Given the festivities ahead, the sparkles and the trees, the hymns and the merriment, the exaltations and the joy, it feels fitting to focus on the latter. Primarily a woman who shares a namesake with this. My arch nemesis, Joy.
Now, I have many an enemy, and they often fall into one category: Posh white boys. They and I simply do not get along. I was raised working-class, in Dalston, Turkish being my primary language, and rugby and cricket being my least favourite sports. Rough around the edges, hustling from age 11 selling hair gel to people at the playground. Private schools and fox-hunting families – I just don’t fully get.
Moving on.
Joy is an exception. First of all, she is a woman. She’s older, probably late 40’s. She’s black. All my other enemies are spoilt white men in their late 20s who either used to work for me, or who I met on a night out and hated with every fibre of my being. How did Joy and I meet? Why is she my enemy? What do I have against a person from East London, a fellow person of colour from Hackney who I would ordinarily automatically gel with, and try and support? Am I a bigot? Am I misogynist? Now I own and run a restaurant, do I punch down on those less fortunate than myself? Am I Kemi Badenoch?
I hope not. I don’t think I am.
I fucking hate Joy. Even typing this sentence, the irony of her name and the elation and glee it’s supposed to bring, and the opposite effect she has on me, on all my staff, on all my customers, I fully recognise the outlandishness of it all.
Joy is a drug addict. Now, if I were to harbour a guess based on my own experiences with my own drug-addicted family members and my exposure to their manic behaviour and threatening ways, I would assume she is addicted to crack. My cousin is too. And I see a lot of similarities in their erratic movements, their aggressiveness, and tone. He threatened to kill me for years, to the point where I filed a restraining order against him and had to go through the ordeal of attending Westminster Crown Court to testify against him after a lifetime of verbal abuse and threats. So, I am quite triggered by forceful, dangerous drug-addicts entering my space, my home, my Mangal II.
On average, around 3 times a week, Joy will barge into my restaurant unannounced right when the space is full and customers are all inside, dining and trying to enjoy their evening. She waits around the corner for the most opportune moment where no wait staff are tending by the entrance door and bursts inside screaming, yelling. This person is *LOUD*, to an extent where I’m certain outside her mental health condition and addictions, she could be an opera singer, a soprano.
“GIMME A PAAAAAAAAND!” she will klaxon out of her gullet, bringing the whole dining space to a standstill.
“FUCK!” my staff and I will respond, rushing to the door to escort her out.
But she’s quick, very quick. She’ll force her way between two sets of sitting tables and position herself wedged fully in the middle, refusing to leave or move. To forcibly drag her out of the premises is out of question. I don’t want to manhandle a woman, however dangerous her movements and intentions, out the door. I’m not a bouncer, and I am not in the business of physically harming people. Talking to Joy is of no help. She will not leave until someone pays her. Pleading with her? Well, I’ve tried that. In fact, I still try it, out of sheer desperation, despite knowing how fruitless my attempts will be. I beg “Joy, please can you go outside, you’re upsetting everyone. Please? PLEASE. Fuck’s sake, Joy, come on now please go. Joy, you do this all the fucking time, PLEASE?!”
And Joy’s unrelenting. “I WAN’ TWO PAAAAND.” Yes, her price has now gone up. It’s now £2, rather than a measly £1. Every second counts. She’s a master negotiator, is our Joy. Knowing the awkwardness her arrival brings to the floor, the discomfort she causes amongst dining guests, the strong position of power she holds in that very moment, she could ask for the kitchen sink and I would gladly provide it for her (hoping it is a literal request and at full speed aimed at her head).
I read this back and come across as a bit of prick. Perhaps I am, but know this: I provide for many drug addicts here at Mangal II. They respectfully wait outside the front of the restaurant, lock eyes with me to catch my attention, and wait for my nod of approval. I meet them outside and hand them £2. It’s a ritual that I share with 3 separate individuals multiple times a week. What a drug addict spends money I’ve handed over on, it’s none of my concern. Am I perpetuating an addiction with my handouts? Maybe, but it’s through no malice. It’s cold and shit out there. No one is born wishing to be an addict. And no one would prefer to be one if there was a magical light switch to turn off that itch, that destabilising *need* for harmful substances.
Joy’s backstory is a mystery to me. Deep down, I do not hate her. I feel sad for her. Sad that this is her life, her daily reality. She goes from restaurant-to-restaurant; pub-to-pub, across East London. Many of you will comment under our Instagram post attesting to knowing Joy and all about her awful behaviour, and how much grief she’s caused over the years. Many will share stories, and trauma bond. See, Joy is a menace. Once she enters a premises, it takes a lot to get her out. And she will scramble from table to table, leaning over sitting guests and scream in their face demanding money. Spit will fly from her mouth to anything within its vicinity. She’s made 2 grown women cry here in the last 3 months. She stops people eating. She stops conversations. She stops the world. Then, someone will hand her money. She will nonchalantly depart as if nothing happened. Voice decibels muted. Calm movements. Strolling out as casually as a neighbourhood cat who just got fed. With Joy, it feels like all an act.
Is it all an act, though? Well, I feel she has nailed on the performance of disturbing the peace and attaining to her goal – getting money. But then I see her slapping her head very forcefully. I see her at the bus stop in Dalston Junction talking to herself. I see her lost eyes, and I know there is irrefutable damage there.
And I think of Christmas. Of giving. Of charity. Of forced “joy”. I look outside to the storm, the rain, the cold nights, and how hard it must be to hustle every evening going from business-to-business knowing everyone working there hates you, and every customer there will be scared of you, and how much terror one person can bring to this pocket of London. She is our Jack the Ripper. She is our Osama Bin Laden. She is our nightmare. Yet she still is a person. One of many across London who struggle with mental health, and substance abuses. Who the state fails to protect, and to protect from. I used to call the police when Joy used to come in, only to realise it was all in vain. They never arrive. They make me file lots of reports. They exhausted me with their questions and lack of actions, only for me to experience the same horrors the next day.
Joy isn’t just my problem. She is Hackney’s. There’s a Joy everywhere, not just in Mangal II. You all know a Joy. And in this cashless age, very few of us carry the coins they crave. She’s the reason we have a latch on our door, which we now use to keep the inside locked to ensure customers’ safety. It quite literally keeps the wolf at the door and not inside it. In the absence of community workers, of protection, of a council who only cares about dishing fines and collecting money, we have to police ourselves and protect the dining public.
Anyway, she’s not been in for 10 days. 5 years ago, Joy was a regular presence. Then, 3 years ago, she disappeared for 2 years, only to return this past year. I’m hoping she’s gone again, under state care, being rehabilitated. Now that would bring me joy.