There’s nothing I enjoy more than thinking. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was any good at it, but much like masturbation, thinking can furnish even the rankest amateur with an enjoyable experience if they go at it with enough enthusiasm – and that’s what I’ve resented the most consistently when I’ve had to work for other people, the fact that if they’re paying me for my time, they expect me to spend that time thinking about things THEY think are important rather than the things I think are important, like the meaning of life and the impending civil war and cultural Marxism and all the other stuff that the internet makes me believe I’m an expert in. But even before the internet, when I didn’t have as much to think about as I do now and didn’t know so many clever things, I was still pissed off about having to rent out my head, especially when it already had sitting tenants who wouldn’t do anything I told them to. My first job, my dad just took me to this place without any real explanation and kind of give me away like a wicked Victorian uncle might have given a child away to be a chimney sweep, and I found myself filling cars with petrol on a garage forecourt in the olden days, when young men who might otherwise have died up a chimney did that kind of thing with resentful and gormless looks on their faces. I had to sit in a dark little wooden hut and wait for people to pull up, then I’d traipse out and fill their cars with petrol while they sat there, nice and warm. I’d take their money and scurry back to them with their change. In the pauses between cars I was scribbling a dreadful play which I believed was ‘Orton-esque’ on the back of the receipt pad and listening to The Birthday Party on a little tape player. I was in my first year at college, doing A Levels, and I’d dyed my hair black and dressed like a cunt and it was the eighties I was going to make it big one day.