Never having done the 'taking lobsters out of Jayne Mansfield's arse' job, the worst one I had was during my gap year when I got a job as a porter at British Home Store's warehouse for their Oxford Street store (which was actually on an industrial estate in Acton, west London). When I got there on my first day they told me that although they'd offered me a job as a porter, I couldn't have that because they had found someone else who also fitted in with two of their quota criteria by being both black and disabled. Thus instead of the Â£125 a week I'd been offered for my fifty hour week, I would have to make do with Â£95 as a 'warehouse assistant'. Except, of course, that being disabled, Winston (his real name and quite a nice bloke) couldn't do all the heavy carrying, so I had to do it for him. After I'd been there for two weeks, we reached pay day. I went in to get my pay packet from the store accountant, who had come up from Oxford Street to hand over the wedge. The warehouse manager was there and told me what a nice chap I was, how well I was fitting in, and how much he valued my contribution; then the accountant told me that she'd noticed I was still under 18 and that consequently I would be paid at BHS's 'junior' staff rate. After tax and NI deductions, I got Â£60 for two weeks' work. To my everlasting pride I told her to stuff her job up her fat fÃ¼cking arse and walked out. This was 1981, when the job scene was a bit grim, so when I hoofed on down to the Job Centre next day to sign on, I was told that having voluntarily left work, I wouldn't be entitled to any benefit. Big deal. I'd already done some casual work as a bouncer at the Hammersmith Odeon and instead got fixed up there more or less every night, beating up drunk, drug-addled punk rock fans for fifteen quid an evening - cash in hand - and two pints of beer after the show. Much better than working.