Day 2

Last night I spent the evening trying to fix the somewhat lacklustre Internet Virgin Media kindly spunked through my letterbox last month. In the past I've been somewhat of a technical genius when it comes to plugging cables into things, but it seems I've met my match. Hunched sideways on the floor of the drafty hallway where our router resides left me feeling like a bonsai kitten, shaken, on the rocks. With a healthy splash of despair. Garnished with a weak metaphor.

Turns out the router I bought to replace the junk Virgin provided only has an RJ-11 ADSL WAN output, where I of course need an RJ-45 LAN output to connect to the Virgin modem box thing for full-on virgin cable MEGA-WAN. It's quite likely that you'll find the above to be insurmountable blabber, and that's entirely reasonable. In the same way a man like me will genuinely ask whether or not it's important to have those funny little bubble bits in the heels of running shoes, I can't reasonably expect other people to have any knowledge on tech junk. My standard pub quiz answer to anything sports related for example, is consistently "FOOTBALL" with a varying quantity of exclamation marks on the end.

But this is supposed to be my specialist subject, and despite that I've managed to buy a router which is entirely useless, before spending a good part of an hour fumbling around in a haze of wild profanity and misplaced optimism before unavoidably admitting that I don't really have a clue what I'm doing. Failure's one thing, but it's the painfully stereotypical nature of it that hurts most, as to me it seems worryingly like textbook 'DAD' behaviour.

I'll no doubt be revisiting the topic again in 2020, where I'll most likely be Cyber-Blog-Chastising youths for their neuro-implants and hoverboard antics, and stoically maintaining that I'm perfectly capable of fixing my own Skynet. Don't touch it son - you'll break it.