I want you to imagine something really strange…

I want you to imagine that you have taken leave of all your senses, and for some reason have decided that you want to travel to Rotherham. And you have no idea how to get there. You flick through your address book, and realise that you only know three people from Rotherham…Paul Shane (who was in Hi-De-Hi) Paul from The Chuckle Brothers… and me.

Paul isn’t returning your calls (he can be like that) Barrie is away doing a summer season in Rhyl, and so as a last resort you decide to contact me for directions. Despite being a little miffed at being your third choice behind two ‘C List’ celebrities, you catch me in a charitable mood, and so I send you step-by-step instructions on how to get here.

I think no more about it until the day of your journey, when I get an irate phone call from you…

“What have you done to me?…Have you any idea where I’ve ended up? Barnsley…bloody Barnsley! It’s worse than Rotherham.”

I’m amazed to receive your call ~ not because you say Barnsley is worse than Rotherham (it is) but because you got lost. I mean, I know my directions were spot on. “I don’t understand it,” I say, “you should have arrived in Rotherham without any problems. Did you follow the directions exactly?”

“Of course I did…” you say, somewhat irritated, before adding a little sheepishly, “…for most of the way. But then you directed me along the motorway. I don’t like driving on the motorway, and so I went along the A640 which looked as if it runs alongside it. And it did for a while, but then it veered off. Took me an hour to get back on track.

Anyway, I got back on your route eventually, and I came to a roundabout. You said take the third exit, but I didn’t like the look of that at all. It went straight through a scruffy steelworks. I’d have got my car filthy. So anyway, I took the second exit which looked to be going in roughly the same direction, but went through some nice countryside. Don’t know what happened after that, but the next thing I saw was a ‘Welcome To Barnsley’ sign. Last time I ask you for directions!”

I’ll come back to Barnsley in a moment, butI want to give you another scenario first…

I want you to imagine something almost as strange as the desire to visit Rotherham. I want you to imagine that you are having a second childhood moment, and have decided that you’d like to make an Airfix model of a Lancaster Bomber. So you go into your local model shop, mumble something about it being a present for your nephew, and take home a box of bits, some glue and some instructions.

The shop keeper thinks no more about it untilhe opens his doors the next Saturday morningto be faced by you – red-faced and angry, andbrandishing something in your hand.

“Look at this!” you say, shaking an object so close to the shopkeeper’s face that he can’t quite make out what it is. “This is supposed to be a Lancaster Bomber. It looks more like something spawned from a brief liaison between a wheelie bin and a Dalek! I can’t believe you sold me this piece of crap.“

“I don’t understand it,” says the shopkeeper, after removing what was supposed to be the Lancaster’s wing from his left nostril.
“It’s not meant to look like that. Did you follow the instructions?”

“Of course I followed the instructions.” you reply. “I mean, you can’t follow them word for word can you? The big bits looked easy to put together and so I did them first. I know the instructions said you had to do some small bits first, but I wanted to get going with the damned thing.

Anyway, when I’d done the big bits, I was going to do the little bits later. But then I couldn’t get them to fit in ~ and you needed to have them in place to finish the model off. I couldn’t get the tail to go on at all. Last time I’ll buy a bloody model from you!”

For a number of years now,something has puzzled me…

I sell the same product to two different people, and one writes to say that it is literally the best thing since sliced bread, and the other writes to tell me that it is a steaming pile of horse poo, and I should be locked up for selling it.

Same product…two completely different reactions.

I should point out that these are not products purchased for the way they look, or what they do when you plug them in. They are products comprising information and instructions which you need to follow in order to do something…

Usually when I get this sort of diversereaction, it’s a product designed to helpthe recipient make some more money.

Now for quite some time, I’ve suspected that the divergent experience people have with these products correlates with the propensity of the recipients to follow the instructions. In other words (like the villains in my two stories about getting to Rotherham, and building an Airfix model) the people who failed were unsuccessful because they didn’t follow the instructions.

I mean look at it this way…

If you had to cross a minefield, it would make sense to follow exactly in the footsteps of someone who had already done it, would it not? Does that make sense? Taking a different route because it looked quicker or by-passed some nasty mud, wouldn’t be a sensible option. You would have absolutely no idea whether your deviation from the prescribed route would result in total disaster. In a minefield, the gap between total success and total destruction may be little more than a hair’s breadth, and the uninitiated have no way of knowing where the make-or-break borders are.

And it can be exactly the samein a business or money-making enterprise.

Now as I said, I suspected that the difference between success and failure ~ between sliced bread and horse poo ~ with these products, was in the application of the instructions, but I couldn’t really prove it. You see, when you set up and run a money- making project, the number of things you need to do (and the order in which they need to be done) necessitates a relatively complex process. And asking someone to recount the process they’ve gone through isn’t normally very productive…

They can’t remember ~ or don’t want to remember!

However, I recently had a breakthrough, because we launched a betting advisory service, and the process involved there is one of childlike simplicity. It goes as follows:

1.  Receive a recommended bet by email detailing the event, the outcome to be bet on, the  acceptable odds and the size of the bet.

2.  Place the bet!

That’s it! Really!! There’s absolutely nothing further to do. No decisions to make, no further actions to take, no thinking to do. Nothing. It’s all done for you. Just follow the instructions.

By the end of the first month of this new service I was delighted. The results had come in just as we’d expected and hoped, and anyone following the advice in that first 30 days would find themselves over £600 in profit.

Perfect…

Or so I thought until I received an email from an irate customer: “You said this service would be profitable. I’ve been on it for a month now and I haven’t made a penny. In fact I’ve barely broken even. I’ve been conned…” etc, etc. You get the idea.

I emailed this gentleman back and expressed my surprise at his disappointment. I asked him to send me his betting records, so that I could see why they didn’t tally with mine. A couple of days later I received an email detailing a betting record for the month, which did indeed show a small loss. But his betting record had very little in common with the instructions he’d been sent.

There were five days’ bets which were missing altogether (“I was away on holiday that week.”) another three bets which weren’t placed (“I just didn’t fancy those.”) and some winning bets that were placed at a fraction of the recommended staking level (“I was a bit short of ‘readies’ that week and so I had to cut back.”) There was even one bet which we hadn’t sent him at all! (“That was one I picked out myself.”)

The guy had paid for information from someone who knew the betting equivalent of the road to Rotherham, the right way to build a Lancaster Bomber, and the way through a minefield – but had chosen to ignore or be selective with the advice…

With the result that he’d endedup in Barnsley, holding a piece ofcrap with half his leg blown off!

Now look, there’s an important caveat here. You have to choose your business advisors carefully in the first place. But once you’ve done that, there’s no sense in being selective, or trying to second-guess with respect to the information, instructions and route map you’re given. It’s not a menu from which you can choose the ‘dishes’ that seem the most palatable. You have to swallow the whole meal…

As children, we’ll almost always choose the ice cream over the spinach ~ given a free choice. And even as adults, when we know what’s good for us, the lure of the palatable, easy-to-swallow part of the meal is a strong one…

And so it is with business.

You have to swallow the whole meal exactly as it’s served up. Miss something out, or eat it in the wrong order, and you could very well find yourself nutritionally deficient or with indigestion…

Or skint-arsed as my bankmanager likes to call it!

So buckle down and eat your greens. They’re not just good for you, they’re essential. Just make sure your chef knows how to cook them first.

 Kind Regards 

John Harrison  

PUBLISHERS NOTICE  

Welcome To Your Very Own Money Machine…

For Full Details Click Here

All the best for now

John Goldsmith

(Article Originally Published 2019).  

I’ve just returned from a totally undeserved week’s holiday. Yes, I did have a nice time – thanks for asking. And that’s despite having to endure the torturous process known as international air travel.

Now I’m no expert, but I believe there are quite stringent regulations in place throughout the EC for the transportation of livestock. The animals have to be treated humanely for example, and there are rules about the amount of space each animal is allocated. I think it would be a nice idea if these rules and regulations were extended to the transportation of human beings…

Because on airline trips to European destinations, there are clearly no such rules.

The journey back was horrible, but far from untypical. If I was being processed for admission to a high security prison, I don’t think the experience could have been any more uncomfortable or depressing. There was a one-hour delay for a start…no reason given, just a delay. And so I stood there, like an idiot, staring at the check-in board, trying to second-guess where the flight might be checking in.

I’m sure you’ve played this game. You’re tired and irritable and you’ve got half a ton of luggage you’re desperate to get rid of. Your check-in desk hasn’t been announced yet, and you REALLY want to know where it’s going to be. Guess right, and you’re in position to get to the front of the queue. Get it wrong, and you’ll be at the back and facing another 45-minute stand, playing kick-the-case.

I didn’t guess right or wrong, because the bastards didn’t announce the bloody thing at all. Instead they allowed a crowd of pensioners on a SAGA holiday (and who very clearly had inside information) to check in first. Now I don’t wish to be unkind, but this sort of thing doesn’t make for swift progress. By the time they did announce the desk, the queue was back out of the doors and there were people in front of me who I swear were still in bed when I arrived at the airport.

One queue followed another…and then another…as I shuffled along as if in a chain gang. I was asked to remove clothing, jewellery, to empty my pockets…even take off my shoes. I half-expected someone to hand me a pick at the end, and order me to start breaking rocks.

But they didn’t…

Instead, they directed me on to a bus (no seats – obviously) where I stood for fifteen minutes until the driver came back from his lunch break, and then drove us the 100 yards to the plane steps. You can’t walk, you see…that might be a welcome break, and their goal is to break your spirit.

Anyway, I was confident of getting a seat at this point, but no such luck. You see, back in the check-in area, I’d noticed a woman (well you couldn’t fail to notice her really) whose arse was clearly too wide to fit in an airline seat. I’d noticed this, and so had my wife and daughter. But nobody from the airline had. I remember we discussed it at the time. Was she travelling in the cargo hold, or had she booked two seats – one for each cheek?

The answer was neither, which is why I found myself stranded half-way up the aircraft steps in a gale, while (and sadly this was out of view, and I only heard about it second-hand) sweating and straining cabin crew battled to shoehorn the woman into her seat. As I passed where she was sitting (or should that be berthed?) I could hear her complaining that people had been rude about her size.

Not as rude as I’d have been if I’d been given a seat next to her, I can tell you!

Why is it that you can get on to a plane carrying 100kgs of excess blubber and it doesn’t cost you anything (other than a little personal dignity) but you get penalised if you take so much as a toothbrush over your baggage limit? It would be much fairer if you had to get weighed with your luggage, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t really matter whether the weight is in your bags or in your beer belly.

When I eventually got to my seat, it didn’t take me long to notice that all was not well. While the cabin crew had done their best to clear it up, it was hard to escape the conclusion that someone had thrown up on the outward journey. As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s an aroma that doesn’t improve with age. I’m not a big fan of aircraft food at the best of times – and this wasn’t the best of times. My tray stayed firmly in the upright position.

I got off at the other end (as I always do at such times) vowing never to travel again. And of course I won’t ~ until the next time.

The purpose of this rant is threefold:

1.  To allow me to vent my spleen.

2.  To allow you to delight in my misfortune. I think the Germans call it Schadenfreude.

3.  To serve as a permanent reminder for me, and an impetus to up my game and make enough money to hire a private jet next time.

And on that last point, any contributions will be gratefully received.

 Kind Regards 

John Harrison  

PUBLISHERS NOTICE  

Welcome To Your Very Own Money Machine…

For Full Details Click Here

All the best for now

John Goldsmith

I’m sitting here waiting for a woman to turn up from the bank I’ve been using for the last 15 years. She wants me to prove I am who I say I am.

I mean really…if I was going to pretend to be anyone, it wouldn’t be me.

Anyway, she rang yesterday because I want to open a new account for my self-administered pension. Despite the fact that I’ve been doing business with them for years, and they’re currently holding more of my money than it would take to solve the debt of a third world country, they’re still demanding to see my passport and driving licence before opening the new account.

Apparently it’s the law ~ money laundering regulations ~ or so they say. Every time you do anything new, they’re obliged to check you out all over again.

This is becoming something of a regular occurrence.

At the end of last week, I got a call from a solicitor who is handling the purchase of a property I’m partially financing for a third party. Here’s how the conversation went:

Solicitor: Can you tell me where the funds are from?

Me: From my bank account

Solicitor: But what’s the source of the funds?

Me: As I said, it will be coming out of my bank account. Do you want my bank details?

Solicitor: No, I need to determine the original source.

Me: Sorry, I don’t understand what you want.

Solicitor: Well where did the money come from? I need to establish a paper trail.

Me: What?

Solicitor: I need to establish that the funds are legitimate and not the proceeds of crime or drug sales.

Me: No, that’s my other account.

Solicitor: (Silence).

Me: Sigh…Just tell me what you need.

Solicitor: Sorry, it’s money laundering regulations.

And that’s how things are in Britain in 2020. You can’t even move, spend or invest your own money without the government forcing banks and solicitors (under threat of imprisonment) to investigate every last detail about you and the transaction.

If they’re in any doubt at all that you’re not who you say you are, or can’t (or won’t) account for exactly how you came by the money, then they’re legally obliged to shop you to the authorities. If they fail in this role of unpaid state snoop, they face swapping their comfortable office for a jail cell.

But it’s okay, because it’s for our own good ~ to fight crime, terrorism, drug dealing and the like ~ isn’t it?

Let me contrast what I’ve just told you with another ‘transaction’ I regularly make…

Twice a year, I receive a demand from the Inland Revenue for a depressingly large sum of money. I won’t tell you how much because I don’t want you feeling sorry for me, but it’s a lot. Now for some reason, they’ve never felt the need to check that I am who I say I am when I pay that bill. They never feel the need to establish a ‘paper trail’ to find out where the money has come from. They don’t seem to care. All they want is the money. They don’t even send me a receipt or an acknowledgement for goodness sake.

When I’m buying or investing for myself, the fight against crime is paramount. When I’m giving the money to them, they don’t give a stuff. Strange isn’t it? And there’s only one reason I can think of…

It’s because all these unpaid state snoopers aren’t in place to prevent money laundering – they’re there to prevent tax evasion…

And there’s not much danger of you doing that while you’re paying your bill.

 Kind Regards 

John Harrison  

PUBLISHERS NOTICE  

Dear Streetwise Customer, 

     This is not illegal. Perfectly legitimate. It’s all perfectly above-board. 


                                 Why isn’t everyone doing this? 


   I have no idea. Anyone can. You just need to be bothered. Anyone could, but most people don’t, because they either aren’t motivated, or don’t know how, or are too sceptical by nature to believe it’s possible. 


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  John Harrison
  Streetwise Publications 

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