Apologies for swearing in an opening sentence, but have you seen the shitbastard sky we've been having lately? In case you don't recognise it at first glance, it's that bruise-coloured ceiling of floating misery that has been remorselessly flinging cold water over everyone and everything in the nation for weeks now. There's moss growing on the inside of clouds up there. The British summer has long been a work of bleak fiction but this year it morphed into full-blown dystopian satire.

Oh, there are flashes of blue here and there, but they function much like the speedboat prize at the end of a vintage episode of Bullseye: nothing but a cruel reminder of what you could have won. So the weather turns nice for 25 minutes in the late afternoon. You put your sunglasses on and step outside. But by the time you reach the end of the street, the winds are howling, the heavens are weeping, and it's frosted piss city all round.

On and on it goes. It's got to the point where pulling back the curtains each morning feels like waking up in jail. No, worse: like waking up inside a monochrome Czechoslovakian cartoon about waking up in jail. The outdoor world is illuminated by a weak, grey, diseased form of light that has fatally exhausted itself crawling through the gloomy stratospheric miasma before perishing feebly on your retinas. Everything is a water feature. We're on the Planet of the Snails. Cameron's Britain.

How to fix it? How? There must be a way. And we'd better work it out quickly, before the world arrives for the Olympics and wonders why we're trying to hold it underwater. They may as well have awarded the games to the lost city of Atlantis. Something has to be done.

Here's a suggestion. We manufacture a giant bathsponge. Picture something huge. Immense. No, bigger than that. The size of Canary Wharf. OK. And we glue that wharf-sponge to the back of the biggest aeroplane we can find – a Dreamliner should do it. The Dreamliner-Wharfsponge hybrid takes off and flies directly into the heart of the biggest cloud it can find, soaking it all up because that's what sponges do (you can't accuse me of not thinking this through). Then the plane flies over the Atlantic and jettisons the sponge. Would that work? Even if it absolutely definitely won't, it's still worth a go from a psychological perspective. Britain needs this.

OK – I concede that the weather is a big thing to fix, and consequently it's unlikely someone as mud-brained as I could possibly come up with a workable solution. I'm hopeless at solving complex puzzles. Don't ask me to fix the economy, or the Middle East, or a problem like Maria. Millions of human lives are blighted by monumental issues I scarcely understand. Other columnists sometimes propose carefully considered solutions for these problems. I am not one of them. But small annoyances: those I can do.

I recently held an impromptu and determinedly unscientific survey to discover which minor irritations trouble people the most. "Stubbing your toe" was top of the list, closely followed by "stepping on an upturned plug" and "accidentally biting the inside of your mouth". I reckon I can solve all three of these bugbears for good. Thank me later.

The reason you stub your toe is simple: you temporarily forgot you have toes. That's OK, it's perfectly natural. You forget much bigger things all the time. Until I mentioned it in this sentence, you'd sort of forgotten you had a head, hadn't you? It's this lack of awareness that leads to stubbed toes, feet-on-plugs, and bitten oral walls. Until you adopt a permanent state of hyper-consciousness, these problems are going to keep cropping up. The only way to ensure you'll never stub a toe or tread on a plug socket (or a Lego block) again is to walk around blindfolded. That way, you'll get used to carefully stretching an exploratory foot out in front of you rather than steaming in without a care in the world.

Biting the inside of your mouth, or your tongue, is similar. You weren't paying attention to what your teeth were doing, and they responded by attacking you. You need to treat them with respect. So why not slip a small piece of broken glass into whatever you're eating? That way, you won't just sit there mindlessly chomping like a dog. You'll pick through everything methodically, using your tongue and teeth as delicately as a dollhouse knife and fork, cautiously examining each morsel for the deathshard prior to enswallowment. Every meal will become a white-knuckle tiptoe through a minefield; not only will you be mindful of every mouthful, but simply clearing your plate will become a life-affirming triumph.

You might complain that I haven't really come up with practical solutions here. You might go further, claiming this entire column is idle whimsy masquerading as outright bollocks. You might be right. My brain isn't functioning correctly due to a chronic lack of sunlight. Fortunately, yours isn't functioning correctly either, which is why you read it through to the end. And then punched yourself in the face.

Yeah you did. You're about to do it now. Close your eyes. Brace yourself.