OVER the years I have picked up more obscure injuries and ailments than would be reasonably expected for a man who spent much of his working life behind a desk.

I am the only person I know who has been scarred for life while changing a plug.

I decided I didn’t need my glasses for such a simple task, but the screwdriver slipped and ploughed a neat furrow into the back of my hand which remains to this day.

The thumb on the same hand bears the livid scar of having a fishing hook buried in it so deeply it had to be surgically removed, while the little finger is severely cicatriced after having a bus gearbox dropped on it.

There are more scars on my right hand, the result of a good deed when I spotted a stray lamb on the road while going to work one morning.

I managed to capture it and lift the struggling beast back into the field whence it had come.

A few days later, the skin started to slough off my hand in an alarming fashion, and the doctor told me I had managed to contract a virulent sheep disease called orf thanks to my magnanimity.

I have also managed to set fire to my trousers while still wearing them by standing too close to an electric fire one chilly day, but I broke new ground at the weekend when I virtually crippled myself when cutting a joint of beef.

I was happily watching Match of the Day on Saturday night when Mrs Hextol decreed that I should burrow into the freezer and liberate the large joint of beef we bought for Christmas, but never used.

It was too vast for a normal Sunday dinner, so she ruled that I should cut it in half.

It might have been easier trying to cut the freezer in two, for this chunk of prime meat, as thick as my thigh, was as solid as ebony.

As Shearer and Gullit pontificated on the box, I set to with the carving knife, and after five minutes of vigorous sawing, I had managed to make a slight impression on the plastic bag in which the joint was encased.

I had to take my jumper off as I warmed to the task, but after a lifetime of lifting nothing heavier than a pen, my puny arms were clearly not up to the task, and the joint was barely scratched.

Heavier artillery was clearly called for, so I nipped up to the garage for the bush saw and various other implements.

Alas, the bush saw was a little too rusty for the job, but I did find a hacksaw, which was
doing OK until the blade snapped.

By now the dog was taking a keen interest as friction started to melt the outer surface of the meat and release tempting odours, although I was still barely half an inch into the joint proper.

My amateurish sawing technique has long been
the subject of criticism from more horny-handed acquaintances.

I remember one once telling me pityingly when I was cutting logs : “You are only using your arms – if you put your whole body into it you will get through a lot quicker.”

With that in mind, I went into Mr Miyagi mode, summoning power from the soles of my feet, right through my body, into my right hand, and suddenly, to the dog’s delight, bits of bloody ice really started to fly.

My blade was a blur, and suddenly, I had two joints of beef instead of one.

Match of the Day had long since finished and Jim Bowen was extolling the virtues of a Teasmade as a prize on an ancient episode of Bullseye,
but I felt a real sense of achievement.

That dissipated at around 2.30am, when I woke in a hot sweat with shafts of searing agony coursing through my gluteus maximus.

It seems that all that energy direction had resulted in a pulled muscle in my left buttock and I was in real distress.

My thrashing about and pathetic moaning woke Mrs Hextol, who for some reason was a little testy rather than sympathetic to my plight.

A simple request to rub some Fiery Jack or other unguent into my aching muscle was met with a mighty harrumph and fluttering of the duvet, as she muttered: “If you think I’m rubbing cream into your bum at this time of night you’ve got another think coming.