Never Judge A Book

God, I Feel Old.

This is the second of 2 posts on the joys of interviewing & hiring geologists and engineers. See also Arms and the Man.

I’ve finally admitted an awful truth to myself; it’s 40 years since I left high school. In my head, I’m still a spotty 17-year-old idiot, albeit one who’s wondering why he suddenly has moobs, grey hair and a large, malignant bum growth called a mortgage. Give or take the odd break for post graduate studies, I’m now 37 years into my earth science career; 37 wonderful, peripatetic years of travel, strange alcoholic drinks, and disturbing intestinal nasties.

At Grammar School, I excelled in one thing and one thing only. Mediocrity. Sports? Too skinny and uncoordinated. Academics? Nah. I was a shit study and didn’t exactly thrive in the Hogwarts-style red brick school environment I was in; my exam results made the attainment of slightly-below-average-grades look like lofty ambition. Healthy living? Nope. I smoked from 14 years old, and me and my mates were in the pub as soon as we looked old enough and had sufficient moola to buy a pint and a bag of crisps. To paraphrase the great soccer player George Best, most of my money I spent on beer, ciggies and girlfriends and the rest I wasted.

Woohoo. I’m A Real Geologist!

So, it came as a bit of a shock to me when- having enrolled in geology at college- I never looked back and got a good degree, which taught me two crucial lessons in life: 1) academic achievement at high school isn’t grounds to write people off, contrary to what the old-school British system would have you believe; 2) give people a chance and see what happens; and 3) I should’ve paid more attention in maths class.

In 1999, fifteen years after graduating, I was working for the Anglo American Corporation, based out of their European & Middle Eastern field office in Budapest. My boss called me in to his office one day and I was given a couple of months notice that I was moving to their concrete and glass head office at Carlton House Terrace near Piccadilly in central London.

Embracing the opportunity, my wife and I packed our bags, looking forward to 3 years of theatre, pubs, muggings and full English breakfasts. We dreamt up a plan to scoff bacon and eggs at a different cafe every Saturday. Camden, Battersea, South Kensington -anywhere there was a greasy spoon, we’d have a breakfast. Then, with research complete and clutching a bottle of cholesterol pills, we’d publish the definitive coffee-table Book Of London Fry Ups; a hundred and fifty pages of glossy photos of chipped plates of fried bacon, sausages and runny eggs all slathered in beans, shot in pornographic close up. Couldn’t fail. Genius.

You’re What?

Except what we hadn’t planned on was that she was already pregnant when we landed. It dawned on us one Saturday morning as we began our fry up research. She refused to go into our chosen cafe for breakfast claiming the smell made her feel ill.

After the initial “grounds for divorce” moment had washed over me we went to Boots The Chemist, bought the little plastic thingy, and one blue line later it was confirmed; London was about to get an extra resident courtesy of a final euphoric night in Budapest, drunkenly celebrating the departure of a particularly annoying house guest.

All of which is a very long-winded intro to my mining story, so I’ll get to the point.

Yes. Get To The Point.

Most of the major mining companies had offices in London. Anglo, Rio, BHP, and a couple of UK based coal miners were located close-ish to Anglo’s head office. It’s a lovely, historic part of London to work in if you can put up with the hordes of tourists who come to gawp at Buckingham Palace, and then stroll around the lake in St Jame’s Park chucking stuff at the pelicans.

I worked directly for Anglo’s global head of base metal exploration. Mine was a jack of all trades role -budgets, liaising with the regional offices, reporting etc.- that involved a certain amount of networking with the other mining companies. For example, for a brief time, I was Anglo’s rep’ on the UK “chapter” of the International Seabed Commission, sat around an enormous wooden table in the Foreign Office building, nodding sagely in meetings like I knew what I was talking about (I didn’t).

Another hat I wore was to represent Anglo as a donor on the awards committee of a mining educational charity: the Mineral Industry Education Trust (MIET) which was established to help earth science and mining engineering students by awarding 3-4 scholarships annually.

So, You Want Money Do You?

Each year, we ran a selection process to find 2-3 students who would receive a MIET award. Applicants had to be a) eligible to study in the UK, b) available for interview and c) accepted for the course they were seeking the award for. It was a useful way for the mining companies to spot nascent industry talent early, and it was a decent award for the students: fifteen hundred pounds a year for the duration of the students’ degree, whether it was a PhD, MSc or Bachelors. And let’s face it, students always need money and geology students need more money than the average undergraduate to fund the regular field trips where they’re forced to buy beer to survive.

The selection panel was made up of 3-4 industry oinks like me -one from each of the sponsoring companies (assuming they wanted to take part)- and a human resources person, usually from the company hosting the interviews. Each spring, we’d receive a large envelope containing 15-20 pre-screened applications from which we’d choose 7 or 8 for interview in London.

Then, in the early summer, we put the kids through a day long interview process. Group exercises, presentations, interviews and essays -it was a fairly tough process that allowed us to home in on the best candidates. For a few hours on interview day, the gardens in St James Square would be occupied by a gaggle of nervous looking students, pacing around practicing their talks and swilling coffee to stay sharp.

He’s Welsh.

One summer, we interviewed one kid who was coming out of high school and wanted to study mining engineering. He was Welsh, which we didn’t hold against him. If I remember right, he was a big kid -a rugby player- who spoke with a thick accent and didn’t look remotely comfortable wearing a suit. As he walked into the room, I noticed that the designated HR person frowned slightly.

The boy had come across as average in the other exercises that day. He wasn’t a natural public speaker and was a little shy in the group exercise. But it was when we asked him about his hobbies that the things got interesting. He’d done some woodworking, which was good to know. He was a practical type then. And then he told us he’d built a forge in his back yard, to produce iron. A working one.

There was a moment of contemplative silence from the industry reps around the table -some knowing nods like we knew how to do it too (ha ha)- and then someone asked what he made from the iron. Tools and stuff, he said. Whatever took his fancy, but he was learning to do basic blacksmithing at 17 years old with home smelted iron. Teaching himself in the back yard next to dad’s shed, under the washing line, while the cat watched from the kitchen window.

It’s Decision Time.

Later that day, it was decision time. We huddled around the boardroom table and went through all the interviews one by one, comparing notes. Our Welsh friend was one of the last on the candidate list.

“What about this chap?” I asked my colleagues.

Before anyone could respond, the HR person piped up: “Oh no, totally unsuitable. Far too rough around the edges and his presentation wasn’t very good. We couldn’t possibly award him a scholarship.”

There was silence around the table and some uncomfortable bum-shuffling.

Then Eric from BHP glanced at me and Mr. Rio Tinto in turn, with a look that screamed: “Who wants to tell her?”

I yelled back at him with my raised eyebrows “Jesus. Go ahead.”

“Er… he’s 17 and wants to study mining engineering. He’s built a forge in his back yard, smelts iron and makes tools. If I’m underground and there’s a problem, I want this boy next to me solving the problem. He’s first in line for a scholarship, even if he can’t present. We’re not here to assess presentation skills – we’re here to find practical engineers and geologists.”

We took a quick show-of-hands vote on his award. The HR rep timidly raised her hand making the vote unanimous.

I think we all know the moral of this tale.

PS: If this tale rings a bell with you, let me know via the comments below. Some of the details have faded – regression error as HR might call it- also known as “forgotten” to the rest of us.

And Remember…

This blog doesn’t prejudge its readers. Actually, that’s not true. It does. Should you fail to subscribe via the HR approved subscription box at the top of this page, I will definitely think the worst of you and will NOT award you a scholarship ever. But if you do subscribe, I’ll make all sorts of promises about stuff I’m going to send to you but ultimately, you’re going to be disappointed mark my words, much like the feeling of emptiness from a 37 year career in geology. Just kidding.