by 
After Wetherspoons declared its intention to reopen some of its pubs in June, die-hard patrons of its establishments have, within days, even minutes, of lockdown, recreated the ambience in their dank lifeless sheds, ensuring no need for the pubs to open again.
One former frequenter of the Undertaker’s Hearse in Deptford, and vehemently angry patriot, Simon Williams said, “My shed is my spoons now.
“It’s uncanny. I’ve got that familiar rustic eerie feel of a partially cleaned crime scene down to a tee.
“It’s all here. The soiled windows, the aroma of dry cleaning and beige food-based flatulence, and endless amounts of insipid liquid grot to chug on. I’ve even got a Victorian-era picture of a man beating a chimney sweep, propped up against drywall.
“I get to drink like a king like I used to, and when I mean king, I’m talking Henry V when the beer was mainly made out of donkey piss and peasant sweat, without even having to drag my sorry prejudiced arse anywhere.
“The atmosphere is also spot on, what with the constant sound of a weary bee trying to escape and the proper old school putting-our-small-minded-world-to-rights chat with my neighbour Dave from his own shedspoons.
“The volume levels are the same. I can’t understand half of what he’s saying, but we’re shouting the same shit about the country going to the dogs and grunt-nodding like always.
“On that note, it’s 3pm and my tongue feels like Gandhi’s flip-flop. Sounds like Simon-shedspoons is open for business. Time to hoist the St George’s flag, de-tin a Fray bentos pie and let the curmudgeonly times roll.”
