The boss used to say “are you making me rich, bitch?”
Way, way back in the day, when Kings Cross’ Granary Square was still an idea on paper, and swanky Coal Drop Yard was still Bagley’s, a club where I’d raved away nights and early mornings, stood a dark, and dirty bus depot, which was also home to a photography studio.
I was hired by the creative lead, but when I arrived I realised it was run by two ‘interesting’ characters: one vertically-challenged chap with hair plugs, whose wife would get pissed and tell us about their dogging tales.
The other had a ponytail, a Hamlet cigar constantly on the go and breath that could stop a lion at 20 paces, this one would regularly greet me in the morning by bellowing “are you making me rich, bitch?”
It was one of most bizarre experiences I have ever encountered, and while it gave me a phenomenal amount of great dinner party stories, I wish I had had the courage and confidence to speak out.
I grew up in the 90’s/noughties, and still had that Ladette culture engrained in me: a feeling that I should laugh along with sexist jokes, sink pints and lines, and be a bit crass, be one of the lads.
I knew that no matter what I did, I was viewed as a disposable commodity and was in no way respected, but I was young and lacked the nerve.
I wonder how long I would last nowadays: would I be fired or would I walk first?!