Being a real man

Today I got to use some tools, and smash things, thus securing my status as a real man. I suppose really I should have had a steak and chips, and then shouted at a televised football match, but I didn't want to rush things. You don't want to go committing yourself to a surfeit of manliness on Monday. Otherwise, what will you have left to look forward to for the rest of the week?

A friend was moving home, and had a wardrobe that was surplus to requirements. Thankfully I've got hex keys and a socket set, so we were well equipped to dismantle the mighty Ikea clothing container.

This started off fairly easily, but eventually we had to remove the back of the wardrobe, and I hadn't been quite manly enough to bring a claw hammer. Disaster! The back was nailed on, and we were without tools to remove it.

Luckily, Ikea wardrobes aren't as sturdy as other items of furniture, and with one swift application of my foot the back of the wardrobe swung right off.

I liked that. There's something wonderful about smashing furniture.

However, because the back of the wardobe had been against a wall, in Hong Kong, without sufficient ventilation, for a year. In Hong Kong. For a year.

I'm trying to say that there was more mould on it than inside a mature Stilton. I'm still worried that by being near to it I've absorbed medical efficacious quantities of penecillin when I don't really need it, and as a result I'm breeding a lethal superbug that will put an end to mankind.

All because I wanted a free wardrobe. What a fool I was. Nothing is free in this world, particularly not deceptively heavy Ikea wardrobes.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to hold my hands at arm's length, but I couldn't seem to keep them quite far enough away from my body to feel happy about the situation. But now we do have a dismantled wardrobe of our very own.

Which we haven't removed from the apartment we took it apart in yet.

So I suppose today I've explored elastic conceptions of ownership, and embraced my testosterone-laden inner identity. And I bought the Kick-Ass comic book, only to have the upsetting realisation that just like Layer Cake, the film was rather superior to the original work it was adapted from.

Curse you, Matthew Vaughn. When will I learn about your sneaky tendency to turn base material into gold, and stop being impressed enough by the end result to buy the original.

Never mind though, one day I'll find the novelisation of The Transporter 3 and all will be well.