I am man: hear me roar

Let's get this straight: while I am a man and am currently in possession of all the prerequisite manly bits, I do have one massive manly failing. And by that I mean I lack the general ability to do some specific manly things - no, not things like wrestle a bear to the ground or punch an elephant; I mean things like put some shelves up, or hang a picture. If you'd like me to pat you on the back when some food's gone down the wrong way or hold your hair back while you're being sick I can do that, but if you ask me to do anything nudging into the general area of DIY I'll more than likely give you a blank stare then call Sparky Pa, because he usually does those sort of things for me.

Although I expect he'd think it a bit weird if I asked him to put some shelves up for you because, quite frankly, as nice as you are he doesn't actually know you.

Anyway, this being the case, you'll excuse me for blowing my own trumpet seeing as I did something I consider to be terrifically manly last night.

The evening began with no hint of the testosterone-fuelled activity that was to follow. Basically, I was off round good ol' Skip's for a chilled out evening watching Better Off Ted, which, incidentally, is brilliant and you should check it out.

Soon after arriving, however, I made what I initially believed to be my fatal error: I asked if there was "anything I could do." I expected to be told to delicately arrange some Jammie Dodgers on a plate or just to sit on the sofa looking pretty, both of which I can do (although I definitely think I'm better at the Jammie Dodger arranging). What I did not expect was to be told to "get the fire going."

Obviously I was more than a tad anxious at being given this order because there were two ways I thought it could go: the first involved me being massively berated for extinguishing the few glowing embers that were sitting in the fireplace, while the second involved us standing out in the cold watching a bunch of firemen putting out an epic blaze that threatened to knock 1666's Great Fire of London into a cocked hat. But, being as Skip questions my masculinity enough as it is I just stiffened my quivering bottom lip and positioned myself by the fire.

As it turns out I needn't have worried, because it turns out making an awesome fire is a talent I didn't know I possessed, but I'm now seriously considering adding 'pyromaniac' to my CV because I got that thing going like you wouldn't believe. Without really wanting to give away the secrets of my flame-generating success, getting a quality fire going requires knowing exactly when to give it a good poke (something I'm reasonably well versed in, fnar fnar) and knowing the appropriate time to get a log-on without quashing your fledging flames. A bit of newspaper also helps, and depending on how you feel about setting fire to a tabloid this could also be regarded as a damning indictment on the state of journalism these days.

So anyway, as the flames licked higher and higher I couldn't help but feel awe-inspiringly manly. To be honest I was tempted to strip my shirt off and bask in the glow of my handiwork like a sweaty woodsman, but I figured that might've been my genial host's intention all along so I just ate another Jammie Dodger and asked after his cat.

I'm a fire-starter, twisted fire-starter.