My mate, Jack of all trades, master of none

Jack of All Trades

Jack, his real name John, wasn’t one for trade certifications. “What’s the point?” he’d say, waving a dismissive hand at sitting in a classroom or taking tests. His lack of skills wasn’t the problem; Over the years, he’d picked up some of everything: plumbing, carpentry, electrics, even auto repair. But ask him to prove it with a certificate, and he’ll laugh you out of the room.

During the early 1990s, I worked with John on many jobs. I learned skills such as painting, decorating, building fences, hanging wallpaper, a spot of varnishing, and French polishing. John paid well, and the work rolled in. I remember a house renovation. The electricity was off, but John told me to wait outside for the NEEB (North Eastern Electricity Board) certification manager to arrive. John had bypassed the Metres board and connected the electricity to start work. Whether the NEEB Safety man said much, I wasn’t privy to the conversation, but what John did was illegal.

John?had a knack for quick fixes. “Why replace it when I can patch it up in ten minutes?” he’d say. And his customers? They loved him for it. When Mrs. Brown’s leaky tap turned her kitchen into a paddling pool, John was there with a roll of duct tape and an old wrench. When Mr Singh’s garden gate fell off its hinges, John didn’t fuss over measurements—he grabbed a few spare screws from his toolbox and had it swinging in no time.

“Perfection is for people with too much time on their hands,” John liked to joke. “Me? I get things done.”

His approach could only go so far. Once, he helped a local cafe with their broken fryer. It worked for a week before catching fire during the breakfast rush. Another time, he rewired a friend’s garage lights, only for the entire house to lose power during a thunderstorm.

His reputation for quick fixes preceded him. Some people praised him as a lifesaver—others whispered about his “five-minute magic” that sometimes caused more problems than it solved. John cared little for the chatter. “I do what needs doing,” he’d shrug. “If you want it perfect, call someone with a certificate.”

One day, a local shop called him. Their front door wouldn’t close. John looked at the crooked hinges, grabbed a hammer, and got to work. Ten minutes later, the door closed just fine—if you didn’t mind the splinters where he’d shaved down the edge.

“Good as new!” John declared.

The shop manager, a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties, gave him a sceptical look. “It’ll do for now,” she said. “But we’ll need someone to fix it properly.”

“That’s the beauty of my work,” John replied with a grin. “It’s always good for now.”

I know she called no one out to inspect the job.

For all his shortcuts and half-measures, John had carved out a niche for himself. He wasn’t the guy you called for long-term solutions or intricate craftsmanship. But he was the first name on your list when you needed something patched up fast.

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” John often said, tipping his cap as he headed to his next job. “But hey, sometimes all you need is a jack.”