i shat myself in The Ship, Wandsworth

I shat myself in The Ship, Wandsworth

I waddled about like a scarecrow let on the loose from the fields of Surrey to the Streets of Wandsworth. Akin to an Alien plucked out the deep.

I’d touched clothe and grabbed shat-ya-pants.

Last Sunday, I was in The Ship in Wandsworth. England were playing Mexico in the World Cup.

At noon.

We walked past the totemic Maccies Golden Arches towering above Wandsworth Roundabout. Flurries of Volkswagen family cars for hunting for McFlurrys to appease their hot n’ bovved kids.

We entered The Ship.

Summer songs flirtatiously grooved through the hot balmy air. The tickling stench of suncream muddled with frying onions from the Burger Shack was revoltingly voluptuous.

Along the milky, sparkling-grey Thames, cute little sailing boats with “Fulham Pier” etched on their sails bobbed - danced - shuffled - scurried - hurried.

The Ship used to be a great juicer.

Old geezers in boat shoes, in salmon chinos with off-salmon booze-soaked faces drunk there. Stout men glugged Stout beer.

I felt like a parched trout, ready for another Akimbo Aperol Spritz-Blitz.

I headed to the bar.

As I walked the insecure little demon fabulously and volcanically erupted through my mind.

“Don’t walk like you’ve shat yourself Pope”

“Play it cool… walk like you’ve got a hamstring injury from your Romanian Trainer who’s middle name is Pythagorus”

Punters ogled.

“Has he shat himself?”

“I think he’s got the Aperol Shitz”

“I think that blokes crapped his cacks”

I hadn’t actually shat myself, of course, not. You silly FOOL. I’m 32 years old. I haven’t worn a nappy in 17 years.

I’d been on a long run in the sun and developed an incurable case of Chaffin’ R’ Us.

2pm arrived.

The Ship turned into The Shit.

England fans, in English gear. Guys & Dolls, Gear & Debauchery. Three lines on my shirt, three lines up my honker kinda-energy.

It felt more like Ocean Beach, Ibiza.

I was chugging black day glow orange Aperol Spritz, my marrow melting into a state of YUM.

Sadly, my blower ran out of raz.

And, I’d lost my wallet.

And, I only had my Apple Pay to pay.

I waddled (shit-ya-self-style) to the bar.

I asked the wonderfully amiable barman.

“Excuse me, mate, do you have a phone charger please?”

The man spasmed into a fresh-out-the-warehouse-fridge-frigid look

“Sorry, we can’t give out phone chargers”

“Why?”

Next, he looked at his manager for help.

The manager gave off a seething look

“Sorry, it’s Youngs Policy we can’t give out phone chargers”.

I thought, time to change tact.

Let’s drop a coquettish drop spin.

With meeting-the-in-laws-polished-politeness, I said

“But, Sir, I need by phone to pay for Aperol Spritz and lunch… I don’t have a wallet and use Apple Pay”.

“Sorry, I can’t do anything about that”

!! TIME TO GO NUCLEAR !!

“Look mate, I’ve just shat my pants and I need to call my Mother to drop off a fresh pair of Uniqlo bokkies - comprende?!”

“Sorry, we don’t do that here”.

Suddenly,

I waddled off (shit-ya-self-style).

IT BLOWS MY MIND.

How many big corporate hospitality businesses shackle their amazing staff from delivering great hospitality?

By having all these perturbingly wanky business rules.

Oisin Rogers of The Devonshire has a rule called: Silent Irritants.

So many hospitality businesses let silent irritants become screaming annoyances.

In business, we think we need some big grandiose strategy and point of difference and “purpose” to stand out.

Often, you can build an amazing business, that’s GENUINELY different simply by annihalting silent irritants.

The more you remove silent irritants the more you

Every little helps

Popey

xx

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