[Anonymous]

[Anonymous]

In which our correspondent proves that when it comes to clinching business deals abroad, he can charm the best of them…

Since we started to travel less frequently, everyone in my office has been getting on each other’s nerves because they are not used to queuing for the microwave. My boss has made it clear that fewer trips mean our remaining overseas meetings are even more significant, and has emphasised the importance of keeping good relations with our foreign clients and making the most of the time we have with them. This is okay by me, as I’m used to spending more time in air-conditioned offices than on sun-bleached beaches – consequently, I have some knowledge of cultural etiquette in far-off lands (and less sand in my pants).

In business, money is the common language, but getting to the stage where everyone is happy with the deal can be a tricky path to negotiate. In the US, the first rule is not to mix it with pleasure, something my American counterparts have honed into a perfect little package of controlled and convincing pleasantries. I often come away from a long meeting in the States feeling elated – I am the good guy and my jokes are hilarious. It’s just a shame no one wanted to buy a round of drinks and party with me until the early hours. Suddenly, my buddies are heading home and the last I see of them is their brilliant white teeth grinning away into the night.

This is quite the opposite of my visits to Japan, where the real deals are done after office hours. Downing sake in a karaoke bar while discussing the finer details of a multibillion pound contract is a surreal experience the first time, but now I even know which song will score me the most points (it’s not Hotel California or New York, New York, which means I’ve had to expand my repertoire).

So I do know how to conduct myself abroad, although at home my wife says it’s a different story. Apparently, when we have guests over for dinner, I never serve the ladies first, I always lean across the fatties to make sure I actually get some food, and I top up my own glass before offering it to the red-faced loon by my side. What she doesn’t realise is that, apart from the fact I never mention her alcohol allergy to anyone, when I leave the country I become the master of manners.

It’s easy, really – just follow your host’s lead. When you are handed a hot towel at a restaurant, do not launch into your shower routine. In Asia, left-handed people should jam their offending limb under the table and use their right hand to wield chopsticks and pass plates – a messy tablecloth is better than the looks you may receive for using your toilet hand at a welcome dinner. In Greece, the meze experience taught me that in some cultures it’s best not to eat every last morsel on the plate, for it will be replenished again and again until you explode all over your Powerpoint presentation. In other cultures, it is quite rude to leave even a crumb.

My wife would also be amazed at my knowledge of how to hand things over (she probably bases this on how bad I am at giving her my credit card). From giving and accepting business cards with both hands and bowing to acknowledge the person’s importance, to touching my right elbow with my left hand when handing over a bowl of food, I am the model of good behaviour.

At least, I am until I arrive back at Heathrow and have to face the nightmare of the London Underground. Suddenly, all manners go out the window – I shove my way past a gang of squealing Spaniards and give an accidental elbow to an American couple with cases the size of caravans. And then it’s on to my commuter train for the last leg home. Forget first class – anyone paying more for this experience needs their head checked. Crying brats, moronic mobile phone conversations – I plug in my iPod to drown out the unholy racket. Hotel California, full volume – and no, my headphones aren’t noise cancelling. That’s the etiquette of rail travel.

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