I have become addicted to – and dependent on – learning how to do things from YouTube. It is akin to a free bottomless pit of TAFE.
There are countless advantages, but the undeniable downside is that the Tube-stars make perfection look easy. And beware – those free video clips can get very expensive.
Just follow these few simple steps, they promise, and ‘voila!’ there it is. Like magic.
They do not show us how many botched attempts or countless edits happened before the end product, nor the years of training and finessing that preceded delivering that glowing result. And only some of them disclose the product placement or brand sponsorships.
It is like watching the match highlights of elite football compared to the local kids down at the park, or glamorous movie stars in erotic love scenes compared to …
As well as these incessant YouTube viewings provoking chronic inadequacy and utter despair, it has also lured me into the trap of thinking that fancy new tools will mean I too will be able to perform like the ‘Tubesters’ do.
Years ago, our eldest son demanded a pair of Nike Air Jordans – the world’s most expensive shoes – insisting he could not possibly be expected to take to the basketball court unless he had the proper gear. As if the shoe assures success.
I need to keep reminding myself that a hundred years ago, the original coachbuilders of my vintage car did not have any of the tools I have and yet they could still achieve perfectly fitting joints and curves.
Attempting ‘finger joints’ for the A-pillar on the wooden frame for the boat-tail 1926 Citroen ‘Caddy’ was proving impossible with just hand tools. Well, in my hands they were impossible.
I spent hours – no, days – sawing and carving away at big bits of expensive American ash, succeeding only in just turning big bits in to smaller misshapen bits of American ash, and piles of shavings.
Using a slightly crusty old dovetail saw, blunt hand chisels and some old Sheffield Steel rasps and files scavenged from under my late father’s workbench, I mangled and mutilated piece after piece of hard timber to create what was supposed to become a strong and robust frame upon which to eventually shape the Citroen’s svelte steel or aluminium panels.
There will be no photos in this magazine of the abominations that ensued. I still have my pride to protect. The first epiphany came when trying to sharpen Dad’s old chisels.
He had years ago made beautiful individually crafted and decorated rocking horses for each grandchild with these same tools, so they must be good, I thought.
I had an oilstone sharpener but only a vague idea what to do with it. YouTube to the rescue. I soon lashed out and found a second-hand Veritas sharpening and honing jig on Facebook Marketplace (what a devious trap and dangerous invention that is) and learned that the angle of attack to the sharpener is critical, and above all else must be consistent. Which is very hard – if not impossible – by hand alone.
And then … Eureka! It turns out that chisels do not need to be mercilessly belted to slice through wood. I am not quite at the stage of achieving smooth translucent shavings peeling off like butter, but am well ahead of where I started. I also invested in a wet-stone sharpener, but baulked at the extravagance of a Tormek set-up.
Marrying 100-year-old warped and twisted timber to new material means the starting point is far from square. Epiphany No2 … I could make square finger joints out of the new wood and marry the complete joints to the old timber, creating a strong union elsewhere on the riser other than within the finger joint.
Scrolling through instructional video after video, and ignoring the irritatingly avuncular good ’ol boys in denim belt ’n brace overalls sounding like an ad either for Kentucky bourbon or another invasion of the US Congress, I eventually found one that inspired my next adventure.
under way…
A table saw equipped with a home-made cross-cut sled would achieve the deep finger joints required – between 50mm and 75mm deep, much deeper than a router can deliver.
Excited, I revived the aged Metabo table saw bought years ago in a garage sale, but hardly ever used. After dusting it off, I discovered the guide fence was broken and could not be locked – my cuts could never be square.
So this is how a six-minute free tutorial on YouTube cost me a thousand dollars. The YouTube algorithm, sensing my frustration, was endlessly bombarding me with ads for post-Christmas sales at the local tool shop. Since Santa ignored my dreams and I got only socks and hankies, I rationalised that this was the perfect time to treat myself to a new table saw.
YouTube made a tool out of me.