The dastardly Mr Deede's Big shot of the week
WHEN you think of the traditional pub landlord, chances are you’ve conjured up images of a booming, avuncular sort, foaming pint of mild on the go, his well-worn belt buckle straining at the lowest notch.
From behind the pumps, he may, from time to time, proffer a few forthright views which Chablis-sipping metropolitan types would probably consider unsound.
If so, then you’re not a million miles off Tim Martin, ruddy-cheeked boss and founder of JD Wetherspoon, a pub chain which, if not currently on a High Street near you, is almost certainly on the way.
Our Tim, 61, is brash, beery (Abbot’s ale please, squire) and endearingly bonkers. At 6ft 6in and 17- odd stone, he’s a hard man to miss with his toothy grin and mangled Northern Irish/Antipodean diction which might easily be taken for an affable West Country burr.
Nor is he short of an opinion or two. Recurring beefs include drinks giant Diageo (‘A bunch of morons’) The living wage (‘unrealistic’) and politicians (don’t even start).
Particularly getting on his wick of late have been Remain supporters (‘Mystic Megs who can’t see the wood from the trees.’)
This week, Martin took aim at EU president Jean- Claude Juncker, whom he accuses of trying to bully Britain over Brexit negotiations. If thirsty Juncker and co refuse to play fair, he’s vowed to stop serving any Continental products in his boozers.
Is he bluffing? Don’t let that cheery exterior fool you. Martin’s as stubborn as a mule with a hangover.
Following a price disagreement in 2014 with Diageo while opening his first pub in Ireland, he refused to serve Guinness. In Dublin!
THERE are 956 Wetherspoon pubs in Britain, turning over £1.6bn and totting up profits of £44.8m That’s no mean feat in a market where thorny issues such as the smoking ban, hefty taxes and dirtcheap supermarket grog have done their best to encourage drinkers to do their tippling at home.
Along the way, Martin has amassed a personal wodge estimated at £254m, though to say he wears his fortune lightly is a bit like saying Nigel Farage enjoys the occasional snort of dry sherry.
Scraggly and unkempt, his wardrobe is a collection of moth-eaten polo shirts the missus might well have ordered from a C&A catalogue sometime last century. His silver mane is coiffed into a wafty mullet which wouldn’t be out of place in a Match Of The Day studio circa 1976.
There are no flashy motors, yachts or private jets chez Martin. He rattles about in a duffed-up Volvo estate. An ideal holiday, he says, is a trip to Cornwall, near his home in Exeter.
He enjoyed playing squash and tennis before suffering a back niggle some years ago, but otherwise describes his biggest extravagance as his wife of 40 years, Felicity, ‘and even she’s a bit mean’. They have four grown-up children, and before you ask, no, they will certainly not be inheriting their old man’s hardearned fortune.
Born in Belfast, his father worked in marketing for Guinness. Since his pa’s job spanned the globe – moving to such far afield places as Malaysia and New Zealand – Martin attended 11 different schools.
After studying law at Nottingham University he moved to London to study for the bar exam where he began frequenting a pub called Marleys in Muswell Hill. The owner was selling and Martin stepped in, flogging his nearby flat, and changing the name to Martin’s. Soon afterwards he had to eject some rowdy patrons, which reminded him of a weedy teacher Down Under called Wetherspoon, who was hopeless at controlling unruly pupils.
HE ADDED the JD after one of the characters in 80s TV show The Dukes Of Hazzard. JD Wetherspoon was born.
Due to the decline of the High Street, he began snapping up ornate buildings in busy areas. And as he expanded, he was able to keep cutting prices. By the time the firm floated in 1992, it had grown to 44 pubs.
Martin’s formula of friendly bar staff, simple food and cheap beer hasn’t pleased everyone. He divides opinion among our hirsute chums at the Campaign For Real Ale. While some applaud his strict ban on fruit machines and music, others say his relentless expansion has squeezed out traditional locals.
Some also murmur, sotto voce, that Weatherspoons cheap-as-chips prices attract the wrong sort of customer, if you catch my drift.
He also enjoys a rivalry with Rooney Anand, pocket-sized boss of Wetherspoons’ main competitor Greene King. Delhi-born Anand, 52, has reportedly expressed a wish to meet in the boxing ring. I think I know who my money’s on.
As this week’s delightful EU-bashing reveals, Martin is in no mood for mellowing. Earlier this year he suggested his empire could eventually extend to 1,500 pubs. Barmy? Quite possibly.
But then publican Martin doesn’t do half-measures.