I THINK there should be an insurance policy specially tailored for protection against being a complete pillock. It should be readily available from Churchill and Go Compare as they advertise a lot on the TV for folk like me who seem to have a propensity towards haplessness - towards being a pillock. You see, I suffer from a sort of Frank Spencer syndrome that occasionally (occasionally?) sees me doing hapless things.
Often this hapless curse rears its ugly head in the DIY theatre of operations; I’m not so much a DIY Magic, as a Destroy It Magic!but most times I'm like a pheonix rising out of the sh.. smelling of roses. Every time I undertake a ‘simple’ Ikea flat-pack construction you can guarantee it’ll need re-constructing at least three times. I once put up a bathroom cabinet - and when you looked in to the mirror all you saw was your eye brows and forehead.
However, this syndrome isn’t limited to DIY. For example, I have been known while in this oft-occurring Frank Spencer Mode (FSM) to demolish parking bollards in Tesco car parks; buy a German version of a travel guide from an adjacent rack full of English editions and even open my wallet to a French, nay Parisian, taxi driver and say, “Help yourself to what you need, old son.” Aaargh!
Come on Go Compare; come on Churchill help me out, please. Cue nodding dog: “Oh Yus Magic!” So you’ll help me out? “Oh, yus.” You’ll insure me against my Frank Spencer tendencies? “Oh, yus.” For all the things I break and dismay I cause? “Oh, yus.” And will this policy be dear? The dog nods vigorously, “Oh YUS!”
But did you know though, that it’s likely we’re all prone to haplessness of varying degrees at certain times? Oh yus. I remember an evening in The five bells when Squaddie Pete explained to me in his inimitable way, his theories on hapless behaviour and their root cause: bio-rhythms. “Oh, yeah Magic, you’re not necessarily a pillock,” he kindly offered, “It may be that you’ve no understanding of yer bio-rhythms.”
Squaddie Pete had studied the principles of bio-rhythms during his time in the British Army. He went on about oscillating sine waves within a three cycle phase and a zero line crossing them that causes ‘critical days’. “The Yanks and Japs use it all the time,” he enthused. Apparently, these critical days are loaded with greater risk and uncertainty. “Hmmm, Pete…” I ventured, “…that could describe most of my days.” He gave me a sideways glance and grinned, “Yer, in your case it ought’a be called, critical daze. Gettit?” Yus Pete very funny, I get it. But not even Squaddie Pete’s bio-rhythms would explain my latest FSM episode.
Me and the missus have just purchased a new parasol and base from B &Q. The base is the heavy-filled-with-concrete thing that keeps your parasol from flying away. Okay, so far all’s fine; we’ve got the bloody thing back safely. “I’ll make a salad,” says her-indoors, “you try out the new shade.” Little do I know that I’ve suddenly just clicked into FSM. So, I get the thing unpacked and ready to put up; but first I have to remove the old well-worn parasol and base. This is when my troubles began.
The old base is grubby and leaking water and not wanting to get my clean shorts dirty I reason that the ideal thing to do is place it in the cardboard packaging of my new base. But, of course, I’ve unsnapped the cable ties around the cardboard, thereby rendering it less secure. So, there I am trying to manoeuvre this heavy old base into a flimsy cardboard box. The inevitable happens... my grip on the base slips; the base crashes through the cardboard onto the top step (missing my big toe by a hair’s breadth) and begins a slow motion descent in ultra loud surround-sound down the three steps into the yard and a further five. The noise is unbelievable; dogs around the road bark in terror; neighbours pour out of their homes like startled termites and for an eternity the base smashes its way down the steps before crashing loudly into the garden wall. In the ensuing destruction eight steps have been badly damaged. I skulk off up to the hills in deep opprobrium.
That evening a freshly composed her-indoors comically re-tells my adventures to our neighbours Margaret and Dave. Dave, with tears pouring down his face, is close to having a seizure. Through the tears he says, “It’s not three but eight steps to heaven...” And glancing across to my nearest and dearest adds, “...or hell!” Moral of the tale folks, keep a close eye on ya bio-rhythms or call a tradesman.
So see you at the meet it's never too late to come.
Toodle pip Magic
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