Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, March 30, 2007

The Lord Giveth

I don't know where the falsehood of handymen being Adonises with a low-slung toolkit came from, but it's really annoying that it's not real. Reality and the Diet Coke Break rarely go together in my opinion - and whereas you'd get some glorious tousled-haired hunk to 'fix your plumbing' on TV, you're more likely to get some nondescript functionary with a face like his hammer-honed thumb when you call in a handyman. And yes, Desperate Housewives, thank you for perpetuating the myth.
I didn't even bother doing my hair when we were due to get the landlord's functionary pop over and fix the blocked sink in the bathroom, impermeable due to too much hair from my beard-trimming and too much clumped KY and 'Just For Men' from the housemate. But when I opened the door, there was an absolute vision; there stood my new future husband. Oh Freddie was just glorious - a voice like gravel and flint-blue eyes, he told me all about my u-bend and how he'd have to 'get down on his knees and give it a good shunt to fix it.' Why dear viewer, I was smitten. Terrible, terrible things ran through my head as he crouched down there to bang on my pipe; I saw dirty rough sex happening right there on the bathroom rug and - even worse - me getting used to that hideous tea he'd asked to be made. The dusty box of PG Tips one we only get out when someone really common comes over.

Freddie left with a cheeky grin, a 'wotcha, mate' and a spontaneous swooning from me as I slid down the closed door following his exit. Oh, dear viewer, I'm not ashamed to admit that the whole experience changed me. I took to hanging around caf├ęs - and not the nice ones with doilies and a decent selection of GI finger foods. No, the ones with the wipe clean tablecloths and the pictures of the Queen in a splash-proof clipframe. I couldn't look at a chipped mug without catching my breath. And once I had to be escorted out of Homebase after I turned into the hand tool isle and yelling 'He shall be mine!' over and over again. I did get off with a caution there, but only as I sweet-talked the manager and saying that using Girls Aloud's 'Love Machine' was inspired in their advertising. You know, as Nicola has a face like chipboard anyway.

I became a little destructive around the house - banging doors far too hard, dropping too many things down the sink - in the hope a blockage or repair job will be needed and my power-tooled prince would ride up again in his white van. It was only a matter of time; and when a cupboard door needed rehanging, I was straight on to the phone to the landlord, straightening my hair and dabbing a bit of aftershave where he'd get to smell it the best - behind my ears, and then the back of my knees just to be sure.

But lo. When the van turned up, Freddie it was not. Framed in my doorway was some eighty-year-old tea-swilling Baltic navvy who went on to leave our front parlour reeking of cigarillos and body odour. However were going to get the smell out of our antimacassars is a mystery to me.

"Oh," I said.

"I here... I here to fix your carpentry," he said and let himself into the kitchen, his english as broken as his teeth.

"Where's Freddie?" I asked, checking the window to see whether my beau was in the fragrant wake of the handyman. Maybe lifting something heavy. In a white vest. And a low-slung toolbelt.

"He got another job today."

I bet he has. Some harpy down the road dishing out her finger fancies as much as her favours, I'd say. Some people have no shame. I whipped the creme horns off the coffee table before his beady Baltic eyes caught sight of them and pointed the gentleman to my battered woodwork.

I felt numb. My Freddie had shunned me. My heart was as cold as the Krug chilling in the fridge.

"I... I missing a screw," came a muttering from the workman.

I fluffed my housecoat about me, clutching the lapels together with my other hand. "You're telling me," I said.


Jane said...


Fin De Fichier said...

Tres amusant! My winner for "most obscure blue collar hottie encountered" was a liquid nitrogen delivery guy. Sean from Airgas, you know who you are!

Mr J said...


Nick said...

I've been chatting up a very rugged but sweet BT engineer on Gaydar. Despite the fact he doesn't do call outs to my part of London, he's still offered to come around and make sure everything is plugged in good and proper.

I might get him to wear those little tool belts whilst we go over my access points. Ring-a-ding!

kelly ripafart said...

bummer! i also get ugly fucking repair guys.

Howard said...

I'm always disappointed by the Ocado men. You'd think that Waitrose would send nice, handsome, clean-cut men, not ersatz navvies with sweat-marks.

Ms C Qrisp said...

Such people ought not be allowed to work in the service industry if they're not prepared to deliver

In the circumstances, one suggests practicing a little DIY

Qenny said...

Oh, bless!

You could try moving to Aberdeen and having faulty electrics. For there is at least one absolutely jaw-droppingly hot sparky who works in that locale. He used to come and mend things for us when I worked down the Gala bingo. No, really.

Anonymous said...

A brilliant post!


Spike said...

What Miss Crisp said.

They could at least get a back-sac-crack. Or wash.

Gonzo said...

I had a cute locksmith coming around once. The problem was with my bedroom door, so I just layed on the bed looking at him sorting the door out and picturing scenes of a sexual nature together. bless.
I then realised he was armed with an electric screwdriver, so it was safer to fix his tea and let him do his job.