Wetherspoons shares skyrocket despite Remoaners’ mass boycott of pub chain

Whilst some of the anti-Wetherspoons rhetoric was considered vitriolic by
some, there were others who quickly jumped to its defence.

By CHRISTOPHER SHARP

Wetherspoons shares have skyrocketed despite an attempt by Remoaners to
boycott the pub chain.

There had been attempts by Remoaners to try and scupper the popular pub
chain after its founder Tim Martin announced he was pro-Brexit.

However, the plan has failed as new data shows shares in the chain of pubs
and restaurants have skyrocketed.

Euro Guido reported that shares in Wetherspoons had risen over 40 percent
alone in 2023.

This isn’t the first attempt by Remoaners to topple the chain since Mr
Martin declared he was pro-Brexit.

[Full story at the link below]

<https://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/1801783/Brexit-wetherspoons-shares-skyrocket-covid>

--
Spike

On 14/08/2023 11:37 am, Spike wrote:
>
> Wetherspoons shares skyrocket despite Remoaners’ mass boycott of pub chain
>
> Whilst some of the anti-Wetherspoons rhetoric was considered vitriolic by
> some, there were others who quickly jumped to its defence.
>
> By CHRISTOPHER SHARP
>
> Wetherspoons shares have skyrocketed despite an attempt by Remoaners to
> boycott the pub chain.
>
> There had been attempts by Remoaners to try and scupper the popular pub
> chain after its founder Tim Martin announced he was pro-Brexit.
>
> However, the plan has failed as new data shows shares in the chain of pubs
> and restaurants have skyrocketed.
>
> Euro Guido reported that shares in Wetherspoons had risen over 40 percent
> alone in 2023.
>
> This isn’t the first attempt by Remoaners to topple the chain since Mr
> Martin declared he was pro-Brexit.
>
> [Full story at the link below]
>
> <https://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/1801783/Brexit-wetherspoons-shares-skyrocket-covid>

This calls for a reiteration of:

MASON – The Activist:

Remember, dear reader: I always win. Other intelligent people do not
screw with me; in fact, they are wise enough not to acknowledge my
existence most of the time. This exhilarating tale provides just one
example of why that is.

I have the misfortune of having to pass a local Wankerspoons pub quite
often. Said pub chain is, of course, chaired by arch-Brextard Tim
Martin. Quite why he’s still allowed to have a pub chain, or be in the
UK, or retain his liberty or even his life after all his racism,
cheating, and lying is a mystery to me, but then oh-so-many things about
this crazy ol’ world are.

Any-hoo-ha, I decided that since I love the EU so much (even if I still
can’t explain why in my own words), I would do my bit for it by causing
some trouble for the aforementioned pub, with a view to eventually
forcing its closure. This, of course, would infuriate the local
community, but they’re mostly gammons who are beneath me, a definite
non-gammon, so anything that upsets them is indubitably A Good Thing.

I had set my sights on this hate-shack, and I was not going to be detergent.

So, I thought to myself: What is usually my first port of call when I
want to do a bit of shit-stirring? What has long been my go-to excuse
for being an interfering, pathetic annoyance? Why, road safety, of
course (or rather the bastardised, corrupted version of it that is
wielded as a weapon by self-serving totalitarians against the
respectable majority whom they hate with every fibre of their being)!

What could I find to complain about? Well, this Wankerspoons was an
out-of-town one on a busy A-road. It was probably an old coaching inn:
up-and-coming professionals like me, before we were rich and could
afford our famously luxurious European getaways, would instead book
coach trips which would take us to a different coaching inn each day, at
which we would sit drinking all day before staying the night. Believe
me: it was even more fun than it sounds, as my wife will readily agree!

(I had to stop going on such trips in the end because of a remarkable
run of bad luck: invariably, by the third or fourth stop of each and
every trip, the coach would accidentally leave my wife and me behind. In
fact, the last time, it was just me who was left behind. I absolutely
believe my wife when she said she didn’t notice I wasn’t there. Given
that a roll call was always taken before departure, someone must have
misheard my name as theirs and answered that I was there, and every
single other person must have not noticed the foul-up. It simply must
have happened that way; what other possible explanation is there? I
guess no-one on that coach was thinking straight, what with them all
accidentally departing several hours early at 6am, well before I’d
awoken from my Carling-soaked slumber.)

But I divest. This pub, as you might expect, had a large c*r park. This,
I thought, would have some mileage (clever pun intended). Like anyone
else, I have never been to a pub without drinking so much that I was at
least six times the UK drink-drive limit. In other words, by having such
a large car park, this disgusting and deeply offensive establishment was
directly responsible, legally speaking, for mass-murder.

This was a situation up with which I would not put. The only acceptable
solution was to remove all car parking spaces and replace them with
cycle parking. If people were too lazy to cycle several miles up a hill
to go to the pub then oh dear, boo hoo, the pub would just have to
close, not my fault. I was just trying to save people’s lives; I wasn’t
trying to cause trouble in the slightest! (Oh, hang on…I’ve already
admitted to you that that’s exactly what I was doing. Oh well.)

What I really wanted to do was send a solicitation expert after the
bastards, but the millions of pounds I totally have is all in highly
interesting savings accounts and thus not available for many months.
Never mind: I would do it myself! I have picked up extensive legal
knowledge from Usenet; people often tell me how impressive it is. So,
off to work I went!

I knew the first step would be what we know in the trade as a “seize and
resist” letter. I spent many hours drafting and perfecting this
masterpiece in the Computer Room, but then, when I tried to print it, I
remembered that the bloody printer was broken. (The computer had had a
virus for many years whose sole “symptom” was the frequent and
unsolicited printing out of pictures of large black men; I think all the
dark colours finally proved too much for the printer, especially since
the men tended to be so scantily-clothed.)

This was not a problem. I reasoned that a handwritten letter would be
more “real” anyway; it would show I meant business. Also, I was eager to
show off the joined-up writing (technically known as cursing script)
that I’d recently learnt how to do.

Unfortunately, finding a suitable pen proved trickier than I had
imagined. After an exhaustive and exhausting search, all I could lay my
hands on were a green pen and a yellow crayon. I didn’t want to use
green ink in case I was mistaken for a Daily Fail reader, so the yellow
crayon it was. You’d be surprised how well it actually contrasts with
white paper.

I had read somewhere that it’s best to send the same letter three times
when you really want to make a point, so I used Old Yeller to write out
three copies of what was on the screen. I did really well, only having
to cross out and rewrite one or two words per paragraph, and my writing
got neater as I went on (though I did have to abandon the cursing
experiment, not because I couldn’t do it, but because it was hurting my
hand).

And then, I had a brainwave. I’m quite good like that; I often have
clever ideas which improve in some way upon what others have thought of
before. I thought: why send the three copies of the letter separately?
If I put all three copies in the same envelope, then it will have
maximum impact, like a new killer bomb, and (here’s the best bit) it
will save on postage *and* envelopes! I was so proud of myself after
coming up with that; it’s these flourishes of ingenuity which really
make my life still worth living.

Off the letter(s) went (I even remembered to stick on a stamp, which I
don’t usually), and then I waited with bated breath for the response.
And waited. And bloody waited. Running downstairs (I don’t live in a
bungalow) in my dressing gown when I spotted the postman, only to slink
angrily back upstairs when the anticipated missile once again hadn’t
arrived, became a daily ritual (as did snapping at my f’ing wife for the
rest of the day). It was only after a good 6 months of this that the
possibility first occurred to me that they might simply have ignored my
correspondence, and that was a BIG mistake on their part. Now, I was
really mad. Now, they had awaken a passed-out giant.

I drove to the pub (I couldn’t fairy-cycle because it was cold), parked
across three of the spaces I wanted removed, and marched in there
(having practised my “angry face” for half an hour in the rear-view
mirror; I must have been convincing because some woman and her kids ran
away when they saw me). I confronted the girl behind the bar; she didn’t
even know who I was or what letter I was referring to! I demanded to
speak to the manager; he made the same claims (though I’m sure he was
lying).

After I filled him in on the situation, and pointed out that I could
perform a citizen’s arrest on him there and then for ignoring my legal
correspondence, he said “Oh yeah, that stuff that was in crayon” (as
though that was what was important!). He then smiled, said he’d be back
in a minute, and asked the girl to go out the back with him.

I could see them talking through the glass panel in the door, and that
is when I saw something that made me truly apopperplectic. The manager
had the nerve to make the “finger round and round the ear” motion. Can
you believe that? What is the world coming to? Where is the respect?