A Wee Laugh

I have worked in procurement for decades now.  I have gained my chartered status and have taken exams in various procurement-related subjects (I’d say I’d studied but that would be a gross overstatement since I walked into each exam having not opened even the study guide, much less a textbook).

I love what I do, though not always for whom I do it.  I love the game, the power play of it.  I love to sit devising strategies and see them pay off.  I like to think of myself as an ethical buyer, but even so there is a game to be played to ensure everyone walks away with a workable deal and I love that part of the job.

Weirdly what has spilled over into my non-work life isn’t the game, much as I love it.  Over the last few decades I have found myself becoming a more ethically conscious consumer.  I don’t mean I wear only Birkenstocks and eat only vegan granola, but I try to keep myself aware of where I spend my money and exactly what sort of companies and supply chains I fund.  I’m sure the Coca Cola Corporation hasn’t even noticed my lack of spend, for example, but I can’t bring myself to knowingly fund an organisation who can carry out the sort of activity that has been reported in Guatemala.  As someone who doesn’t drink much in the way of fizz that’s a relatively easy one to avoid where I can (although their acquisition of Costa has increased my spend with them a little, which I’m working to reduce).

Right now thanks to Covid-19 a large and increasing proportion of us have more time on our hands than usual while our normal life has been suspended.  Every day we see companies stepping up and treating their staff well, helping local communities and trying to keep their staff and customers as safe as they possibly can.  I watch carefully, take note, try to ensure I remember their actions and in future will go out of my way to support these organisations.

We also see companies treating their staff appallingly badly.  I’d like to think that the publicity around these companies’ actions means they will be increasingly easy to boycott once this is over and life resumes its normal pattern once more.  Sadly, memories are short.  I’d love to think that people will stop spending money in Wetherspoons until they force Tim Martin to behave in a more ethical way, to treat his staff better, to pay his suppliers on time.  Wouldn’t it be great if people bought their sportswear from someone other than Mike Ashley and their party dresses from somewhere other than ASOS?  I appreciate I am in a relatively stable financial position and can afford to pay a few pence more for a pint or a few quid more for a pair of trainers, and not everyone is in that position.  I just hope people learn that they have power and that power is the power of their spend.  It would be fantastic if they used it wisely.

I have avoided Wetherspoons for a considerable amount of time.  What sort of pub chain can drive its staff to strike?  Well, Wetherspoons did in 2018.  I don’t care for some of Martin’s political views and I don’t care for how he treats his employees or suppliers, I don’t like to think that I am financially supporting either his views or his actions.  I am also not a massive fan of bland chain establishments when I live in an area teeming with tiny independents struggling to survive.  My local Wetherspoons hit the national press last year when a massive brawl erupted over the Easter weekend; it’s just that sort of a place.

When I arrange to meet a potential lover for the first time I always do so in public.  That’s partly for my safety but also means we both get a good look at each other and see if there is sufficient engagement there to warrant taking things further.  If someone is more than a few miles away from me I will try to find somewhere interesting that is midway between us; if someone is more local then I have a lot of local bars, restaurants, cafes and coffee shops to suggest.

When S wanted to travel to me from Blackpool (a journey of around 60 miles, taking around 90 minutes at the time we were planning to meet) I suggested many places we could meet along that route.  He was insistent he would travel to me, but was equally insistent he wanted to meet up in Wetherspoons.  I made it very clear that his travelling to me put neither of us under any obligation to have sex, that there was every possibility he would be travelling to me for a pint and a long drive home again.  Ground rules set, we confirmed date and time.

I was a little disappointed in his insistence on Wetherspoons.  We’d had some great, lively and interesting conversations and I always feel there is a certain type of man who loves spoons (not a type I’m normally particularly keen on).  They are convenient but bland – both pub and man.

The evening arrived.  I made my way to the pub and there he was, looking exactly like his pictures, dressed a little young for his actual age but nothing too outrageous, at a table at the end of the bar.  An awkward fumbling moment where an appropriate greeting eluded us (I went for cheek kiss where he went for full on snog – for the record that’s not appropriate at the first moment of an initial meeting), then he went to the bar.

He downed a full pint of water then asked for another.  Second pint was downed and he returned to the table with his pint of beer and a glass of wine for me.  The pints of water struck me as a little bizarre and started some alarm bells ringing (I have been both giver and receiver with watersports but found neither to be particularly arousing).

After about ten minutes I’d barely touched my wine but S had finished his pint, so he went to the bar again.  Once more, a pint of water downed at the bar and a pint of beer brought back to the table.  I caught the barman’s eye, he gave me a look and a grimace which I pretended not to notice.  I did notice that although the pub was very busy, it was busy with meals rather than drinks, leaving the barman at liberty to stand at the end of the bar nearest the table and listen in to our conversation.  I don’t have an issue with that – I’m very amusing as a rule and not particularly embarrassed to discuss even the most explicit subjects.

S was extremely nervous so I cut him a little slack on the conversational front (he proudly announced he had only thirty six more Wetherspoons to visit and then he would’ve done them all), but when he gave me a twenty minute lecture on the carpets of Wetherspoons (did you know each one has a unique pattern woven into the carpet to relate either to the local area or the name of the pub?  There, that’s something you know now) I hurriedly finished my glass of wine and headed to the bar, where the barman was making no effort to hide his laughter.

I was in need of something a little stronger than wine, so I asked what gins they had.  Without breaking eye contact the barman reached behind him and pulled a bottle off the bar, announcing “this is the one with the highest alcohol content love”.  Fair play, I ordered a double.  While I was being served S announced he was going to the toilets (quick recap, he’s drunk five pints of liquid so far).  I breathed a sigh of relief as watersports were apparently off the menu for the near future, took the drinks back to the table and texted my safety person with details of the date so far.

I was a little surprised when S literally sprinted across the pub, but I was far more surprised when he got halfway across the room and yelled to me that “that was the biggest wee I’ve ever done!”.  I wasn’t sure what the expected response was, but when I saw the barman literally doubled over laughing I couldn’t help but laugh myself.  It certainly brought all conversation on our floor of the pub to a grinding halt.

I drank my gin a lot more quickly than I had my initial glass of wine, then made the standard “off you fuck” noises – it’s been lovely meeting you, have a safe journey home etc.

S appeared surprised at this turn of events and told me he’d drunk too much to drive home.  Thankfully I hadn’t drunk enough to be at a loss for an answer and I pointed out the Travelodge immediately opposite.  My standards may not be the highest and vary significantly depending on how long it’s been since I last got laid, but there’s a level even I don’t get to.

Weirdly, when I discuss this date with my safety person we refer to S as “Wetherspoons carpet man”.  That was far from the most bizarre thing on that date, yet never once have we referred to him in terms of his urinary prowess or indeed, his ability to down a pint (which was actually pretty impressive).

I met S on a hookup site.  He badly misjudged the sort of site he ought to have joined.  Honestly, he’d be much better on a dating site, looking for a nice primary school teacher who would gently point him in the direction of appropriate behaviour – some advice I shared (in a more tactful fashion) when he messaged me to see whether I wanted to meet up again.  He was very attractive and was engaging enough by phone and text, just something of a shitshow in person.  Still, it gave the barman a damned good laugh and I like to think it’s a story he relates every bit as often as I do.