In the mid-1990s, I was facing the sack from my role as an admin assistant on the London Evening Standard's listings magazine. I wasn't particularly good at the job, and frankly, I was ready to move on. I craved a proper title, a real profession I could describe to people, rather than what a lawyer friend dismissively called "more of a trade." Was "journalist" even a tangible career path? The question gnawed at me as I awaited my disciplinary letter.
An Unexpected Invitation from the Main Paper
In the limbo between my latest workplace misdemeanour and inevitable dismissal, a saviour appeared from the main newspaper office. His name was Pete Clark – a colleague I'll name in full, as he has since passed away and would, I believe, have wanted the credit. Pete, then 43, asked if I, a 23-year-old, wanted to attend a party. It was merely the launch of a new bar, a commonplace event in 90s London, even on a Monday. To me, it felt as if the viscount owner of the paper himself had descended from a golden mountain to invite me to a ball.
When I asked why he'd asked me, Pete said I reminded him of Elmer, the patchwork elephant: "This great, big, maladroit thing, incredibly colourfully dressed." I wasn't insulted. It was clear Pete was someone who enjoyed a carnival atmosphere, surrounded by distinctive characters.
A Lawless Crew and a Surreal Scene
We arrived late and in force. Our motley crew included Pete, with his signature silk scarf; C, a walking disaster zone; M, the reluctantly shy; B, an unknowing supermodel; A, the early exit strategist; R, whose job was literally "bars"; two enigmatic figures whose day jobs remained a mystery; and me, the colourful elephant.
The bar was a quintessential, over-designed 90s venue. Every surface was a shiny, polished black – onyx or obsidian. Waiters wore head-to-toe black, and tinted copper-grey mirrors reflected back a version of yourself that looked vaguely sinister. The only beverage on offer was martinis.
But the centrepiece was utterly surreal: a giant cage suspended from the ceiling, inside which sat a large, black, feline creature. It couldn't possibly have been a panther... could it? A dyed snow leopard? A gigantic house cat? The ambiguity made the whole night feel dreamlike. The animal, intended as a symbol of elegance and decadence, just looked profoundly unhappy.
The Protest That Sealed My Future
Pete, a border terrier man and no particular cat-lover, was incensed. He decided the environment – noisy and smoky – was cruel for the caged creature. He berated the manager for the entire duration of our stay, championing the welfare of the unhappy animal while we finished all the martinis. We were a lawless bunch who loved a good time but drew the line at animal cruelty.
The next day, the bar called Pete's boss to report they'd found his credit card in the toilet, perhaps hinting at illicit activities. She simply laughed for half an hour at the idea that anything could besmirch his reputation. This reaction epitomised the world I had stumbled into.
That night was a revelation. I loved my work after that. Soon, a senior editor – magnificent, and thankfully still alive – plucked me from the listings department and placed me on the main newspaper. There, I discovered that beneath the long, grinding close of the 90s, was a real job after all: a daily carnival of freaks heading to the next party, and a profession I could finally name.
