Because I’m worth it

“Entitled”, as a pejorative, used to describe that particular breed of fortunate fool oozing from our top public schools and Oxbridge. Such as the guy who said to a freshly graduated me, when I mentioned my struggle to get into journalism: “Why don’t your parents get you a job?”

However, entitled behaviour is no longer confined to the obvious social groups, and it’s not merely the capital’s media “Sneerwells” toasting their trust-fund workies. One manager, based outside London, described a graduate intake at a well-known telecoms company. “They would be given cars that were a couple of years old and pretty basic, like a Ford Focus. Within three months, a proportion would be demanding something of their own choosing, spec and colour — ‘Coz, like, how can I be taken seriously in some old banger?’”

Everyone has their own sense-of-entitlement stories. Jean Twenge, associate professor of psychology at San Diego State University, who co-wrote The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement, says: “Entitlement is a key sign of Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) and can be summed up as thinking that you are special and deserve special treatment, that you don’t have to apply yourself, and that you deserve the best. It’s expecting to make lots of money, expecting to have a Mercedes-Benz and a second home, but not expecting to work hard.”

She cites four main causes of this epidemic, all of them startlingly obvious: “parenting and education, easy credit, celebrity culture and the internet. The latter provides for instant fame and the shallow social connections that narcissists love, the kind you find on social networks”.

The fashion editors are trumped by the editor-in-chief of the gossip reporting website Holy Moly. His worst workie “turned up three hours late on the first day, wearing hot pants and a T-shirt that said ‘F*** the world’, threw her feet on the desk and said, ‘Why do people read this shit website?’ The next day her dad rang and apologised for her ‘forthright views’”.

“You get their mummies phoning up and saying, ‘He’s too tired, you’re working him too hard,’” Jamie Oliver said recently of the British people who work for his 350-strong company. He added: “I’ve never experienced such a wet generation.”

Twenge is certain that high self-esteem, seen as a panacea and the holy grail of self-improvement, can be more of a hindrance than a help. She recounts several studies, including one that showed those who are constantly praised performed less well in the long run than the kids who are told “good, but could do better”. For the narcissistic ego, constant praise and attention are petrol to a bonfire. At a subclinical level, NPD isn’t an inherently dangerous mental illness, but it does, as Twenge so technically puts it, make you “a jerk”.

Jerks make for great telly, though, and losers with a sense of entitlement are the bedrock of the television schedules. Jamie’s dreams for his school on Channel 4 did not come true, partly because the famous types couldn’t teach, but also because, as one unsympathetic critic put it, “the kids’ sense of entitlement is breathtaking. The little shits think they’re fantastic and deserving of respect. They are thick”.

BBC3’s new series Working Girls is a format show that has career women acting as mentors to young, idle girls to see if they can inspire/drill a work ethic into them. The first episode featured “the Cheryl Cole of Reading”, Kaycie, who is living off benefits, a boyfriend and her mum, dreaming of marrying a footballer and being a model (she has already dabbled in lap-dancing).

Kaycie responds to most problems by talking about how brilliant she is, how stupid everyone else is and applying more frosted pink lip gloss.

Sorche Williams and Kaycie Yates, left, two of BBC3's workshy Working Girls

Mr Holy Moly spends his life watching the famous, from A list to Z list. “Close up, you can see all of them think they deserve special treatment, be it Simon Cowell or Josie from Big Brother.

“I met The X Factor rejects the day after they were kicked out, after they’d been on the sofa with Lorraine. They knew they were on their own at this point — you could see PRs already backing off, but still they tried to act all seasoned and weathered and would blow hard about someone getting them a car or a sandwich. It was pathetic.”

Still, as John Galliano proves, it is possible to have talent, work hard, do long hours and be a grown-up and still become a pariah when a heady sense of entitlement is doused with booze. Galliano is reported to have said some vile things, but his sort are everywhere: railing outside members clubs and bellowing their self-importance.

Reading Twenge made me wriggle a bit. The hours self-broadcasting on Twitter; the perpetually bad relationships (“narcissists are hell to go out with”); the sense of injustice and professional anger. The self-pity, the laziness, the endless wanting of stuff. More of us than we would care to admit have a bit of the entitled workie inside us.

Working Girls’ Kaycie is up there with the worst of them. Eventually, in such formats, we get to the root of the problem. Overindulged and poorly educated, it’s not her fault. Obviously.

As the cuts kick in and things get bleaker, however, it won’t matter whose fault it is. Blame won’t get her anywhere, whereas hard work may. Entitlement is looking ever more ludicrous. With the concern of a professional, Twenge agrees. And so does Mr Holy Moly, who decided not to sling the ridiculous workie out on her prize booty — her wildly out of control sense of entitlement was a spectacle of some wonder and entertainment for his staff. She’ll probably end up on the telly.

Difficult, moi?

Though my career as a television producer has spanned both Watchdog and Crimewatch, no crook or con man has ever given me as rough a ride as a television personality in a bad mood. My all-time low came when trying to cram two days’ filming into one because a notoriously difficult presenter couldn’t struggle through the six-week series without a holiday. None of the bosses dared confront her, so when the inevitable happened, our star let rip. “At this rate, you won’t be finished till midnight,” she snarled. “And that’s too bad because I’m due at a movie premiere.” Breathtaking chutzpah, but hardly surprising when producers are told to pamper and placate “the talent”.

So you make damn sure there’s a bottle of champagne on ice, a plate of hot buttered crumpets, or a goodie bag stuffed with Jo Malone toiletries — as though the stellar salaries aren’t quite enough. Of course, all this has a knock-on effect; it crystallises in what is known as the “call me a cab” moment, when a previously healthy person is suddenly afflicted with a paralysis of the dialling finger. At that point, we all know the goggle-eyed monster isn’t far behind.

So presenters turn up drunk, squander the budget on “vital” props (it’s not they who suffer the consequences) or demand a fresh pair of tights — right now! One walked out of a commentary recording because, as series producer, I’d had the cheek to change his script. Silly me. Another seemed happy to accept a fee fat enough to pay the deposit on a flat for half a day’s work, but made clear his disgust for the project. On the day, he kept an executive stewing in a limo for an hour, before being appallingly rude to the team of 30 he’d kept waiting.

Sure, it takes a certain mind-set to face millions through a camera lens. That’s before you get papped, begged for autographs and generally adored by a doting public, so I suppose it’s a miracle that any escape unchanged. Of those that have, my roll of honour includes the two Carols — Smillie and Vorderman. As for the rest, indulge anybody enough and you’re bound to bring out the brat in them.

Gaby Koppel