It was June 1997, politics had been renewed, the world was full of hope and the idea was born in my workplace that everyone should have a ceremonial lunch on Friday 13th. Well, not everyone – only 13 people. This was fine, because realistically 13 is the maximum number of people you are going to like in any office. Originally, it was male-only, but then I went wild – I think I threatened to take the lunch to a tribunal – and after that women were included.
A few points of clarification. This was Fleet Street in the luxurious 90s (and not the Guardian). The world, especially the newspaper world, was swimming in money. It was not unusual to have to pay contributors with something other than money, because the fee for a single article would tip them into a new tax band. I distinctly remember an editor ducking into a side office to buy two grand’s worth of antiquarian books for some writer called Barry. It could have been Barry Norman, or Barry Humphries, or some completely different Barry, and it may have been three grand, because the other thing about the era was that we were all at lunch constantly, so after noon the details got a bit hazy and all the Barrys merged into one.
