No bugger can accuse me of mucking about. I’ve had a few months now to empty that soft (Irish) southerner Dalton Philips’ drawers into the rubbish and clear out all his monogrammed files.
If you want my opinion ‘DP’ (Google it) is as good a summary as any of what Dalton did to this company.
The list is bloody endless. Vegetable misters. Kiddicare. M Convenience. ‘Intelligent’ queue management. Holographic sensors to tell you if there’s anyone in the shop or not (answer: no, they’ve gone to Lidl). Greasing Ocado’s palm. Not stepping down and begging me to come in three years earlier. Unforgivable.
Now, you may not have noticed a radical turnaround in our fortunes on Super Thursday, but, believe me, the Potts effect is a ‘thing’, to use modern popular youth parlance. Naysayers will argue that £140-odd million in profits is not as much as last year’s £239m, and in some ways I’d have to agree with that.
But if I hear any more bloody journalists whining I’ll treat them to a special Tameside debriefing in the car park.
Truth is, while this great Northern business is still technically heading south, Higgy and I are resolutely turning it round before it goes west. By sacking 700 suits and taking on 5,000 NEETs, we are making a statement about the kind of business we want Morrisons to be, and as it happens we won’t be getting the bullsh*t treatment from Sir Ken, largely on account of how I got all my best ideas from a scrap of paper in his own block capitals I found nailed to the office door on day one.
Stick THAT in your boerewors, Christo Wiese.
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