The chef (also the owner) was a bug-eyed, moustachioed, bellowing Scotsman who resembled the sociopathic Begbie from Trainspotting in all but one particular, namely that he was about twice Begbie's size. He didn't seem keen on me, or anybody else, the exception being his pet cat, which he fed on the kitchen worktop. Presumably this was to keep it out of reach of his pet dog, which strolled in and out of the kitchen at will, poking its snout inquisitively into cupboards.  The stench of spitting fat, frying fish and burning meat clung to the body like an extra skin: showering afterwards, I felt as if I were shedding half a stone. Cleaning the kitchen itself proved rather harder. Luckily I had to do this no more than once, as it was only an annual occurrence. It meant heaving the ovens and fridges aside and scrubbing the walls and floor.  The grime was as thick as treacle. Clambering on to a windowsill to reach an awkward spot, I felt my trainers sticking. Trying to look down at them, I found my right earlobe had become glued to the windowpane. Freeing it was like tearing off a plaster.  The pay? Two pounds an hour, cash in a crumpled envelope.  In the end, I decided to find a role more befitting an educated young man, and went to work in a bookshop. Within a week, a drunken customer had flung a hardback A-Z at my face from a range of about a yard, cutting me neatly just below the eye.  Let this be a lesson, Youth of Today: study hard, keep your nose clean, and whatever you do, don't get a job.  I'll tell you the trouble with sporting events as big as the World Cup and Wimbledon: they are watched not only by people who love sport, but by people who know nothing about it. Which means that, if you're a humourless pedant like me, you spend your summer seething while sport-ignorant friends and colleagues yap their views on the action: "This match isn't very goaly", to take an example from a friend watching the football. Or, from a friend frustrated with Andy Murray, "No, you don't hit it in the net!" and "Durrr! He should have done a good serve!" (If only Murray had thought of that. Naïve of him to pursue this serving-badly tactic.)  On the other hand, they're all still more insightful than Alan Shearer.  Last week, two months after taking our honeymoon there, my wife and I had a holiday on the Isle of Wight. (We went partly out of curiosity. Writing in this column after our honeymoon, I pretended that while on the island I'd stolen an honesty box from a jam stall. Several readers took me literally, with one demanding my prosecution. In the event, we were almost disappointed to find that our return did not prompt a mass police operation. I can only imagine the local constabulary had been sent north to hunt for Raoul Moat.)  Anyway, we had a lovely time, troubled solely by the following sight. By the shore was a sign saying, "In emergency, dial 999" – and beside it, a telephone. On its face were just three digits: 1, 2 and 3.  My guess is that the authorities were inspired by Countdown's "Numbers Game", the object of which is to combine a set of numbers to reach the given total. Let’s see: 3x2+1… no, hang on… 2x(3+1)…
Unemployed teenagers of Britain: in my experience, you're better off missing    out on a summer job, writes Michael Deacon.