Alcohol and the Industry, by Jacob McCullough
Image via Yasin Arıbuğa.
Trigger warning: the following article discusses alcohol addiction and mental health issues. Long shifts and late nights are the norm for those in hospitality. This lifestyle, while unthinkable for some, does attract a committed and passionate workforce, but requires a certain mindset and level of personal sacrifice to maintain. For many, the cheap drinks and lock-ins seem to make it worthwhile, but there is a much darker truth lurking just below the surface.
I’ve been in the industry for my entire working life, spending more time behind the lights of a pass than I have in my own home. I’ve enjoyed a varied and exciting career, but it hasn’t come without its troubles.
As a naive teenager moving from one country to another, the world of hospitality seemed like an inviting one. It was a refuge for people like me, those that seemed to break the mould a little, that couldn't find their fit elsewhere. I started washing pots, then I started cooking - before I knew it, 70 hour weeks were a regular thing and my name had become ‘chef’.
Slowly but surely, my identity started to slip away. A decent night of sleep had become a luxury, free time was non-existent, my phone was constantly full of unanswered texts. Like many who climb the ranks of the industry, my life had completely succumbed to it. I would sleep, eat and breathe work.
Drinks post-shift became the regular. This was the only real time I had to decompress, the only time I felt fully comfortable in a day. It seems odd to me now that I would spend every shift looking forward to that 'staffie' at the end, counting down the minutes until it arrived at the kitchen door - but that was my life. That was my only reward. It would spark a chain reaction every night, that would lead to a heavy head every morning.
It's amazing how quickly something like this develops into a problem. It happens in the blink of an eye. A year down the line and I was still (somehow) functioning, but a total alcoholic nonetheless. Coffee wasn't coffee without a shot or two of whiskey, and my nights didn't end until either the drink ran dry or I stumbled back into work again, doomed to repeat this horrid cycle for years on end.
It's easy to see how this happens. It's so common in hospitality, in fact, that it's almost impossible to spot when someone's legitimately struggling and in danger of going too far. Being able to drink more than the person next to you becomes a badge of honor. Working longer hours than your friends becomes something worth gloating about. Knowing how to wrangle free beer, cheap drugs or an invitation to whichever lock-in is the rowdiest that night becomes your personality.
The industry as a whole seems to turn somewhat of a blind eye too. Employers continue to rely on staff to pick up slack, work unhealthy hours and live unbalanced lives in order for their venues to operate. There is little-to-no substantial or readily available mental health support either, and a lot of people are vastly under-educated on issues such as depression and addiction, leading to these problems sneaking below the radar for far too long. A frankly repetitive glorification of 'the industry lifestyle' also helps to stoke the fire and pressures those working these stressful hours to live up to some kind of ideal that ultimately offers no way back.
To contextualise this a little, The Burnt Chef Project - a fantastic organisation who provide support and education to industry professionals - state that 84% of hospitality workers have suffered at least one mental health issue during their career. This number is shocking enough, but it's even more so when you read that around 46% say they wouldn't feel comfortable talking to their colleagues or managers about it. These numbers serve to highlight two important points: that we have a mental health crisis in the industry; and that we still stigmatise it and create a culture of shame around it. It's not quite so surprising now that many people (including myself) have turned to forms of self-medication in order to survive.
There seems to be a notion (and a wrong one) that looking after your mental health isn't a legitimate enough reason to take some leave or request a day off. There is also a feeling that speaking up against workplace practices that might be negatively impacting yourself and your fellow colleagues, or that could be contributing towards unhealthy habits and routines, isn't your place. None of this is true.
So, what can we do to fix this? On an individual level there is a lot that can be done, starting right this moment. Keeping an open mind sounds cliché but is a major first step in dealing with this issue. Being open to having honest and potentially difficult conversations with friends and colleagues is the right start to breaking the stigma. Educating yourself on how best to support people, and also understanding how to support and care for yourself, is another key step.
On a larger, more systematic scale we need to see radical change though - and fast. As an industry standard, mental health support should be made available by employers, and seeking help when you need it encouraged. Four-day work weeks are becoming increasingly popular also, and offer a chance for employees to rest and recuperate adequately between shifts, as well as maintain healthy social lives and pursue hobbies that don't necessarily involve alcohol or being around booze.
For anyone who is struggling right now, or who knows someone who is, it does get better. I've recently celebrated one month of sobriety, and through a combination of self-care, speaking openly with friends and really focusing on what my mind and body needs, I've managed to develop a much healthier relationship with myself, my career and the people around me. It's an ongoing journey, but a worthwhile one. It may seem like a mammoth task, but small changes make a big difference, and collectively we can make it happen.
If you need support:
Samaritans - 116 123
Alcoholics Anonymous - 0161 839 2881
Jacob McCullough is a chef currently working in Manchester.