In short-sighted enthusiasm, I have recently dabbled in some DIY. I say dabbled, not because I did it tentatively, but because I went hammer-and-tongs but achieved very little. The bemoaned state of generation Y may have something to do with our poor practical skills and utter uselessness under the bonnet of a car. Nobly, I decided to turn this tide by drilling a few holes into the wall. It started well. After running around the house for twenty minutes pretending I was wielding an MP5 submachine gun, I was A for fucking AWAY. An hour later, after much flying plaster and cement, I had a few semi-straight holes which were deep enough to hold small screws and that plastic condomy thing that they like to wear. And miracle upon miracle, the screws actually held a picture upright. If this was Tool Time, I’d be off for a quick line or two to celebrate.
Fresh off this victory, I then looked around for something else to do. Hmm, how else can I make the world a better place? That’s when I saw them - the old nails. Nails that would change my life/afternoon forever. Just sitting there snug as a fuck. Like ingrown hairs. And I hate ingrown hairs - a scourge I have been liberated from since taking up wet shaving. But a shaving brush couldn’t help me here. The nails were mocking me - aged reminders of an ancient city and/or Bob Marley posters. Okay, I thought, I’m going to get my motherfucking pliers. And, much like a man who shovels a heap of wasabi into his mouth after mistaking it for guacamole, I realised too late that I was in for a bigger fight than I had anticipated. Indeed Hilti have designed a hat-less nail that, once casually smacked into a wall, is there to stay. Once that fucker is in, it’s harder to pull it out than it would be to pull Jennifer Lopez away from a narcissism sale, Samuel L. Jackson from a Motherfucking Convention or Nicholas Sparks from the fields in which he shamelessly harvests human emotion.
And, two magical minutes later, my reddened face was a-clutter with throbbing veins and a near-constant stream of profanities flew out of my spittle-flecked mouth. I took a deep breath. One motherfucker…. Two motherfucker….. Three motherfucker… Gathering myself towards myself, I indulged in a period of reflective meditation, considering the enlightened ways open to me. And then, I went to fetch my tool of higher consciousness – my hammer. Here we go, you Hilti schmuck. Now, remember, because it’s hatless, you can’t crowbar the little fucker out the wall. So, I decided that a highly inaccurate, but varied smashing approach would be most appropriate. And smash I did. I smashed up, I smashed down, I smashed left and I smashed right. But the Hilti is cunning. Not only is it hatless, but also highly flexible and all I achieved was to put Hilti into a series of complex yoga asanas. In addition, but quite coincidentally, I had also gouged a considerable crater in my perfect wall. Perhaps, it was time for the pliers again.
I steeled myself. With a Spartanic yank, I gave it all I had. And with elegant, poetic justice, the little bastard broke in half, leaving a little piece of himself out of reach but within sight. Utter and complete failure. Hours later, as I sat in pile of plaster and cement-dust, I thought Well, it could be worse. There could be more than three nails to go. Exhausted, more emotionally than physically, I rose to my feet, wiped the grimy tears from my cheek and picked up the hammer again.
Moral of the story. Forget Jimmy Carr and forget Ted Bundy. Hilti hatless nails are the devil.
Moral of the story. Forget Jimmy Carr and forget Ted Bundy. Hilti hatless nails are the devil.