Article Directory
You’ve probably seen the headlines. On a crisp Halloween night, with the Toronto Blue Jays on the cusp of their first World Series in three decades, an indie singer named John Vincent is slated to step onto the diamond at the Rogers Centre. The lights will dim, a hush will fall over 50,000 anxious fans, and he’ll deliver the U.S. national anthem—a moment of pure, unadulterated performance that had people asking Who is singing the national anthems for Game 6 of the World Series?
But on that very same day, another headline broke, this one from the cold, hard world of corporate finance. A different John Vincent, the co-founder of the fast-food chain Leon, was in the final stages of buying his company back from the supermarket behemoth Asda, a story that led to headlines like Leon founder buys back restaurant chain from supermarket giant.
And for a moment, the internet did a collective double-take. A singer, a base jumper, a businessman—the question echoed across social media: Who is John Vincent? Is it possible that the man serenading a global sports audience is the same one orchestrating a multi-million-pound corporate rescue mission?
The answer is no, they are not the same person. But the coincidence, the beautiful, chaotic collision of these two identities, gives us a far more interesting story. It’s a story about the soul of a company, the nature of creation, and the audacious act of buying back the very thing you once sold. When I first saw the two stories side-by-side, I honestly just sat back in my chair, speechless. This isn't just a business story; it's a parable for our times.
The Ghost in the Machine
Let’s be clear about what happened here. In 2004, John Vincent, along with Henry Dimbleby and Allegra McEvedy, started Leon with a brilliantly simple, almost revolutionary idea: to create fast food that was also good for you. It was a mission, not just a menu. They built a brand on a foundation of health, quality, and a kind of vibrant, optimistic energy.
Then, in 2021, the founders sold their creation to EG Group, the business of billionaire brothers Mohsin and Zuber Issa, for a reported £100 million. The company was later rolled into their supermarket chain, Asda. On paper, it was a success story. A small, mission-driven startup gets a massive payday from a corporate giant.
But something got lost in the transaction.
Henry Dimbleby, Vincent’s co-founder, warned just recently that the Leon brand was in danger of being “destroyed” under its new ownership. He claimed the company was abandoning its core principles—its very reason for being—in favor of becoming just another “cheap” and unhealthy alternative. The soul was being stripped out, replaced by the cold, efficient, and ultimately soulless logic of a massive retail conglomerate.
This process is called brand dilution—in simpler terms, it’s when a company forgets what it stands for in the first place. The Leon that was emerging under new management was becoming a ghost of its former self, a hollowed-out vessel that just happened to bear the same name. What does a brand even mean if the promise it was built on is broken? And what is the responsibility of a founder who watches their creation’s identity being erased?
Buying Back the Soul
This is where the story pivots from a tragedy to an act of incredible defiance. John Vincent didn't just stand by and watch his legacy get dismantled. He stepped back in and bought the whole thing back. The reported price, somewhere between £30 and £50 million, is a staggering 50-70% discount on what he sold it for just four years prior.
Now, a cynic would look at that number and see a failing business. I see the exact opposite. I see a corporation that acquired a beautiful, finely tuned instrument and had no idea how to play it, so they concluded the instrument itself was broken. They didn't understand that Leon's value wasn't in its property leases or its supply chain logistics; its value was in its mission. By stripping that away, they tanked the company's worth.
This buy-back is like an artist purchasing their masterpiece back from a collector who was planning to paint over it. It’s an act of preservation, of reclamation. It’s a founder looking at the thing he built, the thing that was being corrupted, and declaring, "No. Not on my watch." The audacity of it is just staggering—it means the gap between a founder’s original vision and the cold realities of corporate ownership can be bridged, that a company's purpose can be rescued from the jaws of pure profit-seeking.
This isn’t just about waffle fries and healthy salads. It’s a story that resonates with anyone who has ever built something—a piece of software, a community, a piece of art—and worried about what would happen to it in the hands of others. It reminds me of the early days of the internet, a time filled with utopian ideals of connection and knowledge-sharing, before so much of it was consolidated and commodified by a handful of giants. We’re constantly asking ourselves if it’s possible to reclaim that original spirit.
And here, in the world of fast food, of all places, is a resounding "yes."
The Soul Can't Be Sold
Ultimately, the confusion between singer John Vincent and founder John Vincent is a perfect metaphor. One stands in the spotlight, a public-facing performer for a fleeting moment. The other works behind the scenes, fighting a quiet, difficult battle to restore the integrity of a long-term vision.
The story of Leon's return to its founder is one of the most hopeful business narratives I've seen in years. It’s a powerful testament to the idea that a company’s purpose is its most valuable asset, and that the founders who instill that purpose are its most essential guardians. You can sell the shares, the buildings, and the brand name, but you can’t truly sell the soul. Sometimes, if you're brave enough, you can even buy it back. It leaves me with one final question for all of us: What is the core mission of what you're building, and how hard would you fight to protect it?