I don’t watch a lot of television. There’s nothing on. However, my girlfriend likes to unwind by watching educational programming like Dancing On Television and Britain’s Got Television. When I’m not in the mood for much else, I snuggle in beside her and try to ignore the flickering images.
So last night I found myself watching a show called Britain’s Next Undercover Boss On Television, or something. It was the most annoying television show I’ve ever seen them show on television.
The premise is simple: the management of a company get the feeling that they’ve lost touch with the people on the shop floor. From their vantage point in the boardroom of 1 Ivory Towers they can’t communicate with the very people they rely on for water cooler refills. To rectify this, they choose a senior figure of the company, tell them not to shave for a couple of days (a cunning disguise) and then get them a temporary job in one of their shops, not telling the staff who they really are, thus allowing them to infiltrate the working class.
In last night’s thrilling episode the managing director of Southern Fried Chicken was tasked with taking on several positions in the chain’s fast food outlets to find out whether individual branches were performing to expectation.
First he went to Hitchin, where he took on a busy Saturday night shift serving chicken to drunken angry yobs, the kind of people who respond to having a camera pointed at them by getting their bums out and singing the Funky Chicken. Ha ha, how very appropriate.
During the shift he was appalled to find that chicken was being prepared in the washing-up sink. This, of course, is a health and safety hazard and could lead to food poisoning and death. However, given the state customers, I choose to believe that the staff knew exactly what they were doing.
In his second job he accompanied the branch’s manager to a local cash-and-carry where he watched the procurement of a week’s worth of chicken in non-refrigerated boxes. On returning to the shop, the boxes were plonked down on a blood-splattered kitchen floor next to the rat poison. Nice.
In yet another temporary job he was introduced to a brave young immigrant from Afghanistan, who had been forced to bravely escape the war-torn country, bravely leaving behind his pregnant wife. He had never seen his child. The managing director laughably explained that he fully understood the young refugee’s plight as he once had to go away on business and missed his little Quentin’s first steps. Oh, the humanity.
Anyway, the MD went through all this rigmarole with the intention of finding out for real what kind of operational difficulties face the people who run franchise businesses under the Southern Fried Chicken brand. He came back from his experience with his eyes opened, and began forming a plan to resolve the problems he’d seen.
Now, we should probably pause here to reflect on the nature of Southern Fried Chicken.
Southern Fried Chicken are not a major fast-food retailer as far as I’m concerned. In fact before last night I wasn’t even aware they were a chain. Their shops are run on a franchise basis with little or no consistent corporate image. They have free choice to serve whatever slop they like, bought from any old wholesaler at bargain-basement cost and quality, cooked by whatever means are available, and sold to customers for whatever price they’ll pay.
The outlets look no different, and sometimes worse, than most of the low-rent kebab shops along Rusholme’s Curry Mile in Manchester. They are a far cry from successful brands like Macdonalds, Wimpy, and the obvious comparison, Kentucky Fried Chicken.
And yet the Undercover Boss of last night’s show seems to be suffering a delusion. He talks about his business empire as if he is Ronald Macdonald himself, with this gleaming vision in his mind’e eye of pristine and spacious restaurants filled with happy families, all subscribing to the SFC corporate ethos of an enjoyable eating experience fuelled by their consistently high-quality product.
His understanding of his own business could not be further from the truth. But hey, that’s fine because now he’s worked in three shops. He’s wiped a Hitchin chav’s bum sweat off a red plastic counter top. He has a plan, right?
We come to the final act of the show, in which the managers of the shops are summoned to head office to meet the management. Oh, what a shock they’ll have when their ex-colleague is revealed to be their boss.
Except that he’s not their boss is he? He’s their business partner. That’s how a franchise works. They’re the bosses of their own business, and they negotiate a deal with this other business to obtain certain services and support in exchange for maintaining the corporate “look and feel” in their outlets. In this case the relationship seems to be tenuous at best, since head office exercises basically no control over the brand image and the store managers are left to fend for themselves. This, to me, is nothing like a boss-worker relationship.
Incidentally, one of the branch managers didn’t remember the boss at all, even face to face when prompted “do you remember me? I worked in your shop, remember? No? Oh.”
Wait a minute. I just realised this is even stupider than I thought. If this guy is the boss, why can’t he just rock up at the shop and demand to see the state of the kitchen? I mean, if the head honcho of my employer turned up unannounced asking to see what I was working on I’d just show him. And I’d give him my opinions on it in the interest of making our product better, because I respect the company I work for and I’m not an asshat. If, on the other hand, I found out Hedhoncho San had spent a week pretending to do a code-monkey’s job while surrupticiously investigating my performance I’d think HE is the asshat.
Well anyway, whoever’s the asshat here, the fact is we find Big Boss sat opposite a bunch of branch managers. Time to unveil the grand plan. Time to find out how, based on what he’s learned, he’s going to make sweeping changes across all Southern Fried Chicken shops in the UK, improving brand image and customer satisfaction, and therefore increasing market share and profitability.
Oh, oh no, that’s not the plan.
For the guys with the poisoned chicken on the floor, an offer to match their investment in renovating their kitchen up to £10,000. Very generous, you might think, but then you remember something they said earlier about being in dire financial circumstances because of shrinking margins on burgers. Where are they going to raise £10,000? Basically they’ve been given a ten grand fine and told if they don’t sort out their hygiene problems they’ll get shut down.
Then the guy from Afghanistan shows up. How will his business be improved? By paying for him to fly to Pakistan where his wife and child now live of course. Oh, no that doesn’t improve his business at all. It’s a nice gesture though. Thanks “boss.”
For the guys working the night shift in Hitchin, they’re going to get their shop renovated to the tune of £13,000. They’ll have a nice new sign outside and a fancy counter. Their shop will be the flagship branch or, more accurately, a diamond in the chemical toilet. Good for them. They won.
They also got to see the inner sanctum of the boss’ delusion. Walking out from the bland office in which their meetting took place we see that, far from a gleaming corporate headquarters, the SFC head office appears to be in the boss’ house. We follow them down the dowdy carpeted stairs and through to the kitchen where we find that a pristine replica of the perfect Southern Fried Chicken diner has been constructed. It’s clearly the MD’s idea of heaven. For everyone else, including the visibly shocked branch managers, it’s like finally glimpsing the psychopath’s shrine to the women he kills.
So, given all the effort of traipsing around the country pretending to be one of the underclass, the boss has taken basically no steps to remedy any of the problems he found. He’s bunged some money into one of his already-successful branches and neglected to see the bigger picture. Are we to assume that these branches are the only ones that prepare chicken in the sink and cook their fries in black month-old oil?
But then perhaps £25,000 (including flights) is a small price for an unsuccessful take-away business to pay for an hour of prime-time TV.