Linda Robertson - What Rhymes with Bastard?

But as those three excruciating months drew to a close, I was filled with dread. Worse was to come: I was scheduled for six weeks on the picture desk at Vogue . I’d been up there on various errands, and everyone had matching belts and nails, and pointy shoes that cost at least thirty pounds per toe. Every night I prayed to the media gods: ‘Please, let me get a job before I have to go to Vogue .’ In between, I had a placement at i-D magazine, the po-faced style bible for urban hipsters. Everyone was fashionable and cool. Because they weren’t fake, they weren’t friendly. The art director was indifferent, unshaven, and seemed surprised to see me. ‘I suppose you could do some photocopying,’ he mumbled. In desperation, I went to the loo, but I couldn’t get back into the office as I didn’t know the door code. Trapped in a cold, echoing corridor, I lost it. I ran from the building in a flood of tears. Hysterical, I phoned Mum, who listened sympathetically and advised me to catch the first train home.

And then the unthinkable happened – I got an interview. The job title was ‘journalist’. With glam mags on my CV, I felt it was within my grasp. This feeling was waning a week after the interview, when Jack decided to take action. He sat me on his lap and said firmly, ‘Now, Bun, call that bitch and tell her why you’re the best person for the job.’

‘I can’t. I’ll look desperate.’

‘Lins, you are desperate. Do it.’

‘What if I’m not the best person for the job?’

‘You are. Course you are. Now do it. Call her now. I’m right behind you.’

He held me tight, and I made myself do it, earning a big kiss and – after my trial period – eleven grand a year.

Eleven grand! It seemed a lot of money until I tried to live on it.

My new boss was a bitch. A smiley bitch with a fake laugh and bad suits. This tousle-haired Medusa barked orders in threes, and sneered when I asked her to repeat, so I’d go round asking people to guess what she wanted. ‘OK, here are the clues: umbrellas, under the window and Prince Albert.’ I’d walk round the block waiting for the tears to stop, hide in the loo or take refuge in the storage cupboard (where, contrary to office lore, I was discovered asleep only once). My job title was misleading: the place sold pictures, and I wrote the accompanying text, which helped sell the snaps, but rarely got published alongside them. I would whiz through my daily atch of fashion and celebrity snaps, then get to work on old stock – pictures of homing pigeons or the Queen Mother’s ready-to-run obituary. To break the tedium, I took down my trousers and modelled a fart-filter (my rear later appeared in a Swedish magazine), and interviewed a corporate shaman, who sat in the office burning sage while we danced to her drumbeat, snickering. I was sent out to interview a man who had been sexy in 1962.

I soon jumped ship and landed in the West End, next to the BBC HQ and the flagship branch of Top Shop, in the dark heart of recruitment advertising. My colleagues were all male, witty and self-deprecating. It was the first place where I felt I belonged to the gang, and our day-long banter detracted marvellously from the demoralizing work. Together we filled our days with useful activities: one tapped away at a screenplay laid out on his monitor to look like ad copy; others stood by the window, spotting stars going in and out of the BBC building, before joining the head of copy at the Dog and Pickle around noon. Later in the day we’d make paper costumes or throw things at each other, running up ads whenever there was a lull in activity.

My favourite client was Sun Valley, a chicken-processing plant in Yorkshire. Sun Valley was a great place to work for three reasons:

1 You got paid.

2 You got a free pair of rubber gloves and a hat.

3 You might not have to deal with giblets.

It was my job to convince unemployed locals that this was a marvellous career opportunity. I churned out dozens of variations on a feathered theme: Your beak break! Give us a wing! Our boss, the creative director, would descend unpredictably from his penthouse, and pace about, making us all nervous. One day, after I’d been there a couple of months, he leaned over my shoulder and said gently, ‘Could we have a word?’ I followed him into a small, cold room with no windows, where we sat down. ‘Linda,’ he said, ‘it’s been noticed that you leave work at five p.m. almost every day.’

‘Yes,’ I acknowledged. ‘That’s what’s on my contract.’

‘Ye-e-s,’ he said, ‘but it’s supposed to be a minimum .’

‘But I’ve always got my work done when I leave.’

‘Ye-e-s, but is it done to the best of your abilities? It’s about giving one hundred and ten per cent here. So, this weekend, I want you to ask yourself if you really want to work here at Jobfab.’

I was stunned. Nobody did a stroke of work after five. It was all right for the boys, but could I really stand another eight hours a week of indoor cricket, Tomb Raider and free beer?

On Monday afternoon, I met up again with my boss. I’d spent the morning in the loo with stress-induced diarrhoea, and I had nothing left to lose. ‘So, Linda,’ he began, ‘did you think about what we said?’

I nodded. ‘I guess I’m not as committed as the rest of the creative department.’ He made a ‘yes, indeed’ face. ‘I mean,’ I said, ‘you can tell that straight off from my Tomb Raider rating.’

‘ Tomb Raider? ’

‘Face it, my score’s way below the others. I’m no good at cricket, and I can’t drink half as much beer.’

‘So … ?’

‘So what I’m saying is, I think it would be best for everyone if I left, and tripled my income by freelancing at other agencies.’ 7

‘Now, hold on, Linda, let’s not—’

And thus began the next stage of my career:

Linda Robertson Nomadic Copywriter

nomadcopy@bullshit.co.uk

Exorbitant rates * No job too risible

This led to the same old rubbish, but at three times the pay. I’d sit in gloomy offices with sagging ceiling tiles, waiting for an account-handler to brief me on how to promote pest-control jobs with Hackney Council. I photocopied novels so they looked work-related, and read my way through the long, grey days, taking grotesquely extended lonely lunch breaks.

That was the past, and Tina was taking care of the future, right here in San Francisco. She got me an interview at her marketing agency, Think! ‘They’re all Mormons,’ she explained, ‘but they’re OK. Except David … He’s – well, you’ll see.’

David Aarse was her boss, and two weeks after my arrival in the city I found myself perched next to him on the San Francisco waterfront, blinking in the dazzling white light. The bay shimmered blue and white, and a fresh breeze tickled my arms. It was like having an interview in heaven – if this kept up, I’d get a tan. I took a deep, refreshing breath and turned to face my interrogator. The sun glowed like a halo through the bleached remnants of his hair, and black shades masked his eyes. As he flicked through my embarrassing portfolio, he muttered: ‘Crap … crap … crap … Art direction’s terrible … Now, that one’s OK …’ I tried to begin my spiel, but each time, he held up a silencing palm and flicked on through the book. Then, suddenly, he snapped it shut. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can’t write, but I like your accent. Linda, are you funny?’

‘I think —’

‘Don’t think, do. That’s the Think! motto. Listen, Linda, we’re putting together an Internet movie, and we need an interviewer. Can you do it?’

‘Um, yes,’ I said, and cleared my throat. ‘I was told fifty to seventy dollars an hour is the going rate.’