In the mid-1990s, I was on the verge of being fired from my role as an admin assistant for the listings magazine at the London Evening Standard. The truth was, I wasn't particularly good at the job, and my heart wasn't in it. I was preoccupied with finding a proper career—something with a title I could state with confidence, like "I'm a journalist." But was that even a real job? A lawyer friend had once casually remarked that they saw their work as a profession, while mine was more of a trade. The comment stung and lingered in my mind.
An Unexpected Invitation from the Main Paper
Somewhere between my latest workplace misdemeanour and the inevitable disciplinary letter, a colleague from the main newspaper extended a lifeline. His name was Pete Clark—I'll use his full name because he has since passed away, and I believe he would have wanted the credit. He asked if I fancied going to a party. It was no grand event, merely the launch of a new bar—a commonplace occurrence in 90s London, even on a Monday. To my 23-year-old self, the 43-year-old Pete seemed like an elder statesman, and his invitation felt improbably grand, as if the paper's owner had descended from a golden mountain to summon me to a ball.
When I asked why he'd chosen me, he replied that I reminded him of Elmer, the patchwork elephant: "This great, big, maladroit thing, incredibly colourfully dressed." I took no offence. It was clear Pete was someone who enjoyed a carnival atmosphere, surrounded by distinctive characters.
A Lawless Entrance and a Satanic Setting
We arrived late and in force. Our motley crew included Pete, with his signature silk scarf and a demeanour that switched from dandy to East End tough in a heartbeat; C, a walking disaster who considered an evening incomplete without self-inflicted injury; M, who was painfully shy but never said no; B, a supermodel who seemed oblivious to her own looks; A, who had a knack for vanishing just before trouble; and R, whose profession was simply "bars." There were others, too, permanent fixtures whose daytime occupations remained a mystery.
Our entrance caused a palpable shift in the room's mood, like a gang of ruffians blowing into a saloon in a western. The bar itself, however, was the epitome of mid-90s decadence. Every surface was a shiny, polished black—onyx or obsidian. Waiters were clad in black, and the tinted, coppery-grey mirrors reflected back a version of yourself that looked purely sinister. The only drinks on offer were martinis.
The Caged Panther and a Stand Against Cruelty
Hanging from the ceiling was a giant cage, and inside it was what could not possibly have been a panther. Was it an enormous black cat? A spray-painted snow leopard? To this day, I wish I'd investigated further, as the memory now feels dreamlike. Whatever it was, it was a living creature, intended as a symbol of elegance but instead looking profoundly miserable.
Pete decided this was no environment for an animal. It was too loud, and smoke was getting in its eyes—ironic, as we were the ones smoking. He wouldn't let it go, berating the manager who couldn't tell if he was serious. Pete wasn't even a cat person—he had border terriers—but he couldn't abide an unhappy creature in a cage. We stayed until the martinis ran out, with Pete needling the establishment the entire time.
The Aftermath and a Career Transformed
The following day, someone from the bar called Pete's boss to report they'd found his credit card in the toilet, presumably hinting at drug use. His boss simply laughed for half an hour at the idea that such an implication could besmirch his reputation. These were lawless people who cherished a good time but drew the line at animal cruelty. 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, every day could end in a carnival of freaks heading to a party. Underneath that chaotic, vibrant surface, I finally discovered, as the long 90s drew to a close, a real job and a true profession: journalism.
