Terry Bond has come to realise that his father’s caution would serve us well in today’s troubled markets.

‘T Bond. Family Butcher’. That was the sign that stood proudly atop my old dad’s premises overlooking the village green at Tettenhall, one of Wolverhampton’s poshest suburbs, for the best part of half a century.

Meat was meat in those days, not homogenised, pale, shrink-wrapped, ready-cut stuff. Villagers visited the butcher’s several times a week, buying fresh cuts they knew how to cook properly and sharing gossip with my grandma, who helped dad behind the counter.

Tettenhall supported three independent butcher’s shops – Tim Bond’s, Jack Fox’s and Jim Baynton’s. Although they were in competition, the three of them were best of friends, went together to Penkridge cattle market on Mondays, played golf a couple of times a week and had a pint and a game of dominoes in the Rock pub most evenings.

Gentleman’s agreement
The three butchers had an unwritten pact: if any one of them decided to sell his shop, it would be offered to the other two first.

Inevitably, the day came. Jim Baynton reached retirement age, decided he’d had enough and gave my dad first refusal at what was certainly a low price. Dad announced the offer to the family at supper and then dropped his bombshell. ‘I’ve thought about it and decided to say no,’ he told us. Silence. Mum shrugged and carried on serving the pudding.

I was flabbergasted. Surely the old man was off his rocker? Here was a chance to take over more than half of the opposition and at least double his profits. After supper I sat in the lounge with my dad and, with the wisdom of all my 15 years, explained to him that he was turning down the biggest no-brainer of his life. More money. Another excellent property just 100 yards away. And at a price that made Baynton’s Butchers a steal.

The facts of life
Dad took a drag of his fag – considered cool, not cancerous, back then – and settled down
to explain the facts of life. ‘Two shops? More money? What for?’ he asked. ‘I would have to employ a manager and an assistant. Butchery is a cash business so like as not they would be tempted to fiddle. That means every week I would have to check the books myself, and that would mean missing at least one of my golf evenings. At the cattle market I would have to buy twice as many beasts, so would have to be at the auction longer, and that would cut into my lunchtime drinking with my mates.

‘Even though it might look a bargain to you, paying for the other shop would eat up most
of my savings. Anyway, why do I need a bigger income? We’ve got a nice house and a car, and I’ve paid for you and your brother to have a private education. We go on holiday to Rhyl every year. I’ve got a lovely life.

‘Spend my savings on another shop? Double my worries? No thank you.’

Life lessons
Dad’s philosophy was wasted on me. I thought he was an unambitious stick-in-the-mud. But that was then. With the benefit of 50 years’ hindsight and, having spent the past six months experimenting with ways of beating the market downturn, I am willing to admit that dad was right and I was wrong.

A year ago it was macho for investors to regard the economic downturn as an opportunity, a challenge, a chance to try new things. Battening down the hatches was for wimps, an admission of failure. Like everyone else, I got caught up in the spirit of the moment and tried spread betting, options, futures, CFDs – you name it, I dabbled in it.

I learnt new tricks, it took up an increasingly large slice of my working day and I hated it. What happened to the evenings out, the long walks with the dogs, the summer evenings in the garden, reading, friends? All replaced by endless hours in front of the computer. For what? A bit more money and a lot more worry.
So dad, if they deliver What Investment up there, thanks for the lesson in life. I am back to the good, old-fashioned method of investing – researching a handful of undervalued equities then buying and holding.