I want to drink it, not wash me clothes in it

Super Size Someone Else
It was, of course, Tony Hancock who uttered the above line when faced with a frothy coffee in The Rebel, but his words echoed back at me for different reasons today during a pleasant spin around Kingston in the crisp not-quite-yet-winter air, the perfect accompaniment to which seemed to be a sit-down coffee in a coffee shop. Good timing – weekday, thirst setting in after the traditional lunch hour – even meant comfy seats by the window. The outlet chosen, for its location, was Costa Coffee. I’ve been boycotting Starbucks ever since reading and obeying No Logo, so I was glad to find one of the smaller multinational food conglomerates to drink a decaff latte in. If I’m ever tempted into one of these places at all – and it tends to be an occasional West End treat, as soya milk is not the perfect dairy substitute – I choose EAT or Caffe Nero. As such, I was not au fait with the lingo in Costa. I ordered two large coffees, since a sitdown requires a leisurely amount of hot drink. The choice is between “primo”, “medio” and “massimo” (Costa did use to be a family-run Italian firm before Whitbread swallowed it up and turned its expansion into a military operation with maps and pins), so that’s what these were: massimo. Perhaps they should be labelled “fucking massimo.”

You might call it good value for money, but the massimo comes in a bowl, rather than a mug. It actually has two handles on either side! You’re looking at a pint of coffee. (Thank God for the froth on the cappuccino, although to cover it with sprinkled chocolate, you’re getting a bar’s worth.) I had to carry these cups to the table individually, for fear of breaking my wrist. Clearly, I should have checked the size of the cup before ordering, but this amount of coffee is insane, and would, I feel sure, cause great merriment in the cafes of Rome or Milan or Florence. After all, I wanted to drink it, not wash my clothes in it.

For a European chain, Costa has certainly taken American greed to its heart. Drink a massimo cappuccino and obey the law of the funny-shaped asymetric saucer and add one of the disgusting cakes or pastries and you’re halfway to obesity in one sitting. It’s little wonder this country is grinding to a halt.

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In 2001, I was dispatched by the Observer to write a piece about “futurologists”, that is, people employed by big companies to predict future trends. It was the last piece I wrote for the paper, after a good run of doing stuff about films and telly, because I interviewed three futurologists at great length, and they only used one of them. This is the cut and thrust of national newspapers, but I couldn’t be arsed. Anyway, one of them was Robert Clewley, 45, whose job title at Whitbread was, ahem, Director of Planning & Insight. (Such pretentious nomenclature was nothing compared to the self-consciously wacky types I met at Orange, whose chief strategist was called Executive Vice President of Strategy, Imagineering & Futurology, although on the door of his office it simply said “Future Boy”. He told me that AOL had a Vice President of Cool and a Director of Bringing in Cool People, and he wasn’t joking.) Anyway, Clewley, a man in a suit in a boardroom who usually worked in Dunstable said, “My team’s role is looking at the future, and what’s fundamentally changing in our industry. It’s a combination of science and crystal ball-gazing. I interpret our customers’ needs for the future. I would describe myself as a veteran of the hospitality industry. I’ve worked in strategic planning in the UK and overseas for Whitbread over the last 15 years. I’m one of the old boys of the industry.”

It was fascinating to meet him, and gain an insight into the corporate world, where how you say something is as important as what you say, until the line on the graph points downwards and you are sacked. A world alien to me. I asked him what an average day involved. “Managing my team, and through them developing better ways of listening to and understanding our customers. It’s also a key part of my job to identify where people will be spending their leisure time in the future.” I asked him if he was any good at his job. “I’m very good,” he replied. (There was another man, from corporate affairs, in the room with us, checking that he gave the right answers.) “I’m passionate about my job. It’s not all about analysis, a lot of it’s about intuition, being able to smell the right answer.” And there was his soundbite.

I only bring Mr Robert Clewley up because Whitbread had recently bought out Costa, and its acquisition represented job satisfaction for him: “We identified an opportunity in the marketplace, and bought a relatively small business from a very proud Italian man, Sergio Costa, who wanted it treating as far as possible as a family business. It took a long time to persuade him, but now we see Costa in 250 sites across the UK, and I can walk past every one of them and say, I started that!”

They now have over 300. Starbucks have 500 in the UK (out of a staggering 11,784 worldwide). Caffe Nero – est. 1997, so no family tradition there – have 270. EAT have 58, mostly in London. It was only after leaving Costa in Kingston, feeling like a bucket of milk on legs, that we noticed a small, organic coffee shop serving fresh smoothies. I’ll go there next time. Naomi Klein will be proud.

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