Wednesday, 16 March 2011

How many Fergus's does it take to change a lightbulb?

I have a problem in the bedroom and I don't mean with my sexual performance. That is flawless. With regards to the act of lovemaking I have an unblemished record of producing consistently phenomenal results. My problem is the lightbulb. I can't change it. I have, to my credit, changed lightbulbs before but this one is proving tricky.

You may remember me mentioning in a previous blog that I am shit at all things practical. I genuinely got a 'G' at GCSE Craft, Design and Technology. Let me repeat that. I got a 'G'. There are a whole 6 letters before 'G'. No one gets a 'G'. Even those kids at school who spent their days sniffing Copydex and stabbing weaker kids (me) with compasses tended to get better grades than 'G'. My low grade was because of three key reasons;

1. In 5 years at secondary school I made one thing in CDT. It was a breadboard. I took a piece of wood, cut a seriously ill shaped handle into it and called it a breadboard. 'Here you go Mum. I made you a breadboard'. 'Thanks, Fergus. How was Drama?'. Needless to say I handed in no practical work.

2. Knowing that I was headed for a shit grade I had a bet with a friend on who could get the shittest one. Unbeknownst to me, I was the only one who took it seriously. In the exam I was asked to design something for the garden. Being hilarious, I designed a device for worshipping all the Gods. I said I would consult Morphy Richards for advice on construction.

3. I had zero aptitude for the subject. Zero.

What's odd is that, assuming my parents aren't withholding information about my true 'birth parents', genetically I should be good at this sort of shit. My Dad built a massive boat with his Dad when he was 16. My Granddad has spent his life making contraptions and claims (with very little evidence) to have built most of the things in the world. Why have I lost out in this gene pool to such an extent that I can't change a fucking lightbulb.

I've established that I need to put a bayonet in. At least I think I do. It just won't fucking go in. This means that for the second night in a row my girlfriend will return home to a dark bedroom and question how she ended up with this retarded clown. She will eventually change it herself with ease and I will be one step closer to my inevitable lonely death.

Until then I will watch this again and again...

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