I’m taking an extended period of time away from work to look after myself. In and of itself there is nothing shocking about this statement. But what has really struck me, in the last few weeks, as I have talked about my upcoming time off, has been the stark contrast in reactions, split between those who work in the industry and those that don’t. Those outside of the hospitality bubble have been very responsive and supportive, largely they have been understanding when I’ve explained the reasons behind my leave. The same cannot be said of some of my peers who have responded to my act of self care with bemusement and even derision. Their strange response has made me reflect on the toxic culture of hospitality work and the reasons why we are so eager to throw ourselves to the wolves. 

It was clear to me, near the end of 2024, that something had to change. A malignant brew of hospo December, problems at home and a health scare put me on the verge of slipping into a place I had promised I would never let myself get back to again. I was ready to throw the towel in on an industry I’d gone one too many rounds with. But after some soul searching I decided I didn’t want to leave at my lowest, just another broken body, chewed up and spit out by the hospo machine.

The bone grinding mechanisms of capitalism which see workers merely as resources to be depleted, are antithetical to an industry where being greeted by a familiar face is an integral part of the consumer experience. The archetypal ‘pub landlord’ is an endangered creature. Heartwarming stories of landladies retiring after decades longs stints behind the bar will become vanishingly rare in the coming years, as pubs are forced to operate under ever harshening financial restrictions, fostering harsher conditions for workers, in a system for which the body of the worker is nothing but a crude fuel, to be consumed by a machine, designed to consolidate wealth in the pockets of its operators.

What is especially curious about the hospitality sector is that a culture has been ingrained whereby we go to our fate not only willingly but with a sick pride. We are lambs to the slaughter, a twisted flock that would cross fields of broken glass just to fling our broken bodies into the jaws of our own demise. I am deeply disturbed when fellow workers brag to me about how they have not taken a sick day in three years, or how they haven’t had a day off in a fortnight. To some it is a badge of pride, a symbol of their martyrdom, but in reality it is nothing but a gross act of self flagellation. There is no pride to be had or glory won in proselytizing a culture which normalises substance addiction but stigmatises taking time off. 

We must strive to take better care of ourselves and each other. We must replace gross acts of competitive self-harm with radical acts of compassion. We must stand arm in arm against the destructive march of capitalism on the industry we love, and we must do so for the sake of not only ourselves but for the community spaces that will be lost, replaced by soulless McBoozers.

To evade such a dystopian future will require viewpoints that can only come from experience, to avoid recommendations via algorithm and pints pulled by automated systems, we will need the strong collective voice of industry veterans to resist, and remind us of the real importance of our third spaces. We need people with that kind of longevity to stop us from making the same mistakes again, custodians of a passion that has not been eroded away by years of substance abuse and self neglect. To achieve this we need to stop normalising acts of self destruction and glorifying self sacrifice. Our martyrdom does us no favours. We don’t need another hero.