A RUNNER’S MEMOIR & OTHER STORIES
I turned up in Golden Square wearing my Grandfather’s tweed jacket. The guy opposite me at the boardroom table was Paul, Head of Operations. “So let’s start with the most important question, who do you support?” I wasn’t entirely sure if this was a job role / operations question. Luckily before I tried to guess the answer he carried on “Tell me you don’t support Spurs!” I admitted I had no interest in football. He paused. He looked sad. “Well at least you don’t support Spurs, can you start next Monday?”
And just like that I had a foot in the door. A job in London. In Soho. I was in the film industry. I was a runner on £5,700 a year. £475 a month. I was ecstatic.
For the first six weeks I made countless cups of tea and rounds of toast, I bought a variety of lunches from a variety of cafes for a variety of people and stuck labels on VHS tapes. All. Day. Long.
It was 1994, Kurt Cobain had shot himself, Ayrton Senna had crashed, Nelson Mandela had become the President and OJ Simpson’s glove didn’t fit. Mobile phones where the size of bricks and the internet had just been born.
I was living with three friends in apartment 4.6 Garden House, Kensington Garden Square W2. I didn’t realise it at the time but this was an awesome address. Very soon this apartment would become legendary.