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?
I wasn’t going to stay there after that. I needed to go home and regroup
with myself (and also have a stiff drink, and I wasn’t going to spend my money at that shithole). I would come back with a plan. Against all
odds, I was going to destroy them for their temerity. Finally, after
2000 years (because that’s when Jesus was around), David would instead triumph over Goliath.
I thought: how can I make such a nuisance of myself in that pub that all
the patrons will leave? I needed to do it in a way that was legal, so I wouldn’t be arrested, since goodness knows I’ve had enough trouble with that kind of thing lately. And then, viola! It hit me. I could just do a real-life version of what I do on uk.rec.cycling every day!
For those who don’t know, I perform a valuable and deeply fulfilling
trolling - sorry, I meant trollbusting - service on URC. Some years ago,
the group was invaded by those with an irritating habit of ably
challenging the intolerant, emotion-fuelled, and religiously-held
beliefs of we Bike Supremacists. One by one, as my most learned and
wonderful comrades got sick and tired of having their fragile egos and
delusion bubbles pierced, they ran away. But I - Simon Johnson Mason -
held firm throughout (except for a hiatus of a couple of years when I
had my “whoopsie” thing).
For a long while, I tried arguing with these bastards. But every time I
tried sneaking a lie past them, they called me on it. Every time I
pretended the goals of Bike Supremacism and road safety were,
conveniently, 100% aligned, my deceit was painfully and unequivocally
dissected there and then. So, I finally gave up responding to their
hateful facts.
But was I giving up entirely? Nein, non, nyet, as the Latins said! I had another way. A really, really clever way. I pretended to have written a
Google Groups killfile so no-one would ever suspect I’d only given up responding to them because I’d kept having my arse handed to me. And
then - this is the ingenious part - I *responded to myself* every time
one of them said anything. This was cunning in the extreme because it
meant that, on the rare occasions when I thought (wrongly, but never
mind) that I could refute something one of them said, I could “coincidentally” address their point while replying to myself.
I feel certain that no-one has ever thought of this innovative strategy
before (in fact, I tried to patent it once, but that’s another tale of
woe and unfairness). And now, in a logical move up, my trollbusting was
going to be conducted in “meatspace” for the first time. Live, it’s the Swldxer Roadshow, generously hosted without charge by Wankerspoons!
A great deal of my trolling - sorry, trollbusting - involves posting
stupid news articles from stupid websites, and stupid comments that
other stupid people have stupidly made. This is *not* because I can’t
think for myself, but because [NOTE TO SELF: Think of a way to end this sentence later]. So, I thought I’d print out a veritable silo of
semiliterate crap from road.cc, The Grauniad, The ‘ull Daily Mail, etc.
But then, I remembered my printer problem. Damn that virus. I don’t know
why I didn’t get rid of it years ago. I really, truly, super-dooper
don’t. I don’t know why I physically wrestled the computer off my f’ing wife when she tried to take it to a shop to get the virus removed when
she thought I was asleep. I don’t know why I then immediately bought a security cable for the computer so that she couldn’t take it anywhere
without my carefully hidden key. And I don’t know why I put a password
on so no-one could even use the computer without me being there.
Sometimes, things just happen.
So, back to the crayon. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote until my poor
little hand was having veritable spastics. I’d managed to write out two articles (but, like, REALLY long ones) and that would have to be enough.
I went back to the pube (see what I did there?), this time managing to
park across SIX parking spaces (I took a photo to see if it was a World
Record, but the lying bastards later said it wasn’t) and stole myself
for the task ahead. They weren’t going to know what hit them, the poor
dears. I put on my manky bowler hat, false beard, and novelty glasses so
the staff wouldn’t recognise me (and I’d look like a paedophile), and in
I marched. No turning back now!
Of course, I wasn’t going to spend a penny at that establishment come
what may. Given the Brextard in charge, that would have been like
donating to Rudolph Heimlich himself. But nor did I want to get thrown
out for not having a drink. Never fear: as ever, I had a cunning plan. I
would subtly grab an empty glass, nip into the gents, and viola! A glass
of tap water would be mine.
I entered that infernal den of bigotry and ignorance with much
trepidation, but I needn’t have been concerned. Other than a couple of patrons glancing at me, and then quickly looking away in disgust,
everyone ignored me. Pretty standard, I find.
The only (mostly) empty glass available was a rather sticky one, but
never mind: I wouldn’t actually be drinking from it. Like so much else
in my “life”, it was just for show. With seamless poise and purpose, I danced into the gents, and turned on the tap.
Nothing.
So, it was a choice between toilet water and, well, my water. Since I
was bursting anyway (nervousness, I suppose), and I didn’t want to carry round a glass of water that had been sloshing around a toilet used by so
many gammons, I decided the latter was preferable.
(A very clever and amusing thought occurred to me: “In order to avoid spending any money here, I’ve ended up spending a penny!” I was so proud
of myself for coming up with that gem. If people would only bloody
listen to me, they’d discover that I was full of such rapier-like observations. Still, that’s their loss, and I hope without the slightest hyperbollocks that they die horribly for their audacity. Such bastards
are responsible for everything that’s wrong in my life. Not that
anything is.)
I pissed for England (or rather for the EU, as I now suddenly say).
However, try as I might, I could only produce enough for an eighth of a
glass or so (it felt like there should have been a lot more, but I
couldn’t get it out…perhaps I should get that seen to).
This had to look real, so, in the end, I’m ashamed to say, I topped it
up with some water from the bowl. I mostly kept it off my hands, and at
least there was paper to wipe my hands and the sides of the glass
afterwards.
Now, at last, I was ready Freddie.
I stood in the middle of the room and loudly read out the first article,
from road.cc, about how everything would be better for everyone if all
car journeys were done by bicycle instead. At first, people tried to
ignore me, but then some scattered attempts at interjections came. I, of course, simply carried on reading more loudly every time someone else
dared to speak. Eventually - though it was hard work and I lost my place several times - I reached the end of the article.
On to the second article, from The Guardian, about how we hadn’t been
allowed to take advantage of Brexshit, and that proved it was a bad idea
all along. I had, naturally, replaced every mention of “Brexit” with “Brexshit”, and “Leaver” with “Brextard”. By the end of that article,
some people were looking a bit fed up, but most had patient smiles of
the “let’s indulge the fruitcake, just be glad we don’t have his problems” type.
These smiles mostly vanished when I commenced reading the first article
again. But why not? I repeat articles on URC all the time. On and on I
went; I lost count of the number of times I went round and round both
articles. The attempts at interjections, from both patrons and staff,
had become more forceful and I was struggling to talk over them.
And then: yet another sensational brainwave. I would just blow
raspberries every time someone tried to speak! (Again, this is analogous
to my critical philanthropy on URC, where my drivel frequently makes
zero sense and amounts to a vapid, snarling attempt to dismiss whoever
is disagreeing with me.)
Again and again, a gammon would start speaking some rubbish, but would immediately get cut down to size and cleverly put in their place by some first-rate Mason Raspberries! Most would give up in disgust at that
point, but those who carried on just got more raspberries, and more, and
still more, until they finally realised I was right and shut up! What
silly fun! I had finally found what I was put on this great flat Earth
to do!
Now, to my pants-wetting (not literally) glee, my targets were getting
pissed off. Now, I was making my point, whatever it was. Now, once
again, I was going to achieve positive change for my community and
mankind alike!
It was all going swimmingly, with one minor problem: my mouth and throat
were getting dry from all my public speaking. But that was OK: I had a
drink to hand.
Oh SHIT.
In all my sanctimonious excitement, I had forgotten.
What’s worse, I only remembered once I’d swallowed a huge gulp.
It was hideously vile. Worse than you could possibly imagine. Even worse
than the last time I’d done it (but let’s not go into that here).
The next moments are something of a blur. I went into an absolute
frenzied panic, spitting the disgusting, poisonous liquid out, and
writhing about on the floor, desperately trying to rid my mouth of every
last horrible molecule of that awful concoction. But this was made all
the trickier by my repeated vomiting; it must have looked like some kind
of exercisement. The vomit was getting all over my false beard, hat, and
silly glasses, and my clothes, and the floor. My enforced audience, of
course, were laughing like drains in pain. I felt, not for the first
time by any means, like I was the centrepiece of a freak show. It was
among the hundred greatest humiliations of my life, and that’s *really* saying something.
Now, they’d got me really mad. I wasn’t going to be beaten: never give
up, however much of a ridiculous, farcical fool you’ve made yourself
look. No: I was just getting started! Nilly illegitimate carbohydrate!
Up I stood, upon the table now like a sufferer jet, visibly shaking, and determinedly carried on reading, now shrieking at the top of my
increasingly hoarse voice. But I was so agitated that I could hardly
read at all (not that I really can in the first place). So, gradually,
my monologue turned into little more than a stream of angry, vicious
abuse, directed at my father and at those before me who had dared to
embarrass me when I’d done absolutely nothing to them. Foaming at the
mouth and wild-eyed, I was. Almost as ruddy as a gammon, I turned. But,
in a strange kind of way, I was enjoying it, almost like it was my
calling. Like God was saying “This is it for you, mate; this is as
famous and important as you’ll ever be, so make the most of it”.
And that is all I remember until, suddenly, I was waking up outside, in
a daze and with the back of my head hurting like hell.
It was getting dark now. I must have been out for hours. I let out a
miserable, almost animalistic groan; this was like a thousand hangovers
at once. It was as though every insufferable part of my miserable
existence had come back to haunt me at that moment. So many regrets (not
at my own behaviour, of course, but at the unfairness of others
preventing me from becoming what I should have). I had a very poetic
thought: “Dysphoria, thy name is Simon Johnson Mason”.
I slowly and unsteadily sat up. As the two-dimensional vistas seen by
each of my eyes finally combined to make some kind of sense to me (as
much as anything ever does), the first thing I saw was a police car that
was now parked outside. Hooray! This was my first break for what seemed
like forever. The coppers had obviously come here for what we in the
trade call “refs”, and they’d only be too willing to assist me following the many egregious violations that had been committed against me. (I’m
not saying I was literally violated while I was passed out; I think I’d
have known, and who on Earth would want to?)
I gingerbreadly stood up, collected my thoughts, and then bravely walked
back into the scene of my famous triumph, trying not to sway too much as
I did.
I recognised some of the faces from earlier. As each such person
recognised me, they grinned from ear to ear. I’ve never made so many
people smile before, but these were smiles of mendacity. Smiles of pure, unadulterated hatred. Disgusting, loathsome smiles which would soon be
wiped off their illegal gammon faces.
I boldly and defiantly blew several more punnets of raspberries at them,
and then I spotted the coppers looking at me. They seemed to realise I
wanted to talk to them, and continued to observe me coolly as I walked
over to their table. It seemed clear to them that I was a man who was to
be taking cereal.
This was going to be fun. Or so I thought.
Now, those who know me will be well aware of how articulate and coherent
I am with both my verbal and textural communication. This has served me
mostly well, mostly often. It was upon this that I now had to call once
again, but, due to those bastards laughing at me and my throbbing head
pain, I was not quite buzzing on all cylinders. As a result, the initial account I gave to the police was, I’m the first to commit, not all that
it could and normally would have been.
(Unfortunately, I’ve been dogged by a lifelong habit of choking when it really matters. For example, when preparing for my O-Levels, I was told
quite sincerely that I was one of the top hundred pupils in the country
for, like, every subject (even the ones I wasn’t taking). Sadly, when it
came to actually taking the exams, I had an off day when doing the
geography paper. And another when taking maths. And so on and so 3rd and
so 4th, for every single subject. And this terribly unfortunate and
unfair pattern has continued my whole life. I do really, really well,
except when it counts. That, of course, is the fault of others for
putting too much pressure on me. I have, in pint of fat, been
considering suing my former school, the relevant exam boards, and
hundreds of once-prospective employers for loss of the lifetime earnings
that are so rightfully mine.)
There were two coppers, but one was black and female, so I obviously
spoke to the other one (though I pretend not to have views like that
these days). Without either of them saying anything to me, I launched as
best I could into my description of the disgusting injustices I had
faced that day.
“They hit me in the head, the gammons, the back of my head, and that’s definitely illegal, and also he ignored my three letters which have
court backing and it doesn’t matter that they’re in crayon and I told
him I could do a citizen’s arrest but he, um, did the finger round his
ear which is hate speech, I mean hate gesturing, and they’ve got
murdering parking spaces, and also when I came in here people were
illegally laughing at me and I drank my own piss and also gammon toilet
water, but that doesn’t justify, um…”
The “proper copper” (the white man) didn’t look as surprised as I’d expected at my uncharacteristically frantic, garbled, and confused
account. Instead, in a calming but firm voice reminiscent of dealing
with a small child on a comedown from a tantrum, he simply said, “OK, Mr Mason. I need you to calm down. We’ll definitely take a statement from
you on what happened when you’ve collected your thoughts, but first, we
need to deal with the allegations that have already been put to us.”
Allegations? That could only be good news. Clearly, there had been
“silent supporters” of mine there in that Wankerspoons, in the same way
as many thousands of lurkers read and heartily agree with my amazing,
seminal posts on URC. Perhaps they, like me, were there to get this
illegal den of vice and hatred closed down! This had already been a good
day, but it was about to get a whole lot better!
But my mirrors were well and truly shattered by the next words to hit my
poor ears.
“Simon Johnson Mason, I’m arresting you for causing harassment, alarm,
and distress, for criminal damage, and for theft.”
WHAT?!
You’ve got to be KIDDING me!
It’s fair to say that I’d had enough at that point. I went mad. I kicked off. Every single injustice that I’d ever suffered during my wretched existence came surging back as I flailed and bawled and kicked and
screamed (and blew more raspberries). “It’s not fair! It’s not FUCKING FAIR! Are you a fucking Brextard as well or what? I’ll take you on one-on-one! I’ll take you all on at once, one-on-one! Get the fuck off,
you b**ck bitch! I’m dealing with the organ grinder, not the…” And so on.
Into the paddy-wagon I eventually went. Into a cell I was eventually
thrown. And, sure enough, when I was finally interviewed, two charges of assaulting a police officer (the second “racially aggravated”) had been added to the others.
But there was still hope. I could at least take care of those other
Mickey Mouse allegations. I said I didn’t want a solicitation expert (I don’t trust most of them, and I actually know the law better than they
do, as even Ted Nugent has grudgingly admitted). I was led into the
interview room by just the proper copper; I don’t know what happened to
the other one, but presumably she was fired for doing a rain dance or
listening to (c)rap “music” too loudly or something.
The officer proceeded to tell me that they had CCTV evidence of
everything I was accused of, and then proceeded to play me silent video
of my Famous Speech. To be fair, it did look deceptively like a drunken
old weirdo rambling on about nonsense, but that’s only because there was
no sound. (I am currently in the process of demanding the footage, which
I will put on YouTube along with my added in audio of what I was saying.)
As the footage proceeded, the officer pointed out my “offences”. By
simply speaking to people about important issues, I was apparently
causing them “harassment, alarm, and distress” (and he said that 31
people had made allegations of same!) When I took my fateful gulp, that
was “theft” (of toilet water, for goodness’ sake!) My repeated throwing up on the carpet was “criminal damage” (as if that kind of thing doesn’t constantly happen in a stupid gammon Wankerspoons anyway). Talk about
trumpeted up.
Well, I could contest all that nonsense in court (even though there was irrefutable evidence of me doing it). But what I was looking forward to
was finally finding out which bastard had hit me on the head from behind
and knocked me out cold.
However, the video ended just before that moment! The officer said the Wankerspoons staff had told him that the CCTV had conveniently stopped
working at that precise time. Furthermore, the above 31 people had all
made statements that, in my uncontrollable rage, I had fallen back from
the table I was bravely standing on and hit my head on the edge of the
table behind me!
There is no WAY that it happened like that. I mean, I don’t remember
what happened, but I know it wasn’t that. When you think of me, Simon
Johnson Mason, and all you know about me, does it seem even remotely
likely that I’d do something so hilariously stupid and self-defeating?
Anyway, this was still savageable. My motto has long been “‘Tis better
to screw both thyself and others, than for none to be screw’ed
whatever.” This is also known as “cutting off one’s nose to spike one’s face” (nothing to do with odious URC troll Spike, whose existence I
don’t actually know of). In other words, this could still be a most
joyous and worthwhile occasion if only I could drag others down with me.
And, I felt, I had *a lot* of shit on people.
The gammon Brextard copper, however, was less convinced. (In retrospect,
I shouldn’t have been surprised; police officers actually know very
little about the law, and certainly far less than your average
pseudolawyer like yours Julie.) Apparently, it was *not* in fact an
offence to ignore Important Legal Correspondence. Oh really, thicko? You
may feel differently once the PDC are through with you.
Having parking spaces: “Not a crime”. Laughing at my tedious bollocks: “Not a crime”. Making fun of the mentally disfigured by doing the finger round the ear thing: “Not a crime”. I really thought I’d found a way of exploiting a vulnerable minority for my own ends with that last one, but apparently not.
Oh well. I *will* be following up with the above. Once again, I will
update you as and when. And, once again, if I don’t update you again
then you certainly shouldn’t assume that it’s because I got absolutely nowhere.
At that moment, something suddenly occurred to me: why hadn’t the
bastards in Wankerspoons called an ambulance for me? The copper said
that they had, but one never turned up due to the paramedics’ strike.
The strike I supported as ordered to by The Grauniad. Oh dear: hoist
with my own retard.
But, but why did I come to outside? Apparently, Wankerspoons claimed I’d already come to inside, shouted incoherently at everyone, blown some
more raspberries at people, staggered outside, and then passed out
again, and that no-one, including the police, had seen me lying there.
Yeah right. Why was I bring treated like this? What had I ever done to
anyone to make myself so unpopular? And even if you dislike someone, you
should never deny them medical help if they need it; it’s not like I constantly wish that kind of thing on Scum Drivers and Scum Bikers (some
of them minors).
Finally, I enquired as to how the copper knew my name was Simon Johnson
Mason when he arrested me. He said I’m now well-known among all the
local coppers. Said I was “a character”. I chose to take that as a compliment.
So, my wonderful fans, that is the tale of how I took a pub chain to
court. It’s true that I didn’t manage to do so and that it’s actually me who’s being taken to court, but you’re well used to me lying about these sorts of things by now. The whole exercise was absolutely worth it; I
won. I made my point. Only weak people regret their actions or learn
lessons. And, if that Wankerspoons closes in 7 years, I will crow that
it was because of me (and Brexshit, of course).
The worst, cruellest ironing about all this is that when I got a taxi
back to Wankerspoons (it was cold again) to retrieve my car, it had six
of those private parking “tickets” on it (one for each space I was occupying). I’ll be asking on PePiPoo how to fight this outrage, despite
my naughty disdain for that site and others who use it. I’m not a pleb;
[continued in next message]
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