Staff Legends

My people – in the trenches, behind the bar, on the frontlines of chaos.

Let me tell you something they don’t write in the guidebooks: hospitality doesn’t run on mission statements or point-of-sale systems or bullshit artisanal bitters. It runs on people—beautiful, flawed, erratic, wildly lovable people. And over the years, I’ve been lucky enough—or perhaps stupid enough—to surround myself with some of the best.

This isn’t some sanitized love letter to the staff. This is the truth. A messy, hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking ledger of the souls who stood next to me when the music was too loud, the floor was too sticky, the customers too drunk, and the hope too thin.

First, there’s Paddy Daly.

Jesus. Paddy. A man who walked into my life like a crash landing and never left. I found him, or maybe he found me, on MySpace of all places—a band called The Uncomfortables from Preston. They played a gig to no one but me, and they were bloody brilliant. I stayed in touch, offered them a couple dates, part of a half-baked DIY tour. Van broke down, my car went missing, we were a mess of post-divorce sadness and hangover logistics—but in that boozy, sleepless weekend, I offered him a spare room in my place.

A throwaway drunk line. “You ever wanna move to Bristol, come stay with me.” Three months later, he rang to say he was en route.

I barely knew the guy.

He moved in anyway. And when my first bar manager—who I’d built the Ruin with—imploded in a spectacular ball of resentment and late-night angst, I looked at Paddy. He’d done a few shifts, proven himself not just competent, but committed. Loyal. I gave him the bar manager job, and eventually, handed him 15% of the business.

Fifteen percent of everything. Just like that. Because fuck it. The man earned it.

A few years later, that 15% turned into 50%. And now, we’re equal partners in everything we do.

When things got rough—like, “we might go bust because of a shit deal with Enterprise Inns” rough—he stayed. I told him he could walk. He didn’t. “Can’t have the good times without the bad,” he said.

That’s a business partner. That’s family—real family, not the crap they put on HR posters.

But Paddy wasn’t the only one. There were dozens—characters who wouldn’t survive in a corporate boardroom, but could run a bar during a full moon in a riot.

Vanessa. Useless behind the bar, let’s be honest. She’d admit it herself. But my god, she was funny. Drove to Morrison’s in a kangaroo costume and lost her license. Had no filter, no sense of timing, and absolutely no shame. But she brought joy. And joy’s in short supply when you’re washing pint glasses at 3 a.m.

Cedric. A Frenchman straight from the fucking fields of rural France. Smelled like barn and bad ideas. Argued with my first wife—told her, “Women like the scent of a man.” But he’s the reason we ever put live music in The Mother’s Ruin. He fought for it. Put on bands like Monotonix, dragged the spirit of punk across our sticky floors. Without Cedric, we’re not the Ruin. We’re just another bar.

There was the girl who escaped the Children of God cult. Fragile, haunted, sweet as hell. You meet people like that in this industry—people running from something. You don’t fix them, you don’t save them, but you offer a little shelter and a lot of drinks.

Then there’s Milo Brennan. A singular freak of the highest order. Took us to a derelict pub once for an after-party—pitch black, hole in the floor that dropped three stories. We danced over the void like it was a goddamn ballroom. Could’ve died. Didn’t. One of the best nights of my life.

Charlie Wilson. Hardest 18-year-old I’ve ever met. Came to a trial shift with a broken foot. No excuses, no moaning. Just grit. Said what she thought, and god help the punter who disrespected her.

And then the stalwarts. Martin. Still with me after 12, 13 years. He’s part of the furniture now. Mike in the kitchen—hospitality lifer, wears the scars like medals. These are people who don’t do it for the glory. They do it because it’s what they do.

These people—this chaotic tribe of bruised souls and barroom philosophers—weren’t just staff. They were my crash pad, my therapy, my co-defendants. When I was going through my divorce, spiralling, these were the ones who kept me tethered to the Earth. They pulled me into their world and made space for mine.

And without all that—without every misstep, every shot of Jäger, every lock-in—I wouldn’t have met the love of my life.

My wife, April.

She didn’t work for me. Not exactly. But she lived with Vanessa. Was part of the crew. Worked at The Old Duke—another Bristol legend. We orbited each other for years like two cats in heat and denial. Finally, one night, something flipped. The magnets aligned. We stuck. 12/12/12 we got together. 12/12/22 we got married. Number two is my number now. It’s the number of every good thing that’s ever happened to me.

I tricked her into our first date—pretended we were going out for sushi with “some mates.” There were no mates. Just me and her. And thank fuck for that.

She went to America. I followed. She came back. And we’ve been together ever since. Built a family. Built a life. We now have two beautiful kids of our own, and every one of my businesses, every one of my wins, is in some way a ripple effect from that wild hospitality crew we were both part of.

But there were more—more that helped, more of them that carried me through everything, knowingly or not.

Kat.

Chris Wright, the wonderful illustrator who goes by Turbo Island.

Kai, the fastest bar staff in the West.

Howley.

Boggy.

Leo.

Orion.

And Frank and Meg—my kids from a previous relationship. Grown now, and working in the business. They’ve seen it all, lived through more lock-ins than most, and are still here, part of the fabric.

And many, many more. Too many for one post, but all burned into memory like neon signs on foggy nights.

So yeah. Hospitality. This grubby, sleepless, intoxicating, heart-breaking business.

Without it, I’m nothing.

Without Paddy. Without Vanessa. Without Cedric and Milo and Charlie and all the ghosts who passed through my bars. Without The Mother’s Ruin. Without the lock-ins. Without the chaos.

No love. No life. No story.

So if this post is a love letter to anything, it’s to them. All of them.

They were never just staff.

They were my salvation.