My Greatest Mistake: Toby Young, former contributing editor at 'Vanity Fair'

'Within 24 hours I was known throughout the New York media as "that English guy who hired the stripper"

The main colossal blunder I have made was when I first started working at Vanity Fair in 1995. I discovered that it was the birthday of one of my co-workers, and thought it would be a good idea to hire a strippagram to surprise him in the office. He was a laddish frat boy, so it was all appropriate. I managed to persuade Elizabeth, the fashion director, to use her suite of offices for the festivities, and lured my friend down there for his surprise. Soon, the stripper was duly strutting her stuff, and had even brought a boogie box so that Michael Jackson could blast out. Everything was going swimmingly – until we heard a knock on the door of the fashion department. Elizabeth cut the music, cracked the door open an inch and peered out. It was Bronwyn Carter, the editor-in-chief's three-year-old daughter, who asked if she could see the fashion department. Elizabeth said, "Not right now, honey", we held our breath and she went away. We turned the music on and the festivities resumed.

Two minutes later, there was another knock on the door. The same thing happened – music off, the door cracked open, and Elizabeth looked out. This time it was three little girls who wanted to see the fashion department as well. It suddenly dawned on me that I'd hired a stripper on Take Your Daughters to Work Day, a national institution in the States. It's a day when ferociously feminist women take their daughters to the office to explain why mommy's not at home much; and, of course, the only part of the offices they wanted to see was fashion. We had to try to sneak the stripper out, and at the end of the proceedings we had a dozen witnesses, whom I swore to secrecy. I thought, "Phew, it's over", but I underestimated the bush telegraph at Condé Nast. Within 24 hours I was known throughout the New York media as "that English guy who got the stripper". My card and my career were marked. The next day, the editor-in-chief hauled me into his office and asked me what I had been thinking. The only way I could excuse my behaviour was to say it was ironically sexist. "Ironic sexism?" he said. "I'd counsel you to drop that." It was spectacular.

Another thing. After I was in New York for a year, it dawned on me that the only kind of Englishman that American girls were impressed by was the aristocrat. My dad was a life peer, so, technically, I can call myself The Honourable Toby Young. I ordered an American Express card with that name, but had to give work as my address. A very sardonic editor saw it, and even though I tried to tell him it meant nothing, from that moment on I was greeted with a low bow and addressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy.