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How Living Above a London Pub Landed Me in a Drug Ring

Short on money and new to the city from Australia, I became a live-in “guardian” above a pub. The deal was free rent but you had to pour a pint every now and then. It was the dream living situation—or so I thought.
Photo via Flickr user Kurt

Welcome back to Restaurant Confessionals, where we talk to the unheard voices of the restaurant industry from both the front-of-house (FOH) and back-of-house (BOH) about what really goes on behind the scenes at your favourite establishments. This time, we hear about what it's like to live above a dodgy London pub.

When I first moved to London from Australia I was tattooing—learning to, at least. I moved fresh out of high school with fuck all cash, and freaked out a bit when I arrived and took a bed sit for 450 quid a month on City Road. I didn't really have a job, so I was washing dishes on-and-off, working as a prep cook sometimes, tattooing part-time, and cutting lines through the new abundance of cheap booze, drugs, post punk, black outfits, and all that other London shit you think is cool when you're young.

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After a couple of months, I realised that not working and spending money was not going well, and I was getting kicked out of the grotty betsit. I asked the pub next door if they were hiring. They weren't.

What they were offering was for a live-in "guardian." The deal was free rent but you would have to pour a pint every now and then, let the cleaners in every day, and agree not to go into the staff areas of the pub. Fucking sick! I had found the dream living situation. I was the only person outside of the middle class students who didn't have to pay rent. It was a teenage dream: four fucking bedrooms, two bathrooms, no deposit, no rent.

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It soon turned into some kind of hostel for fellow Australians, people who couldn't get cabs, people who could get cabs, and pretty much anyone who didn't mind living in a bit of filth.

As I lived alongside the locals (all four of them), I was sometimes asked if I knew people I had never heard of—the landlord, his mate's mate, and others that were supposed to be fundamental to the pub running. I also got asked to let the cleaner in at 3 AM. I late found out that he wasn't a cleaner but one of the people I had heard whispers about.

It was a teenage dream: four fucking bedrooms, two bathrooms, no deposit, no rent.

It all took off after the landlady got a new boyfriend. He was a legend: he could get free football tickets, would shout everyone beers, and was allowed to go anywhere in the pub—especially the places I wasn't.

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The boyfriend also loosened the place up a bit. I started raiding the pub kitchen at night because it had got to a point where I felt there wasn't any rules for staff, or their boyfriends. So obviously, I decided I was allowed to do whatever I wanted.

One night, I was stumbling home at 7 AM—I can't remember why. As I walked around the corner to the back entrance to the pub, I saw a flock of cop cars, a couple of ambulances, and my landlady flatted out on a stretcher. She had been thrown down a couple of flights of stairs by her sick cunt boyfriend so hard that the banister had been thrown completely off. It was pretty fucked up.

I spent the morning in a Euston hospital getting dirty looks from doctors and other respectable people.

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I later learned that no one was allowed down stairs because the "cleaner" was actually a delivery person—dropping kilograms of cocaine down to the basement, bin bags at a time. The landlady's boyfriend had figured this out and was probably a bit upset that he wasn't allowed to be a part of it. So he cut sick and beat the shit out of her. The cops figured all this out too, mainly because the landlady was so beat up but didn't want to press charges.

I lived there for about two months after that. I don't know why. Actually I do: I still had no cash behind me and couldn't afford to move out. The landlady was super cool when I left, we still chat sometimes. I actually still see homeboy boyfriend around, too. The pub isn't open anymore, it's a off-licence-supermarket thing now.

My parents still don't know any of this happened, even though I had to borrow some cash to move out.

This article originally appeared on MUNCHIES in March 2016.