We all know what they say about men with big pressure washers

It may no longer be politically correct to admit this, but we all know the mark of a man is the equipment he keeps in his toolbox. And mine's a bobby dazzler.

I've just been up to Leicestershire to buy a new jet wash, and it now feels that my life is complete. Bright yellow – any man knows that all the best tools are bright yellow – it discharges water like an assault rifle. Just a quick squeeze on the trigger, and any dirt that stands in its way quickly finds itself blasted into orbit. This is the mother of all pressure washers.

Let's face it, some technology is cool, some of it is not. It's why I can never understand young people who think nothing about blowing a monkey on a mobile phone or games console, and then get excited by the latest touchscreen or talk unintelligible gobbledegook about gigabytes and megs. Don't they realise that true satisfaction is measured in PSI, and the size of your motor?

I suppose, if I really wanted to impress people – well other overgrown schoolboys at least – I could boast that my reason for travelling to the East Midlands was because that's the only place you can get a washer with this much firepower. But it wouldn't be strictly true, as you can buy them pretty much anywhere. The real reason I went to Leicestershire was because I got it on the cheap, £95 below the normal list price, and I can be really stingy when I want to be.

And boy, was it worth the effort.

My old pressure washer was good. Very good, in fact. It had, after all, served me for 18 years. But this one is something else. Like comparing the Barcelona football team to Queen's Park Rangers. While my old washer tended to leave the patio flooded after use, the sheer force of the jet means this one doesn't actually need that much water. The feeling of power and control, the sense of exhilaration at blasting away every speck of dirt is truly intoxicating. It's even better than my reciprocal saw.

My new jet-wash actually got my patio clean in about 10 minutes, but I was having so much fun I just couldn't put it away. So I spent the next half hour swaggering around the back garden like John Wayne, waggling my 3ft wand about like a light sabre. Occasionally I found the odd stray bit of dirt which I had missed, and with a gentle squeeze of the trigger it was gone. I'm easily pleased like that.

A few days later, I decided to give the garage roof a blast, without having to actually climb on top of it. My mighty machine's range is so good you can do it from indoors, just connect it to a bathroom tap, and point the jet out the window. Probably best to check the postman isn't down below, first though.

It's probably also a good idea to check you have shut the kitchen door, too. I hadn't, and later realised that all the moss I had blasted off the roof of the garage was now splattered around the kitchen.

Still, it's an interesting learning curve.

The real problem came, though, when it was time to put the new toy back in its box. Disconnecting most of the attachments was easy enough, pushing and twisting the spring-loaded connectors which detached with a satisfying Germanic thunk. But nothing would shift the connector which linked the hose to the front of the machine. Not even my big adjustable spanner, with a rubber-covered handle. Nothing.

The surge of machismo I had been enjoying just a few minutes earlier drained away in an instant, I couldn't even undo a nut on the front of my own pressure washer.

Suddenly, I experienced the sense of inadequacy I always feel whenever I visit the tip. I'm sure you've felt the same, looking around in envy at all the Real Men in steel boots and hard hats, hurling great lengths of lead piping from the back of their giant pick-ups and 4x4s. And there's me sheepishly trying to lift an old ironing board out of my dainty silver soft-top.

Still, all's well that ends well, and I eventually succeeded in disconnecting my reinforced hosepipe. By wedging the nut in the vice on the garage workbench, and twisting the whole machine until it came free.

Like I say, the mark of a man is judged by the equipment in his toolbox. And the vice in his garage. And we all know what they say about men with big pressure washers.