I’ve always been underwhelmed by the unimaginative 9-to-5 work day. If we as a society can create great works of art (the Pre-Raphaelites, the surrealists, the decadents), put a man on the moon, design and implement the Web, actually discover mathematical solutions to Einstein’s equations that could give us a form of time travel in a universe that was governed by general relativity, then Jesus, Mary, and the girl next door, we should be able to do something about the drag of the 9-to-5.
To rework the words of the revolutionary philosopher Antonio Gramsci: “The fact that there is no need for people to work from 9-to-5 and that people are working from 9-to-5 is a fact of some importance one would think.”
“Right, you’re sacked.” Lapsing into Anglo-Saxon language, I reply: “You can fuck off, you’re sacked.” And he said: “I own this club.” I said: “Do you? You can still f-off. I ain’t going anywhere. Only the police can move me, they can have me for trespassing.” Six weeks later he sacked me again. So I told him to f-off again.
“Therapy is the worst thing a crazy person can do. Creative madness pays.”