In Good Company: Q&A with Laura Burch, Founder of Work & Class
- Tell us about Work & Class and did your experiences play a role in launching it?
- What was it like navigating that world early on?
- What took you from that realisation to setting up something new?
- What do you see as the biggest issue around class today?
- How do those issues show up in the workplace?
- What do you do differently at Work & Class?
- What advice would you give to someone starting out?
- And what about people who are already in the industry?
Share
Laura Burch is the founder of Work & Class, a creative comms agency staffed by and made for working-class people. We had the joy of creating Work & Class’ brand identity and website, helping bring Laura’s vision to life. In this conversation, she talks about building the workplace she never saw growing up, what gets missed in DEI conversations, and why being gobby is a good thing.
Tell us about Work & Class and did your experiences play a role in launching it?
Laura Burch: Yeah, totally—all of it did, really. So, I’m the founder of Work & Class, which is the world’s first (I believe!) creative comms agency for working-class people.
What we mean by that is we hire people from predominantly working-class backgrounds. Right now it’s entirely working class—and we’ve set ourselves a target of never going below 80%. We work on brands that want to connect with working-class audiences, and we also make the case to organisations about why they should care about that audience in the first place. Because one of the big issues is that we’re just not considered.
I grew up working class, on a council estate in London. My parents were long-term unemployed and on benefits. My mum was a cleaner on the side, my dad had been to prison. I didn’t know any professionals, really. There was one woman—a photographer—who my mum and nan cleaned for, and she was probably the only one I’d met. That stuck with me.
I got into PR totally accidentally. I signed up with a temp agency, and they placed me at the BBC because it was down the road. It was meant to be three months, but then a job came up—I didn’t really know what it was, but I applied, got stuck in, and 24 years later, I’m still doing it
What was it like navigating that world early on?
LB: It felt pretty alien. The BBC was very posh, everyone had been to fancy schools, to uni; I hadn’t. People would talk about what their dads did. I couldn’t really do that. At the time, I just felt lucky to be there. I thought I was a millionaire, earning 17 grand a year. But as I moved through my career, I started to realise it wasn’t okay that there were so few people like me in the room. And it wasn’t okay that I felt like I had to hide who I was.
As I got older, I got more confident. I found my feminism. I started raging at the world in all sorts of ways.
“As I got older, I got more confident. I found my feminism. I started raging at the world in all sorts of ways.”
What took you from that realisation to setting up something new?
LB: The last agency I worked at—Inkling Culture—was probably the most class-diverse place I’d ever worked. Not everyone was super posh. It felt comfortable. I didn’t feel like I had to pretend. And that made me realise how rare that feeling was.
Then I had a conversation with someone at Oxfam, who talked about how hard it is for charities to reach working-class audiences. And I thought, well yeah, of course it is. If you haven’t got anyone on your team who’s grown up like that, how are you going to connect?
The very next day I met David Fraser from Ready10, who backed the idea. I never would’ve been able to do it without that; I didn’t have any savings or family money, nothing to fall back on.
What do you see as the biggest issue around class today?
LB: That working-class people are still undervalued; by brands, by politicians, by employers. The only people targeting us are the ones that don’t really have our best interests at heart: betting apps, payday lenders, fast food outlets. That’s not connection, it’s exploitation.
We just put out a report called Class Dismissed—it’s all about this. About the fact that brands and organisations don’t think working-class people add commercial value. They don’t think they add cultural value. But it’s the opposite of that.
So much of culture is born out of working-class communities, and always has been. How can 50% of the population not have commercial value? We’re buying stuff every day. We’re paying for utilities, we’re powering industries, we’re making culture.
“So much of culture is born out of working-class communities, and always has been. How can 50% of the population not have commercial value?”
How do those issues show up in the workplace?
LB: There’s just not enough of us there. And when we are, there’s a class pay gap. In marketing you get about 17% less for not being posh. It’s not about what you deliver, it’s about what people assume you’re worth—and whether you know what to ask for.
And then there’s all the unspoken stuff. Like, you’re the junior asked to get biscuits for a meeting. You bring bourbons and custard creams, and the CEO’s like, what is that? I didn’t know what a posh biscuit was.
That’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like the workplace isn’t for you—not because you’re not good enough, but because you don’t speak the same invisible language.
“There’s a class pay gap. In marketing you get about 17% less for not being posh. It’s not about what you deliver, it’s about what people assume you’re worth—and whether you know what to ask for.”
What do you do differently at Work & Class?
LB: A few things. We don’t have any minimum education requirements for employees. As part of Ready Media Group, we collect and analyse pay gap data for class, ethnicity and gender (and we have no gaps, it’s actually not that hard guys). We make sure our partners and suppliers are run by people from underrepresented groups where possible. We only offer work experience placements and internships to people from working class backgrounds. And, this might not seem like a big deal, but it can make big difference—we never ask people to front expenses. I lost count of how many times, early in my career, I had to put something on my card and claim it back. But what if you don’t have the money? And what if you don’t feel like you can say that? So we always give people a card or cash upfront. No one should have to say they can’t afford something just to do their job.
What advice would you give to someone starting out?
LB: Look for companies that actually care. Do your research. Find the ones that feel like they’re trying to do something different or that openly talk about social mobility.
And find your people. The Common People community was massive for me. I know I wouldn’t have had the guts to start Work & Class without it. It helps to know you’re not the only one—to be able to talk about it, laugh about it, get support.
And don’t hide where you’re from. I used to. But now I’m like—look what I’ve done, without connections, without university, with no money behind me. That’s something to be proud of. People are waking up to the value of diverse backgrounds and experience, so lean into it.
And what about people who are already in the industry?
LB: If you’re senior and you’re from a working-class background, talk about it. My generation — we all masked it. Especially women. I think some men found it easier to lean into the ‘cheeky chappy’ thing. But women definitely felt they had to polish it out.
If you’re shaping policies or running teams, push for class to be considered in diversity work or quotas. And if you’re junior and feel out of place, talk to your manager. Ask if there are initiatives. Ask what support exists for people like you.
