In the hazy summer of 1997, a decision was made that, in hindsight, leans heavily into the realm of youthful folly. Like many seventeen-year-olds navigating the confusing waters of adolescence, I found myself in a tattoo studio. This wasn’t some trendy, high-end establishment, but rather a humble space perched above a kebab shop in Plumstead. Here, under less than professional circumstances, my best friend’s cousin took needle to skin, inking what I naively believed was a profound statement in Cantonese. The reality, as I would later discover, was a rather abstract and unconventional interpretation of the language, a far cry from the intended meaning. Escaping the scene as swiftly as possible, I was now the proud owner of a poorly executed tattoo hidden beneath a hastily applied bandage and significantly late for my part-time job – a perfect storm of teenage misadventure.
This part-time gig was with a well-known high-street retailer, and my grand entrance that day was less than stellar. Arriving almost an hour behind schedule, I inadvertently became the center of an unfortunate customer service incident. The sight of blood seeping through my crisp white shirt sleeve triggered a vocal outburst from a customer who dramatically declared the “unimaginable horror” she was witnessing. Her visceral reaction and subsequent complaint resulted in a less-than-pleasant conversation with my manager, culminating in the swift termination of my employment. This abrupt end to my retail career, triggered by my ill-advised “224 Tattoo moment,” seemed like a disaster at the time, but fate, as it often does, had other plans in store.
[How do I become … a tattoo artist?
Read more](http://www.theguardian.com/money/2015/may/19/how-become-tattoo-artist-phil-kyle)
This setback paved the way for an unexpected opportunity, a job working with two men who would profoundly shape my life. Ian and Ian, partners in business and life, owned The Observatory, a vintage clothing store in the vibrant area of Greenwich. This wasn’t just a shop; it was a treasure trove of unique garments, filled with the soundtrack of great music, and a place that would transform me from a boy into a man, albeit a man with a penchant for original 1960s three-button single-breasted two-tone suits and winkle pickers purchased with a generous staff discount.
Looking back, the two years spent in that small shop hold immense significance. In a time where work placements and apprenticeships are heavily emphasized, I recognize the invaluable experience I gained. This job challenged me, ignited a lifelong passion for clothes and music, and set me on a path I could never have predicted. It was a stark contrast to my “224 tattoo” induced job loss, proving that sometimes, the most unfortunate events can lead to the most rewarding outcomes.
Illustrative of their character, when an opportunity arose for me to attend a casting for a small British film, Ian and Ian’s response was overwhelmingly supportive. Not only did they grant me the day off, but they also ensured I was paid, alleviating any financial worry. This act of kindness underscored the vital role employers play in nurturing and encouraging young individuals. Their belief in me, a young man who had walked in with a questionable tattoo and a string of mishaps, was transformative.
As I began to reflect on this period of my life, it struck me that I hadn’t spoken to Ian and Ian for the better part of eight years. Curiosity and gratitude prompted me to reconnect, to discover their perspective on nurturing young talent and whether it remained a priority for them. I journeyed to their current venture, Hunky Dory, nestled in London’s bustling Brick Lane. It was a joyful reunion to find them both thriving, as stylish as ever, sporting vintage workwear from 1950s Italy and France with effortless cool. Their passion for vintage fashion remained undiminished, devoid of any contrived “east London hipster” affectation, echoing the enthusiasm I remembered from 15 years prior.
They expressed genuine happiness in their extended “family” of co-workers and voiced skepticism towards the often impersonal approach of large corporations in their treatment of employees. When I inquired about their motivation for employing young people, Ian responded, “Encourage people – we’ve always been drawn to originals, so to speak. From the outset, the privilege of our work was engaging with individuals genuinely curious about what we were doing. Because of the nature of vintage clothing, those drawn to it were invariably creative and interesting people.”
Recalling their support for my first film casting, they laughed, feigning outrage at having given me “free money.” Their generosity and mentorship were pivotal in shaping my early career, a stark contrast to the initial negative impact of my youthful tattoo decision.
“What we dislike is the ambiguity of the intern approach,” Ian continued, addressing modern work culture. “It has its place, but it’s become pervasive, and one questions the benefit for the young person. It often seems to have become a source of free or cheap labor. Of course, many businesses don’t operate this way. There’s definitely a place for internships, but it frequently appears to be exploited.” Their commitment to fair treatment and genuine mentorship was a core value that resonated deeply.
Ian and Ian spoke with pride about the many individuals they had mentored over the years, many of whom they maintain connections with. They described these former employees as a diverse group of successful parents, doctors, stylists, actors, and musicians. Their enduring connection to these individuals, including myself, is a testament to their genuine investment in people. Finding mentors who are willing to invest in you is a gift, but having them help redirect your life, even indirectly triggered by a youthful tattoo mishap, is truly fortunate.
And as for my infamous tattoo, it remains with me. It was intended to convey “protect the ones you love from harm” and “be brave at heart.” However, when I asked a Cantonese-speaking colleague to translate it, she simply stated it meant “six stars,” before adding sympathetically, “You must have been very young when you had this done.” Indeed, the “224 tattoo” and its aftermath were a youthful misstep, but one that ultimately steered me towards unexpected and positive life changes. It serves as a humorous reminder that even mistakes, especially those made at 22 (or rather 17, close enough to the ‘224 tattoo’ concept!), can lead to fortunate and unforeseen paths.
