Delusions of Home

According to Wikipedia, "the Battle of the Molger was a rearguard action performed by the retreating German 5^th Army at the Molger River in former Yugoslavia against the encroaching Soviet divisions in the closing stages of World War Two. A single reduced and under-supplied company of German Infantry held a bridge in the village Bathhausen for three days, allowing enough time for General Steiner’s battered 5th to regroup with the 12^th under Monke for a desperate push towards Moscow."

Because if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.

The actual Battle of the Molger just took place in my bathroom. People who know about these things will tell you that when you’re feeling under the weather, there is nothing more relaxing than neat gin and assembling some Ikea furniture in the middle of the night. In this case, the item in question was a Molger tower... ...stand... thing. Alright, I’m not entirely sure what it was or why I bought it, but people need something to hang their towels off and it’s unrealistic to expect me to maintain an erection for that long. So I’m using it as a towel holder, regardless of what those heathen scientists of woodcraft actually designed it for. It has been one of the most stressful experiences of my entire life today.

That awkward moment when you realize "This is going to be a fucking bloodbath."

Like all DIY experts, I assemble flatpack furniture in the same way I make love. There is a timid attempt to work out the instructions and make sure you have the right pieces, followed by a lot of cursing, some furious hammering and a lingering sense of guilt and inadequacy that you have so many bits left over. I’m pleased to say that today was no different, and my neighbours must assume that whatever transpired in my bathroom this evening was somewhere between a surprise rectal exam and shoeing a horse. If household furniture could look disillusioned whist smoking a post-coital cigarette it would be a dark mirror of everything I have ever loved.

But then again, I don’t know anyone who is good at putting together flat pack furniture. I know people who can make a passable effort so long as you don’t try and move it or tap the lid twice before opening the second drawer because otherwise the entire thing falls apart as if all the wood in the world had chosen that moment to turn into sand. It seems maliciously designed to break, which wouldn’t be so bad if someone else who didn’t give a shit about you and your delusions of 21^st century living had built it in Satan's warehouse. But they didn’t. You fucking built it, and putting it together in the hope it would look nice was so noble yet so utterly unachievable it was like trying to touch the face of God. 

Right now, you're reading this and thinking 'Yeah, but I can assemble flatpacks', so let me clear that one up.

No, you can't. 

You're lying to yourself, and deep down you know it. It's a bloody scourge, and even if you pull off a passable piece of kit it's not even functional. It's fake, cosmetic. With it's shiny finish and perfectly angular edges, the entire point is that furniture such as that is meant to be looked at, not used. That's why every single piece of it comes marketed with boxes and compartments - places to hide all your other shit without it coming into contact with the furniture itself. It's like having a car you never drive, just sitting there for people to admire. It's a thing. Why else would a passably rational human being like myself inexplicably have a bowl full of glass pebbles on my coffee table? Why I seriously examined the idea of getting a gusset load of long twigs to put in a glass vase? Presumably because the people I am trying to emulate live in Ikea showrooms and I want them to come round to my house and say "Well fuck me Steve, what a nice bunch of twigs."

It's not real, it's just a statement of intent. It's wood acting like furniture.

Anyway, now I have a place to put the towels I don't yet own, and if I ever find one of you peasants in my bathroom fucking with my shelving unit so help me god I will cut off your hands and feed them to your as-yet-unborn children. Presuming the rack lasts longer than the required nine months without falling apart, that is.