to make it a success. And I’ve never got too upset that we’ve never
implemented anything.”Other people, working on a project for five years but
knowing it was pointless and doomed to failure, would have found their sanity
challenged. Danny, on the other hand, had managed to preserve his sanity
because he knew his job was futile. It must be some kind of a Zen thing. I
suppose at least it’s worked for him. “In fact, I realised at an
early stage that the thing that was absolutely sure to sink the company – I
mean totally destroyed, no shareholder value – was if we were to ever put it
live. So I’ve dedicated myself to never delivering anything I’m asked for
on time. I make sure that I underestimate the time required to carry out any
task, and I make everyone else on the project waste days in pointless
workshops that I call to walk through designs that we’ve already walked
through a thousand times. I agree to do things, and then forget to, I don’t
contact people I should and then swear blind I’d left a message for them to
phone me. And I change the development standards every three months to ensure
everyone’s constantly on a learning curve.””Don’t you think that’s
immoral?”“What? Saving the company? Probably, but if we implemented the
system and the company went bust, I’d lose my job. And so would you two.
Would that be such a good thing?” By this stage, we’d found somewhere
quiet to park. So we dumped the Metro alongside a wall near the castle, making
sure it was technically off the road, and set out for a night among the sights
and sounds of Berkhamsted, Herts.Berko’s a nice little town, nestling down
on the edge of the Chilterns. The canal goes through it in an attractive way,
through back streets and parks parallel to the old A41, which runs through it
in a much quieter way now. The Euston Line could never be described as
attractive, but at least as you leave the station the first thing you see is
the castle. A typical Waitrose town. But that Friday evening, it was actually
a very strange place. It’s quite historical – apparently William the
Conqueror was offered the throne there in 1066, about 150 miles too late some
would say, suggesting that Hastings would have been a good time to accept the
inevitable. But that couldn’t really explain the way that the entire
population of the first pub we entered appeared to be dressed in historical
costume. There were more ruffles than I’ve ever seen in a confined space
before – and that was just the men. A smaller number of women were dressed
in what I can only describe as buxom-wench costumes. We asked the bar staff,
who informed us that we were witnessing the post-re-enactment activities of a
Civil War re-enactment society. Apparently, every August Bank Holiday weekend,
the Order of the Prince of Bohemia stages a series of battles. Today’s was a
recreation of some minor Chilterns skirmishing. The barman admitted that
Berkhamsted’s contribution to the Civil War wasn’t great, but pointed out
that it does have a very romantic castle, which the Order liked to run around.
Well I suppose you can’t do Marston Moor and Naseby every time. And it’s
not everyday you find a barman who knows anything at all about history. We
shoved into a corner next to two pikemen and a Welsh archer, and got stuck
into our drinks. Danny was showing signs of restlessness. The Civil War people
were squeezing out the locals, and their male:female ratio was not
generous. “You see, it’s alright for you two,” Danny was
explaining, “I mean, Brian you’ve got your car, and I can see that’s
pretty much what matters to you. And as for you, Martin, you’re…”“Married?”“No.
Ginger.”Well, strictly speaking that is true. I do have the colour of hair
that’s traditionally associated with sunburn, a low tolerance of pain and a
fiery temper. In fact, apart from the sunburn, I’m not at all typical of the
red-haired stereotype. I only lose my temper in extreme circumstances, such as
being very annoyed. I suppose it’s true to say that my hair colour is
unfashionable, but is that my fault? And in any case, regardless of my hair, I
don’ t go out to pull women. That’s Danny’s job. And he tells me he’s
really good at it. He tells me. Brian made a comment to me about one of
the cavalry outfits not being truly realistic. I turned round to look at the
cavalryman. I was about to ask Brian how he knew about the details of 17th
century cavalry, when I realised that Danny had vanished.
I’ve never really understood Danny’s fascination with chasing women, when
he’s meant to be out for a quiet drink. Why does a man well into his
thirties, with a wife and three children, behave like a fifteen-year-old every
time he goes into a pub? Is it really just a desire to overthrow the
stereotype of computer people as boring and sexless? If so, he seems to be
doing it with a determination that would be better used walking to the South
Pole or exploring the Amazon. We like our IT people to be unattractive and
dull. Look what happened when they got trendy and all the dot.com stocks went
down the pan. And we know where we are when they’re dull. I mean, on my
left, so to speak, we have a nerd in an anorak, who knows why XP is better
than 98. On my right, you have a hormonally challenged man heading for middle
age with a fear of losing his physical attractiveness – not to mention his
naturally curly hair. In the circumstances, with whom would you rather spend
the evening? Well, at any rate, I know who you’d rather have
trouble-shooting your computer. But we like Danny despite his adulterous ways,
and he does occasionally make us laugh.In any case, he’d gone. Disappearing
in Berkhamsted, who knew what might have happened to him? He could have been
kidnapped by a group of vicious antique dealers. In the circumstances, there
was nothing else to do. We decided to sit there and drink all night. “When
you think of these three towns in a row – Tring, Berkhamsted and Hemel
Hempstead - you notice that they all share three things – the A41, the Grand
Union Canal, and the Euston line,” Brian pointed out. “Quite a
combination. Any particular reason?” I asked. “Well, they’re close
to London, they’re en route to Birmingham, and they’re in a valley through
the Chilterns.”I agreed with him that, if you’re going to build a canal,
the best place to put it is at the bottom of a valley. “Must have been
quite exciting back in the 19th century,” I suggested, “what with people
digging canals, people building railways. Must have turned the old places
upside down.”“Yes, but then it was quite exciting back in the 11th century
as well, when William the Conqueror was running around conquering. Did you
know that this is where William received the surrender of the English nobles?
Those he hadn’t already chopped up. It’s only now that the place is
totally boring.” Meanwhile nearby, someone was, deliberately or not,
making the place appear . Over at the next table, three people were eating
dinner. They seemed to be a couple and a female friend. All were in their
mid-thirties. Regardless of the crowd of frilly-shirted and ruffled humanity
around them, the single friend was holding forth about the problems with her
married life. Or, in fact, her formerly-married life.
Single Friend
"You see, it’s so difficult. I know we’ve been split up for
three years, but that doesn’t finish it all, does it?Female Half of the
Couple
“Yes, but you are divorced…” Single Friend
“Yes, but we’ve still got those years together in common. And the
chinchilla. You know, we have these things which bind us. The holidays we went
on. The time we spent together. We can’t just forget it.” Male Half of the
Couple
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean…” Single Friend
“I’m not sure if it’s that I can’t help it, or whether actually
I want it. Maybe secretly it’s him. Maybe he wants us to get back together.
You know, it’s not a casual thing or anything. It could never really be a
casual thing, with your ex, could it? And I know we shouldn’t do it. But
that’s the way he is. Do you think he wants us to get back together?”Female
Half of the Couple “Well, frankly…” Single Friend
“Because he is living with his new wife, of course. But that doesn’t
make it adultery, does it? I mean, not if he was with me first?” Male Half
of the Couple
“What? You mean you’ve been…” Female Half of the Couple
“Of course they have. Haven’t you been listening for the last half
hour?” Male Half of the Couple
“Yes, but I thought you’d just been…” Female Half of the Couple
and Single Friend in unison
“Well for goodness sake. What is the matter with you?”
At which Male Half of the Couple sank into his pint.
Well, maybe that’s the sort of thing that goes on in Berko. If they’re all
up to behaviour like that, the long winter evenings must just race by. I felt
I had to shove my oar in. After all, I didn’t know these people, so it
couldn’t do any harm. I leant over to their table. “He’s using you. You’ve
got to move on. And we’ve all heard enough of it now. Get a new life. You
deserve it.”Single Friend left abruptly. Female Half of the Couple looked
daggers at me. Male Half of the Couple grinned slightly, then finished his
pint quickly under a vicious look from Female Half of the Couple. We
dragged out the chess set and played another seven games. Every time Brian let
me be white. Every time I started with the King’s Gambit. Every time he beat
me. As the night wore on, and I consumed more London Pride, I tried more and
more extravagant gambits. They all failed. Eventually we headed back to the
car. At least it was a warm night. So we weren’t cold. Yes, I know that’s
obvious, but when you’re sleeping in a Metro every little helps. And with
Danny absent, I could grab the back seat. OK. That’s covered the good news.
The bad news starts with the fact it was a warm night. So I ended up sticking
to the seat with sweat. But then there were the owls. And what sounded like a
woman having her throat cut echoed over from somewhere. Brian stopped me when
I was midway through phoning the police to tell them there was a murder going
on.“It’s a vixen. They scream like that.”Took a good ten minutes for me
to get back to sleep after that. But London Pride is quite a good nightcap.
And then the morning came. Waking up with a hangover is always bad.
Sleeping in a Metro is always bad, even if you have the back seat. Waking up
with a hangover after sleeping in a Metro and being stuck to the seat with
sweat is ghastly. Waking up with a hangover after sleeping in a Metro next to
a ruined castle is truly dreadful. No matter how scientific you may be, no
matter how close the comforting modernity of the overhead power cables on the
Euston line, there’s something a bit unnerving about being next to a ruined
castle in the dark. It had affected my dreams, to the point where I was being
pursued round the moat in my underpants by the Order of the Prince of
Bohemia. But the worst of the lot, is sleeping in a Metro and dreaming
about being pursued in your underpants by the Order of the Prince of Bohemia
around a ruined castle, then waking up with a hangover and looking out the
window and finding that your dream has come true.
Well semi-true. My dream was pretty prophetic; it’s just that in fact it was
Danny, being chased by one member of the Order. Quite a sturdy pikeman, by the
look of him – I knew Brian would fill me in on the details later. I thought
to myself, he was probably a blacksmith or something before the call to arms
came. And then I remembered that he was part of the 21st Century, not the
17th, and he was probably really an accountant in real life. And technically
he was chasing Danny up the road from the station, which ran round the moat.
He wasn’t chasing him round the moat itself, which was quite overgrown. You
wouldn’t want to run through the moat, not with the nettles and the bushes
growing in it. Not unless your hobby was collecting interesting lacerations.
But Danny was very definitely only wearing his boxers. A claret-and-blue pair,
with the West Ham logo on them. I noticed that Brian was not in the car. Then
I noticed that the engine was already running. Brian was standing outside the
car, shouting at Danny. “Over here! It’s over here, you prat!” Danny
was starting to tie up by this stage, but the pikeman was being encumbered by
his – well, by his pike, frankly, which he was presumably hanging on to for
the purposes of removing various items of Danny’s anatomy. So the race was
actually fairly even, but you could see that if it went on any longer, Danny
was going to lose. Brian leapt into the driving seat, and reversed out at –
for the Metro - high speed towards them. Twenty yards from Danny, he slammed
the brakes on and leant across to open the door. Danny leapt in and we
wheel-span – OK, we crawled – away from Prince Rupert’s mate. As a last
gesture, he threw his pike at the Metro. For a moment I envisaged the rear
window shattering, and me getting the pike in the back. Thankfully, pikes aren’t
designed for throwing – actually, given the thing was about 15 feet long, it’s
a wonder he even managed to run with it. It fell to the road. We headed
through some country lanes and back streets, looking cautiously for people in
period costume, and then drove back out of Berko the way we had come, so as to
rejoin the A41 bypass at the point where we had left it.
To
next chapter