Every year, when the summer sun comes out and I get the unbelievably stupid idea that I can do DIY.   That I, the master of disaster, can actually take something and improve it.

It happens every year without fail.  And every year I manage to fail. 

I get all “Yeah!  Fixing stuff!” without that memory of absolute abject failure of every previous attempt that has ended with many a trip to the emergency room.  The last trip to the emergency room involved me having a large chunk of metal removed from my head.  Which got in there via the process of my wife smashing my head in for being a complete imbecile.

Therefore the thought of “Lets get the extra strength no more nails out and stick wood to other pieces of wood…in the name of fixing stuff” was never going to work out well.  For me.  For my wife. 

For my ego.

It’s was to be a simple process.  Unclog the nozzle where it has dried up from the last time I used it, which was sometime in the neolithic era judging by the weird tools that were attached to it from my last attempt.  Stick the glue on one piece of wood, attach it to the other piece of wood and revel in the glory of my work.  Be loved by my wife for fixing stuff.  Show all my friends my amazing ability and accept the glory they placed upon me.

It went well.  By well I mean…

I found a screwdriver and jammed it with all my might (which is about as powerful as a 1 legged mouse doing the 100m hurdles) in to the top of the clogged up nozzle.  This left the entire length of the screwdriver covered in glue.   I love that screwdriver.  So I felt I needed to save it.  So placing down the tube, I rush to the bathroom to save my beloved screwdriver. 

Naturally, the thing to do would be to use a cloth or something to wipe it off. 

So.  Using my fingers, I wipe the extra strength glue off of the screwdriver.

Except by “wiped off”, I actually mean “Smeared it all over the screwdriver”.  And also my hand.  So I ran the water in the sink.  Except I used my hand that was covered in glue to turn the tap on as my other hand was holding the screwdriver.

The water was about as helpful as punching myself in the head repeatedly would be to world peace.  Although the tap handle is no longer a pretty chrome colour, but is more of a smeared dirty white colour.

It was not going what you could call “swimmingly”.  And now the glue was starting to dry.  Rapidly.

It was at around this time I wandered in to the kitchen to ask my wife if she had any ideas.  At around the same time the cat decided she wanted to say hello, so jumping to the table near me, managed to almost knock a glass of water over on to my open laptop.  A little worried about this, I picked up my cat to put him on the floor.

But because I am a stupid arse, I used my glued up hand.

To the casual passing by observer, it now looked like I was trying to massage my cats testicles.  This was obviously not the case…because a year before I had them chopped off, which meant for me to do that, I would be in a vet’s office with my hand in a bin full of old animal parts having a good rummage around.  Yeah, it sounds appealing…but in the grand scheme of things, it was not the time or the place to go all animal porn. 

Yes, my hands were now attached to my cat.  In a place I would rather they weren’t.  

I wont go in to the process of removing myself from the poor little guy.  Use your imagination, and add in a lot of scratching, screaming and a look of total fear.  Now try to imagine what the cat did too.

During all this, the tube of extra strength no more nails emptied itself on to the wooden counter and dried nicely.  And it won’t come off.  The screwdriver is ruined…unless I need something to unclog a tube of no more nails.

I have decided to employ a blind kleptomaniac elephant to do the rest of the DIY in the house.  It sure as hell can’t go any worse.

The cat has not come near me since, and his eyes are still watering.

It is amazing that I remembered to write this post.  I have had recently, what can only be described as a frontal lobotomy.  Or maybe a frontal enema due to the complete lack of memories in my head recently which have fallen out and are left nowhere to be seen.  But then…frontal enema?  It sounds messy.  And painful.  And I for one am only willing to let YOU all try it.

One of the up sides of my new found memory lapse is that I forget where I work, or I forget what I was doing at work as soon as I leave for the day.

This in effect sounds great, but does come with it’s flaws.  Just the other day someone asked me where I work.  I couldn’t remember.  I had absolutely NO idea. And then they said “is it at an airport?”.  Well, if you already know, just why the hell are you asking me!  And how did he know that I worked there?  I had just met him.  Was it because I was making plane noises while running about the street in my underwear and wearing some Biggles goggles firing my imaginary machine gun at the evil red baron?  Anyway, this policeman who asked…why did he even need to know?  People need to calm down on the public nudity thing.  I am a great physical specimen to show the world.  OK, so it shows the world what happens if you jam your gut so full of KFC that no kind of enema, even that frontal painful sounding one, would work.  but the kids need to know the wondrous world of evils of fast food.

I thought I was alone in this memory thing, but even my Sat Nav doesn’t know where I work.  When I click the “Take me to work” button, the cars goes all transformer on me and turns in to a bed.  Fine, so I get paid to work hard sleep, but hell…I have to at least be IN the office to do this.

Putting aside my physical inadequacies and the issues that my car and crap nav have, I am still concerned over my memory.

On the walk from my car to the work canteen, I thought “Lets go all crazy and buy a sandwich!”.  So there I was standing in front of the sandwiches and thought to myself “Why the hell am I standing here?”.  I had actually forgotten I was hungry.  Was this because of the woman in the incredibly small shorts who had obviously just come back from holiday that I saw prior to entering the canteen?  I should probably mention that she weighed about 400lbs.  The shorts…they didn’t, well, couldn’t…cover much.  Either way, it wasn’t pretty.  And I don’t mean that rose bush in winter not pretty, I mean that “oh my god…that is…but she…there was…here comes lunch to clean my shoes with!” not pretty.  Sure, everyone has the right to wear what they want, thus my underwear, goggles and plane moment…but I did it late at night so no one would see.  I didn’t think anyone would call the police.

Where was I going with that last paragraph?  You know…shock bloody horror, I cant friggin remember!