I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE

I AM THE KING OF THE JUNGLE, I am the BIG CHEESE, I am Superman flying faster than a speeding bullet, I am KING KONG beating his chest at the top of the Empire State Building, I ROAR and the world quivers, I am John Wayne killing injuns, I AM THE ALMIGHTY bow down before me.

Yes I, Me, myself, fixed the washing machine last night and now it’s working perfectly.

Emergency plumbers, bicycle repair men and washing machine ‘engineers’ I sneer at you. Look at my sneer smeared all over my face, you are humiliated – non?

These vexed machines with their built in obsolescence are no match for me. Deftly using the tools at hand – to wit- one table knife, I deftly took off the back of the machine, despite not having the special (so called) tool needed for the job and then using my great powers of deduction proceeded to deduce what was wrong.

Symptom: machine not agitating, revolving, undulating, gyrating, spinning, thus leaving clothes a soggy mess in puddle on kitchen floor and (here’s a clue) the Fairy sachet of liquid undisolved. The plot thickens.

Using my enormous powers of recall I also remembered that over the past weeks the said machine had been squealing like a pregnant pig in the throws of a breech birth to twins. And wobbling about a bit on the spin cycle.

The Diagnosis: It’ll be a broken belt I muttered under my breath as I deftly unscrewed the screws from the backplate. First one screw then the next and the next. The tension rises in the kitchen, my wife paces the floor wringing her hands, humming some sad Russian dirge from the Eurovision song contest 1956. My knife slips off the screw and with a grating screech marks the white surface of the machine. My wife falls to the floor. No she hasn’t fainted she’s slipped on a gherkin rind. We breathe again. Then at last like Indiana Jones lifting the lid of the Ark of the Covenant, the backplate is free. Alas no white smoke or blinding light emits from the cracks, there’s just the dull clank of the metal back hitting the floor.

I sit back on my haunches, knife held at the ready in front of me. But no, no further tinkering has to be done. Because there, on the floor, like a coiled serpent, lies the cause of the problem. Yes it’s the belt. My instincts had held true. I poked it gently with the knife, even though I could see that it had been shredded, it had given its life for the family. We mourned, well we didn’t really I just thought YES! No Washing Machine repairman will darken this doorstep! Sucking in their cheeks and gauging how much they can take us for, using their inbuilt mug-o-meter to calculate the cost of the ‘repair’! NOT TODAY Sunny Jim. You have been shafted by Moi! O How the worm turns, not that I am a worm by any means, its just a saying , you understand!

Its Shakespeare I’m just being a bit literary in the middle of all this drama, like an intermission of sorts, just to keep the tension:

Here you go:
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.'" Henry VI, Part 3,

Anyway, I digress, A quick email to this company Ace Domestic (to whom I will give a major recommendation to) and the new part was delivered the next day – cheap too!

Prognosis. Clean Pants from now on!

I am the EGGMAN, I are the EGGMAN, I AM the WALRUS goo goo ga jube

No I don’t know what it means either.

Have a good weekend!