Early Life

I’m an English man, born in Hammersmith, West London, and I grew up under the flight path to the now Heathrow Airport. As a youth, I developed a wit and a mischievous nature that I seemed to constantly fall foul of—and still do to this day...... The first time I can remember was at the ripe age of four, when the mischievous streak that runs throughout my body truly showed its face. On my first day of school, I escaped within the first thirty minutes of arriving. The second day, they were watching, but nonetheless, I did the same.

The school teacher chased me down and swept me off my feet just as I made it to the school gate, my mother crying as she watched me from the car.

All I wanted to do back then was stand in my parents' garden and lob rocks up at the planes as they roared overhead—those noisy, propeller-driven planes belching fumes mere seconds from touchdown.......Did I, in those early days, ever smash the windows of any of these aeronautical, prop-driven wonders, you may ask? No—houses and cars, yes.

Did I ever admit to it? Not a chance......

Apprenticeship........At the ripe young age of sixteen, I became an apprentice as a diesel mechanic for a Ford dealership and attended college one day a week. Here, they paid me as a slave and made me stay, tethering me down to a clock machine. It was here I was trained and raised in the company of wolves—savage men, cruel with their words. Men who would laugh as I punched them with bony fists, lashing out and feeling as though I was just thumping a side of beef as my fists connected with their oily overalls.

Once I’d gotten bored with trying to bring down airliners, I took to scrapping and football—not necessarily in that order, as most English kids do. I fought the big kids at school and goal-hanged at football while I perfected the overhead kick. Soon enough, I was off again to another bigger school, where I hardly went. This time, I discovered girls and motorbikes..........

Big men with bigger mouths than mine called me a little c**t and told me to go get ten-ton trucks from the yard. Trucks given to the dealership in trust that I’d crash into skips and other vehicles repeatedly until the management saw fit to ban me from driving. I discovered back then that I was as useless with a wrench or a screwdriver as perhaps a chimpanzee. By the time I’d reached twenty, I’d passed out with all the diplomas and degrees they had to offer, little skill, and undoubtedly a bigger mouth than anyone there could lay claim to—although there was stiff competition........

So, despite being so heavily endorsed diploma-wise, should you let me fix your car? Not a chance. My wife won't let me. Neither will anyone who knows me.........For real. That's how bad a mechanic I am.

Another time, I had a diesel-engined Ford, and after I'd cleaned the car inside and out, it would only run at 70% speed. Now, I am actually a diesel fuel injection specialist—on paper, that is—so I asked the garage after I couldn’t fathom it out. 'Had the helixes in the injection pump become out of line?' along with some other super technical bullshit. 'No,' the man told me. 'The floor mat was stuck up under the accelerator pedal.'

So that was embarrassing. I could go on and on...I'll give you an example of just how talented I became. A while back, my lawn mower would not start. So, over a couple of days, I tried to fix it, but still, no—it would not start. Eventually, I took it to the repair shop, and a teenage girl fixed it. 'What was it—timing slipped, did it?' 'No,' the girl replied, 'the air filter was dirty.'