Introduction - Journey To A Dream
If life deals you a bad hand, don’t fold, take a chance; a good player will always come out on top.
I entered this world on the 12th of July 1962, in St. Luke’s Hospital, Huddersfield, the second child, and only son, of Donald and Glenys Briggs. Donald, a humble lathe operator, worked for one of the town’s largest employers, David Brown Tractors of Meltham.
The birth of their first child, Julie, had been a joy. The arrival of a son would make the family complete. Donald couldn’t wait to groom his son for sporting success. Notification of my arrival came via a phone call to his work, a call that dashed his parental hopes. Young Craig was not a ‘normal’ lad; he’d been born with congenital feet deformities. I cannot imagine a crueller message.
Unaware of my disability, I got on with life as any infant would. My first birthday brought a gift that would change my life forever. Not a cuddly toy from Mum and Dad, nor a silver-plated trinket from friends or relatives. My life-changing gift was a marvel of modern engineering, manufactured by J.E. Hanger and Co. of London for and on behalf of the National Health Service. Bespoke footwear gave me what the Vespa had given the youth of the fifties: freedom and independence. They weren’t quite as stylish as an Italian built scooter but I didn’t care. From now on, Master Briggs was on the move and no one would hold me back.
Over the next five years a series of surgical procedures changed the way I moved. Recollections are few but these infant experiences would influence the rest of my life. In the 1960s bedside visits were restricted to one person for one hour per day. The anguish of a young mother listening to the tortured screams of her infant son begging her to stay must have been horrific; it wasn’t much fun for me either.
When the time came, Mum walked me to school like other proud mothers. For his part, Dad gave me his first and only piece of worldly advice. ‘If anyone hits you, hit ’em back.’
With one exception, my mind proved sharper than my boxing prowess. Kids can be cruel, particularly to those who stand out, but only once did I break down in tears and ask, ‘Why? Why me?’ It’s a question I sometimes ask myself today, but for very different reasons. Academia was not my thing. I found it difficult to concentrate on anything that didn’t interest me.
I left secondary education with a mediocre haul of four ‘O’ levels and drifted aimlessly into an ‘A’ level course. It seemed preferable to starting work. If my ‘O’ level tally was disappointing, my ‘A’ level results were pitiful. I blamed a perforated appendix, two months before my finals, but if truth be known I’d had my fill of education.
In May 1980 I left college and entered the employment market. Margaret Thatcher was busy dismantling British industry and unemployment was running at a post-war high. I signed on to receive unemployment benefit and spent the summer lounging around the house watching the Wimbledon Tennis finals on telly. As the tournament drew to a close, parental pressure to find work intensified. In September, during one of my many visits to the Job Centre, a job card caught my eye: ‘Wanted: trainee retail managers’. The idea of becoming a manager appealed, so I applied.
Five hundred and sixty applicants chased six positions. I pleaded my case at an interview and ended up being selected. After a two-week training course in the seaside town of Southport, I passed with honours, achieving the rank of assistant manager. When asked where I’d like to ply my newfound retail skills, I chose London, a city paved with gold.
In October 1980, I left Huddersfield a naive child, and returned three and a half years later a wiser and more mature young man. A brief period of letting my hair down followed, catching up on lost time and lost youth. During these wild and hedonistic months, I met the love of my life and future wife, Melanie.
My career in retail spanned six and a half years and five different companies. Each one expanded my experience and knowledge but to realise my dream I would have to go it alone. Not long after my twenty-sixth birthday, I handed in my notice. My future lay in leather jackets. Unfortunately, no one shared this vision and my aspirations fell at the first hurdle.
The prospect of returning to the retail trade pushed me into pursuing a different path. I reached a compromise and worked as a self-employed agent for one of the nation’s largest insurance companies. The job title, Financial Consultant, exaggerated the role. In reality I was nothing more than a desperate insurance salesman. Life was hard and the insurance industry ruthless. Trying to sell a product that nobody wants, and which by its nature will never benefit the payee, is not easy. Unlike most recruits, I managed to survive and learnt some difficult but valuable lessons.
My ‘Big Break’ came when two of my clients asked me to invest in their fledgling printing business. The first year’s accounts showed greater losses than actual sales. Against all professional advice I jumped at the chance, re-mortgaged the house and bought an equal stake.
By accident rather than design, I’d finally found my true vocation. The company was losing money hand over fist. The bank had taken a second charge on the partners’ homes and my investment was swallowed up in a black hole of debt. Just when things couldn’t get any worse, the bank called in the overdraft. While others worried, I applied myself to the problem. Through hard work and determination we weathered the storm, but casualties were high.
After thirteen years of blood, sweat, and holding back the tears, I ended up owning a modestly successful little business. The time was right to begin my journey to a dream.
If life deals you a bad hand, don’t fold, take a chance; a good player will always come out on top.
I entered this world on the 12th of July 1962, in St. Luke’s Hospital, Huddersfield, the second child, and only son, of Donald and Glenys Briggs. Donald, a humble lathe operator, worked for one of the town’s largest employers, David Brown Tractors of Meltham.
The birth of their first child, Julie, had been a joy. The arrival of a son would make the family complete. Donald couldn’t wait to groom his son for sporting success. Notification of my arrival came via a phone call to his work, a call that dashed his parental hopes. Young Craig was not a ‘normal’ lad; he’d been born with congenital feet deformities. I cannot imagine a crueller message.
Unaware of my disability, I got on with life as any infant would. My first birthday brought a gift that would change my life forever. Not a cuddly toy from Mum and Dad, nor a silver-plated trinket from friends or relatives. My life-changing gift was a marvel of modern engineering, manufactured by J.E. Hanger and Co. of London for and on behalf of the National Health Service. Bespoke footwear gave me what the Vespa had given the youth of the fifties: freedom and independence. They weren’t quite as stylish as an Italian built scooter but I didn’t care. From now on, Master Briggs was on the move and no one would hold me back.
Over the next five years a series of surgical procedures changed the way I moved. Recollections are few but these infant experiences would influence the rest of my life. In the 1960s bedside visits were restricted to one person for one hour per day. The anguish of a young mother listening to the tortured screams of her infant son begging her to stay must have been horrific; it wasn’t much fun for me either.
When the time came, Mum walked me to school like other proud mothers. For his part, Dad gave me his first and only piece of worldly advice. ‘If anyone hits you, hit ’em back.’
With one exception, my mind proved sharper than my boxing prowess. Kids can be cruel, particularly to those who stand out, but only once did I break down in tears and ask, ‘Why? Why me?’ It’s a question I sometimes ask myself today, but for very different reasons. Academia was not my thing. I found it difficult to concentrate on anything that didn’t interest me.
I left secondary education with a mediocre haul of four ‘O’ levels and drifted aimlessly into an ‘A’ level course. It seemed preferable to starting work. If my ‘O’ level tally was disappointing, my ‘A’ level results were pitiful. I blamed a perforated appendix, two months before my finals, but if truth be known I’d had my fill of education.
In May 1980 I left college and entered the employment market. Margaret Thatcher was busy dismantling British industry and unemployment was running at a post-war high. I signed on to receive unemployment benefit and spent the summer lounging around the house watching the Wimbledon Tennis finals on telly. As the tournament drew to a close, parental pressure to find work intensified. In September, during one of my many visits to the Job Centre, a job card caught my eye: ‘Wanted: trainee retail managers’. The idea of becoming a manager appealed, so I applied.
Five hundred and sixty applicants chased six positions. I pleaded my case at an interview and ended up being selected. After a two-week training course in the seaside town of Southport, I passed with honours, achieving the rank of assistant manager. When asked where I’d like to ply my newfound retail skills, I chose London, a city paved with gold.
In October 1980, I left Huddersfield a naive child, and returned three and a half years later a wiser and more mature young man. A brief period of letting my hair down followed, catching up on lost time and lost youth. During these wild and hedonistic months, I met the love of my life and future wife, Melanie.
My career in retail spanned six and a half years and five different companies. Each one expanded my experience and knowledge but to realise my dream I would have to go it alone. Not long after my twenty-sixth birthday, I handed in my notice. My future lay in leather jackets. Unfortunately, no one shared this vision and my aspirations fell at the first hurdle.
The prospect of returning to the retail trade pushed me into pursuing a different path. I reached a compromise and worked as a self-employed agent for one of the nation’s largest insurance companies. The job title, Financial Consultant, exaggerated the role. In reality I was nothing more than a desperate insurance salesman. Life was hard and the insurance industry ruthless. Trying to sell a product that nobody wants, and which by its nature will never benefit the payee, is not easy. Unlike most recruits, I managed to survive and learnt some difficult but valuable lessons.
My ‘Big Break’ came when two of my clients asked me to invest in their fledgling printing business. The first year’s accounts showed greater losses than actual sales. Against all professional advice I jumped at the chance, re-mortgaged the house and bought an equal stake.
By accident rather than design, I’d finally found my true vocation. The company was losing money hand over fist. The bank had taken a second charge on the partners’ homes and my investment was swallowed up in a black hole of debt. Just when things couldn’t get any worse, the bank called in the overdraft. While others worried, I applied myself to the problem. Through hard work and determination we weathered the storm, but casualties were high.
After thirteen years of blood, sweat, and holding back the tears, I ended up owning a modestly successful little business. The time was right to begin my journey to a dream.
