Growing up on a Battersea council estate, pubs were not a part of my life. As a Black youth, they were seen as places where aggressive white men would gather before spilling out onto the streets to harass people like me. My friends and I were more interested in music and meeting girls than drinking.
It wasn’t until I enrolled at the trendy Richmond College that I was introduced to pubs and bars as social hubs, rather than spaces for violence. Ironically, the most popular of these was the Dome, less than a mile from the estate where I grew up. That short walk across Battersea Bridge and down Beaufort Street felt like stepping into a different universe.
The Dome, with its unassuming exterior and central bar, was the epicentre of Thatcherite hedonism as I saw it. The coolest kids from our estate would mingle with the “wild children of the wealthy,” flirting and hearing about the latest parties. To me, it felt like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, but for attractive women. The Dome was my gateway to a world of middle-class people, and it completely changed my outlook on life.
On our estate, there was a divide between the “raggaes” and the “trendies” like my group. We were seen as the “weird, freaky boys,” too soft to bother with. But crossing into Chelsea, we went from being the outcasts to the “edgy, cool Black guys from across the road.”
Seeing the wealthy up close in the Dome not only expanded my horizons, but it also helped break down some of the mental barriers I had constructed. I’m still friends with many of the people I met there, and I’ve come to realise that “successful” people are just as flawed as my mates and I were back then. That lesson has served me well ever since.
