An expression coined by my friend Andy who was reveling in my DIY depression while he was out riding. And while he and Kath think nothing of building a small hamlet before breakfast, my home improvement skills normally consist of nothing more than getting a man in*.

So while I was firing the random shotgun of boredom at unpainted walls, unsealed windows and unfinished buffing**, the concept of being “on the grout” provided a moments amusement. The standard form would be “No, sorry Alex can’t come out to play on his bike, he’s on the grout” with a regional variation of “Pish, the silly prick is fecking away with the grout“.

There is a difficult dichotomy in that our house now resembles a show home that no one could live in. And yet, if you have aspirations of selling it, then this is the default stasis in the otherworld of random people coming to look at it.

If one were tending to the dangerously honest, much of the tedious graft of the last few weeks is merely mining the deep vein of marketing. Sure, we probably should have painted the kids bedrooms ages ago, but at no point should quality drinking time be diverted to the dark art of restoring grout to bright white.***

Ironically wanting to sell the house is even more difficult now because it is so uncluttered and tidy. Except when the kids see a patch of clear carpet space, they fall upon it like a dying man at an oasis. Their idea of tidying up is to throw stuff at each other until one of them falls into a cupboard.

We’re selling up for a complex but interrelated set of reasons. But cutting through them all are “living in the South East“, “Working in London“, “Rubbish secondary schools” and (whisper it quietly) “poor to poorish mountain biking”

The plan is to go West before Aylesbury comes East. The final straw was a proposal to build 9,300 houses between where we live and the badlands of a market town sponsored by concrete. We have even found somewhere to live although – in line with our random insanity of house buying – it requires some work. And a shit load of cash. And then some more work. On the upside, it has an unparalleled view of cabbages.

And in an amazing coincidence, a slew of fantastic mountain biking lies nearby. How the hell could that have happened?

Tomorrow, we have our first viewing. And while I’m not interested in sullying myself with anything vaguely customer facing, the rough end of my pineapple awaits the first person to openly question the quality of the grouting.

* No. Not like that. And don’t try any witticisms around the tradesman’s entrance either.

** I had a fantastic joke lined up around the premise of “Buffing the Vampire Slayer”. Well it was fantastic, until I wrote it down.

*** Do not be under any illusions that such a colour exists. It can be found about 30 minutes downstream from the question “have you finished cleaning that already?”

A women walks into an office with a baby. That sounds like a set up for a joke but it’s not – rather a trigger for the unitary chromosome side of the planet to forget they are corporately conditioned to be employees first, and women second. Scary females from the accounts department, who are undisputed masters of putting you on hold for ever, are transformed into Earth Mothers with a penchant for cooing. It’s like bloke with motorbikes, they just can’t help themselves.

So the proud new parent pushes a pram down the corridor and half the office feels a gravitational pull similar to that of a dying star. But the rest of us have built in anti-gravity when it comes to pink, hairless and boring packages of tiny humanity. And we’re much the poorer for it but, on being trapped into peering into the cot, we still can’t quite see what all the fuss is about.

It’s like sleeping after sex. One side of a relationship lights up a imaginary cigar, congratulates himself on a job well done and rolls over. And instantly falls asleep while his partner wants to discuss the moment, the consequences,the exact level of affection he feels, or the state of the curtains. The distance between two X’s and a Y can be easily visualised by men thinking there is barely a degree of separation between crotchless panties and nice perfume when it comes to a romantic birthday present.

Or so I’ve heard.

Anyway before I offend everyone on the planet, let’s get back to babies. Except not for me of course – with two daughters already, statistically I’d be looking at a 3:1 ratio of fairies to football. And I’ll never again be ready for a face full of rocket propelled mashed carrot, a night made endless by two hours of sleep, and a level of dependency that puts your life on hold for two years. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids – I just don’t want another one.

So, being in touch with your feminine side and cautiously peering under the pram’s canopy will reveal nothing more than what morphs into a half eaten Mars Bar. Once you have decided they’re unlikely ever to play for England, you may as well give in and mooch about with all the other alpha males, indulging in some tribal crotch scratching.

If one were tending to the pragmatic, the obvious solution it to accessorise the little person with something interesting. That way, our fleeting glances and goldfish like attention span will be held by an object of interest. And we’ll trot out expected phrases “So has he got a big willy then?” / “Oh, a girl you say, right” and everyone can go home suffused in the joy that the centre of their world is at least at the periphery of ours.

I’d go with an XBOX. Or a guitar.

Its close to midday and something broken is lurking with a damp mark
Under the bulb light you see a gap that almost stops your heart
You try to fill but terror makes the gap bigger before you make it
You start to sneeze as bodged DIY looks you right between the eyes,
You’re paralytic

Cause this is filler, filler knife
And no ones gonna save you from the crack that’s at ceiling height
You know its filler, filler strife
Youre fighting for your life back, inside a bedroom, got to paint it tonight.

I’m a natural at this. Just tip me the nod, and I’ll happily butcher the next verse of Michael Jackson’s horror operetta.

This story starts in the hazy hinterland of house extensions where the builders misunderstood the architect’s drawing for a roof, and instead built us a slatey sieve. Consequences of this innovative roofing technique include the traipsing of endless charlatans pretending to be fix the problem, and a brave internal design concept best described as “find your inner river“. Generally with an inner bucket – okay I’m exaggerating a little, and my punishment was to be imprisoned in a plastery room with only a paintbrush for company.

Fuck* painting is dull. After the passing of geological epoch lasting all of ten minutes , – recorded by the weary swish of an apathetic paintbrush – I was inspired to invent a new DIY item. I have developed a “splatter“; take a horse (or any other ungulate) hair painting stick, deposit brush handle deep into paint, apply briskly to wall in the manner of a classic escaping prisoner, before abandoning on paint tin. And behold! One hour later, you have your splatter. It’s just one big bristle that doesn’t move much and should be thought of as a tool of mess destruction.

My request for an upgrade to a roller was met with the rolling eyes of someone who was once caught in the enfilading fire of a previous attempt, and the chance to work outside in a damage limitation exercise. Carol tends to patiently clean between the brick path with a stick and stoical expression. I chose powertools, and was happily re-enacting the battle of Alemain with nothing more than a pressure washer and a hearty “Ah Hah, take that you dirty hun“.

Two problems smartly rocked up and demanded attention. Firstly while cleaning one stone was extremely satisfying (especially as my phantom 8th Army bravely retook Tobruk), another 200 were lined up ready for inspection. Secondly, a pair of passing joggers – taking advantage of a brief dry spell – were accidentally** power gritted at around 100 MPH. Any protest died in their throats as, on turning to face their nemesis, they were confronted by a swamp monster shouting “Outflank the bastard, send Perkins ahead and get bloody Sidebottom to ready his commando unit“.

And while my lighting campaign was reigning terror on moss and dirt – dug in and ready to fight to the death – defeat was nearly snatched from victory as our supply lines were desperately overstretched. The Medusa of various leads and hoses tied themselves together in the manner of garden products everywhere, and brought the advance to a shuddering halt. Were it not for desperate orders signalling a swift hinge for the army of arm, friendly fire would have been concentrated on the plug socket.

100 PSI. Water. Electricity. There is going to be an Incident there on the scale of “Yes they’ve got machine guns and yes it’s a valley perfectly set up for an ambush, but we’re the bloody light brigade aren’t we?”

Cables untangled, we dispatched the remaining enemy stones into the garden now resembling a chilly Mediterranean. Not unreasonably expecting an extended period of R&R and possibly a nice sandwich, my hopes were dashed by a new objective of a similar clean up job on the Patio. My trousers were pressure blasted mud, my shoes a watersports park for lemmings, my fizog a face pack of PH balanced moss and, what’s left of my hair infused with the essence of water distressed dandelion.

But a man has his orders. And whether that’s from his C-in-C or his wife, he just jolly well gets on with it.

From Michael Jackson to the Crimea to Montgomery in North Africa. There’s a grand sweep of modern history you’re not going to get anywhere else. Whether you would want to is an altogether different – and possibly more pertinent – question.

* Sorry Mum. She told me the other day she nearly posted on this blog. God alive, leave me with my few remaining comb over shreds of dignity
** Ish

The headlines this weekend are laden with predictions of global recessions and doomed economies. And, unlike those purporting to be in control, I have a plan to help. The time has come to turn the Internet off. On first glance, this may seem a little radical, but difficult times called for desperate measures.

So desperate possibly, yet underpinned by flawless logic. Because if we take the hedgehog as a microcosm of everything that is wrong in this work-shy land, the implications are staggering. Of the 500 hits per day, say 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} actually spend five minutes reading something. Although half of that 500 only hang about long enough to trip the Spam filter with offers of free girl-on-girl mud wrestling pictures**.

Now assume that this plays out three days a week and we’re looking at a total 450 minutes per week. Multiply this by a years worth of weeks – stick with me here, we’re nearly done – and divide that total back into days to deliver a damning verdict on slacking. I know most people read this at work so – at best – TEN MAN DAYS of effort are lost just reading this blog***.

And when you consider this blog is merely bottom feeding at the edge of the great ocean of siren like content. So if double digit working days have gone reading this blog, how many wanking days have been spermed up the wall by the greatest success of the global Internet. So hit the big red off button and watch sales soar for Playboy and Hustler.

And there are other less obvious benefits; people would have to start talking to each other again, shops would be more than electric store fronts, the post office would suddenly become hugely important and – best of all – MySpace would close leaving gromitts to whinge in their own bedroom.

Obviously once the new order is ushered in on the back of this vote winning policy, certain trusted individuals shall retain access. Including all my loyal lieutenants.

Right who’s with me? 🙂

* Famous rock band. First singer died chocking on his own vomit. C’mon, how many clues do you need?
** They weren’t much good.
*** I know this to be correct as I have had my maths checked by an eight year old.

I hate Autumn* because it brings with it a slow death to life and light. Three months of decay and dark aren’t even the worst part – that special place in my heart is reserved for the million car drivers who cherish the idea of a dead cyclist for Christmas.

And then we have the chronologically inaccurate “shortest day” or the slightly more caftan “Winter Solstice“. It brings with it a false dawn, which continues to creep into the day for a couple more weeks, and not much else.

Follow that up with a week long period of things unwanted; presents, relatives and marketing confused with sales. This is a once in a year opportunity to get both fatter and poorer while a recent Honours crony cackles – dragon like – on their hoard. Only smugger and with slightly more arrogance.

So they call this the festive season. And if giving is better than receiving, I’m bloody delighted to dispense with the whole arse of a thing for another year. And as giving segues into giving up, then we’re starting 2008 with slightly less cars.

As I’ve alluded to Autumn is traditionally a dying time. Dead leaves fall to the ground, dead cats get buried underground except for Schrodinger’s of course. That animal, in my considerable experience, is neither alive or dead – rather extremely pissed off and ready for a frenzied kill.

Anyway, it seems the positive karma of adding ever more new frames to Al’s pantheon of benign insanity, has had a negative effect on other household transport. Specifically Carol’s car which, after ten years of constant abuse, has finally succumbed in a mechanically mirrored biorhythm of the long stiff mog. Small stuff started to go wrong before, one day, it emitted neither light nor sound regardless of the brutal electric shock treatment of the jump leads.

Anyway it’s suffered enough so we’re going to put it out of its’ misery and, until we’re safely back from New Zealand, we’ll be doing with just the one. This means more testicle shrivelling commuting for me, which is absolutely fine as it is about time I rediscovered my “Inner Notherner“. I’ve been far to nice to people lately, and I’m worried this may have set false expectations.

But come March, our new car buying strategy will be based on a continuing sexual innuendo purchasing approach. After the Wanga, we have a Jazz. Great little car, and I’ve already asked Carol if she would like a big pink one. Although the metaphor breaks down – a little – once I’d enquired if it’d take six inches of bulging frame in the rear.

* Yes I know it is officially winter. What of it? Accuracy is hardly the bedrock of the hedgehog is it? I’ve been cogitating. As in old-cogitating.