In the mid-1990s, I was adrift. Working as an admin assistant for the listings magazine at the London Evening Standard, I was both incompetent and disenchanted, certain a disciplinary letter was imminent. The role felt meaningless, far from the 'proper job' I craved—one with a title like 'journalist' that commanded respect, not condescension from lawyer friends who saw it as a mere trade.
An Unexpected Invitation from a Colourful Character
Just as my professional demise seemed assured, an unlikely lifeline appeared. Pete Clark, a writer from the main newspaper, asked if I fancied a party. It was the launch of yet another bar, a standard mid-90s weekday occurrence. At 23, I was flattered this 43-year-old veteran had noticed me. When I asked why he'd asked me along, he said I reminded him of Elmer, the patchwork elephant: "a great, big, maladroit thing, incredibly colourfully dressed." I took it as a compliment.
A Lawless Entourage and a Satanic Bar
We arrived mob-handed, a carnivalesque crew. There was Pete with his silk scarf; C, a magnet for chaos and self-injury; M, the silently shy; B, the unknowing supermodel; A, the early exit strategist; R, for whom bars were work; and a couple of enigmatic others. Our entrance caused a stir, like outlaws blowing into a saloon.
The bar itself was a temple to 90s noir: all black surfaces, coppery-tinted mirrors that reflected a more sinister version of yourself, and waiters dressed in funereal black. Martinis were the only drink on offer. But the centrepiece was bewildering: a giant cage suspended from the ceiling, containing what was purportedly a panther. It may have been a dyed snow leopard or a vast domestic cat, but its presence was unmistakably real—and miserable.
The Unhappy Panther and a Professional Epiphany
Pete, a border terrier man, was incensed. Amid the noise and cigarette smoke (which we were generating), he fixated on the animal's plight, berating the bemused manager for the entire evening. We stayed until the martinis ran dry, a band of misfits united by a desire for a good time and a shared distaste for cruelty.
The next day, when the bar called Pete's boss about a credit card found in the loo (a weak attempt to imply drug use), she simply laughed. These were lawless people, but with a moral core. That night crystallised everything for me. Soon after, a senior editor moved me from listings to the main paper. I had found my tribe and my profession: a real job where every day could end in a carnival of freaks heading to a party.
As the long 90s ground to a close, I finally understood. Underneath the chaos and the patchwork elephant comparisons was a career I could proudly name.
