If Russell Crowe can be a knit, so can I! How one man tried knitting lessons to cure his clumsiness

By Vincent Graff
Updated: 04:11 EDT, 30 December 2009

Frankly, I'm an utter failure at traditional DIY. I'm so clumsy that my wife is the only person allowed to use a hammer or a drill in our flat.

Ours is an unconventional marriage - she wields the screwdriver and I fix the dinner.

But, after years of searching, I think I may have found a form of do-it-yourself that I can handle - and just in time to make it a New Year's resolution.

Tutor Steph Vickers attempts to teach Vincent Graff the art of knitting

My new hobby is a thoroughly manly activity - look at the sharp and deadly tools you need! Like woodwork, the results are tangible and useful.

Like gardening, it's all about putting in the groundwork. And like nothing else I've done for ages, it impresses women. (Er, women of pensionable age, that is.)

I'm sitting in the middle of the haberdashery department of the Peter Jones department store, in Chelsea, West London, in a strictly men-only class, learning how to knit.

The idea is that, together with fellow students Robert and Gavin, I will get good enough to knit birthday presents for my nearest and dearest.

What could be better in these belt-tightening times than a few home-made scarves? Or a knitted iPod cover? 

An hour in, I'm waving around two huge wooden knitting needles - they're more like giant chopsticks, in fact - with the confidence of Andre Previn after a few too many cocktails.

Dangling from my needles is an inch-and-a-half of chunky blue knitting: real knitting - the start of a scarf, since you ask - just like the stuff that used to hang from Grandma Queenie's needles when I was a young lad.

Russell Crowe and Scarlett Johansson are both knitting fans

Of course, in her day knitting was what old ladies did. Now it's the preserve of the stars - haven't you heard that Brad Pitt knits? And Russell Crowe? No wonder that Peter Jones thinks it's time to spread the word among ordinary blokes.

But I'm running away with myself. A few short minutes ago, things looked a little less optimistic.

My teacher is design consultant Steph Vickers, a sweet and patient 27-year-old who learned to knit when she was seven. She now knits before work, at work, and on the train home from work. ('I have short needles so that I don't jab them into people.')

First of all, we must pick our wool. I opt for a thick, hairy yarn of merino in steel blue. 'The thicker it is, the faster you'll get something made,' says Steph.

Next we must 'cast on' - in layman's terms, get the wool on to the needle. This involves making a slip knot (how I wish I'd been in the Boy Scouts) and is trickier than I like to admit.

'You leave the yarn hanging around the front of your hand, take it round your hand once, move it to the side, put your finger under the loop and pull through,' says Steph, as if what she's saying makes perfect sense.

I watch her do it three, four, five times. Finally I grab the correct bits and my wool is firmly attached.

Very timidly, I repeat this over and over, until there is a row of stitches on my left needle.

And here's a good thing about knitting - you can be as competitively male as you like.

'I've got six stitches,' says Robert after a few moments, staring at my measly four.

'It's not a competition,' I tell him. Though of course I change my mind a few minutes later, when his stitches fall off the end of his needle and I'm suddenly thrust into an unassailable lead - two full rows ahead, by my count.

My success is down to a crucial technique. I talk as I knit, describing every move I'm making. Knitting, in case you didn't know, is simply: 'Through. Round. Down. Pop it off the top.'

By obsessively chanting this mantra, not only am I able to concentrate totally on the process of knitting, but I'm also able to throw my rival knitmen into utter confusion.

It is as if Sir Alex Ferguson were on the sidelines shouting at the top of his voice to a striker from a rival team: 'Left foot. Right foot. Run. Aim. Kick!'

They wouldn't get many goals scored, would they? And Robert and Gavin seem to be falling behind in the Knitting Premiership.

The bottom line is though I'm not yet an expert, after just an hour I know how to knit and purl - the two basic types of stitch - and cast on (casting off, where you finish your piece by linking the stitches so they don't run, can come later).

I'll never have to buy another jumper again! Think of all the money I'll save.

Er. . . except I won't. This ball of wool I'm using costs £7.50.

How much, I ask Steph, will I have to spend in order to knit myself a home-made sweater? 'Probably around £80,' she reckons.

And how much does Peter Jones charge for a ready-made version of the same thing?

It sells a lovely woollen jumper, of the sort that I'd be lucky to be able to make after five years' practice, for £69.

So much for beating the recession. But who cares?

I've beaten Robert and Gavin. And that - in the competitive world of men's knitting - is what really matters.