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PLUMB SILLY
I am about to relate actual events that punctuated my week. Some characters in this bizarre theatre will resemble living persons but bear no similarity to their job description whether they have a uniform or not.
I walked into my downstairs loo last week. Not an unlikely occurrence. I visit often, when answering calls of nature. Walking in is never a problem. Getting out can be a dilemma as British water closets were designed for bulimic pygmies who still have to reverse out. My over nourished frame makes 'parking', a delicate operation. If I am too hasty, the proximity of the thimble sized sink, would sometimes find occasion to thud my 'funny bone' and simultaneously the toilet roll holder would ritually gouge my left lower cheek turning the experience into a bloodbath more akin to an unedited version of the 'Passion of Christ'.
Well, we all have our cross to bear.
Our Lord had plenty of room for his ablutions. According to Hebrew custom (Leviticus is so much fun to read. Who needs a crossword when the good book can be read in case you run out of paper?) had had to put a stick in the ground to mark where he had just done his 'business'. Apparently, a rather quaint regulation derived from the beginnings of the Mosaic Law on Jewish hygiene. A maxim that Moses enforced, after having to lead 3 million Israelites through the wilderness, when it seemed, the person in front, felt some 'downward pressure'. Imagine the guy at the back, playing 'hopscotch' because of thousands of trouser indiscretions in his immediate path? No chemical toilets in those days.
I must emphasise, that there is no point in 'laying a cable' or, putting a stick as a reminder for others, if you end up just 'disturbing' it again. 'Number two's' never really smell, until you start mucking about with them. Anyway. Why put a stick where you have just been, without the 'wearers' name on it? For example: If you are innocently out one day 'stoning' somebody in bible times, and you mistake a rock for some stale and hardened pooh, who can you blame, if the stick is blank? So: a word of advice. If you are 'caught short' while walking the dog, always carry some 'named' white markers with other peoples names and phone numbers on it. Nobody will ever guess it was you. Remember, of course, to tie the dog up first, as the pet may easily volunteer to be your 'wet-wipe' instead of a handy-sized dock leaf.
Look. This is not a jibe against ancient Hebrew toiletry habits. But, 'cleanliness is next to Godliness' and the early Christians were obsessed with it. If a woman was menstruating she was considered 'unclean' for seven days. The poor woman was ostracised for a week. They also bled their meat and would not eat split hooved animals. There were over 3000 laws making up the Covenant on about every facet of healthy living and strictly adhered to. No wonder Jesus came to replace this complicated set of regimes with one ultimate law. "To love thy neighbour."…. Still, didn't help the bloke at the back, did it? No wonder, every other passage in the bible is about having your feet washed. I'm not surprised. Those sandals leak, you know? 'Wellies' were not invented yet, and they would only make your feet smell in the desert. Noah, could have put them to good use. Rain for forty days and nights, and a ship full of shit.
I digress. During my rather 'regular' excursion to the 'Trap 1', I noticed on this occasion, the air a little 'fusty'. This was so, before I used it. "Funny" I thought, "I don't remember eating that!" It was a curious scent. Like, those strange people who insist on using bath flannels. The sort of tiny towelling that ends up brown and crispy and so rigid you can lean them against fences after drying. So stiff, that when you fold them into four, they spring open with force of a shooting clay catapult when you are not around. The same smell that matches a mixture of rather 'odious odours'. You know, public phone mouthpieces, or 'Cheese Quavers' that have recently been lightly rubbed on a prostitute's armpit. Likening to the whole world's collection of teenagers old training shoes that have been left in a Kew Garden greenhouse to rot. What could be worse than that? Ok, if the teenagers were still wearing them, I suppose.
That stale gust from a tube tunnel exhaust before it arrives or perhaps, the stench of a dirty wet pub ashtray. Or, that stuff you apply for pubic lice.
But this was my downstairs toilet we are talking about. No sign of the 8.30 to Charing cross here.
As I 'assumed the position' and thoughtfully, lifted the lid with careful aim, I jumped (oops) with the realisation that the musty dank smell was closer to home than just my toilet. The smell reminded me of Rosemary Reynolds in primary school. She had green teeth that rhymed perfectly with a permanently green candle from her 'bugle'. I suddenly, had not so fond flashbacks of this grimy girl eating her own knee scabs, with her head hair visibly moving. She used to smell like a cross between potting compost and the bottom of a wheelie bin. Why was Rosemary back in my toilet with my flies open?
It was a claggy, gagging, mildew smell. You know, the sort that follows people to bingo and back again, to their day centres. I snapped Mr Midnight back, into his hutch, and started to smell every inch of the porcelain area. My wife and I like a pristine home, so I was not afraid to check for any water damage in every nook and cranny. I sniffed as I went, eventually jamming myself between the wall and the cistern. I called for help and the rest of my family dragged me out by my feet.
I adjusted my dress. (I was in jeans actually) And started to forage under the kitchen sink for various tools amongst a plethora of ironmongery, and there, amongst a trusty arsenal of perfectly useless 'never know when you might need it ' items, was a crowbar.
"It looks like I may have a bit of a leak." I lamented to Andrea, my understandably adoring wife.
"I thought you had just been?" She said missing my gist.
Giving her a wry smile I wielded the jemmy in a playful but threatening way, as she stepped aside.
This, I thought was my moment to prove what weekends are for? To spend your entire leisure time fixing things, that you quite, evidently, I had not broken.
Conveniently, I was a man, (and "what I can't do, nobody can") and would inevitably produce an early diagnosis. I pulled back the horseshoe carpet, tearing chunks from my thumbs from those strips of spikes that, not only remained hidden, but had patiently laid in wait for 14 years for the opportunity to sever a main artery, or worse, slide up my fingernail.
"Yow", I blared, frightening 'nosy' Rosie, the dog. Who was now trembling under the table fearing the worse and unsure if she had broken the toilet all by her-self?
Sure enough, the puddle of water had become a torrent and was seeping under the skirting board. Satisfied, that I had flexed my DIY skills to their full potential, I hastily, called my mate Brian, who is a plumber and who also has a disarming talent for philosophy. I told him that I was too obese to see where the leak was coming from and it was putting me in a bit of a tight spot. He arrived, as if by F1-14 and said that it could be the valve in the cistern. I joked a tired joke about "The Smoke".
"You're 'on the ball'…cock!" I decided, that my vain attempt at wit was masking my anxiety about how much 'this' will cost me. I would of course offer money to him, but I would much rather I helped him fix it, and we just got drunk together.
The old ''orange ball' was surgically removed and a tiny little 'hootsit' was inserted instead.
It was, for-all-the-world, like an apparatus to stop women conceiving. A 'doohickey', and, with the right lubricant easily inserted.
"Why can't I have one like the old one?" I said, thinking, 'the new little 'ballcock' not 'man enough' to do the job.
Brian said,
"You should realise that, for once, Perry, 'size… in your case does not matter.' "
Slightly uncomfortable with his analogy, but reassured with his expertise, he bade me farewell. Promising, to call back if the problem was not resolved. (The toilet flushed on a 'hair-trigger' where, as before, I had to use a wire coat hanger to break up the 'brown papooses' before they acquiesced.)
It was not, and he did.
"It's your washing machine next door." He advised. Offering to do the work. I had already taken up too much of his time already, and we both had another bottle of Shiraz to consume anyway. My kitchen is adjacent to the toilet and the washing machine the other side of the wall.
I opened the narrow storage door that had the taps and pipes hidden out of sight. I gingerly opened the cupboard and peeked inside expecting to be drenched in a gushing 'flash-flood' from within.
Nothing. Dry, as they say in Australia, 'as a dingo's dick'.
Then as if God had spoken to me, I remembered I had '3 star cover' for all plumbing repairs. I scurried upstairs and found the documents and danced around the bedroom for three minutes, like I had won the 'rollover'.
I feverishly phoned British Gas, who said they would be out the next day. So, they promised to see me the next day.
I paced around the next morning like an expectant Father and there was a knock at the door and twitching the curtain, I smiled to see the familiar van parked at a rather rakish angle, on the box of re-cycling I had fastidiously organised beforehand, thus, liberating it across my lawn during 'light to variable winds'. I opened the door to a howling sneeze that greeted me. The man was on time, but obviously too late for his handkerchief, and I withstood, what can only be described as a rather sticky blast. Using my cuffs to wipe vestiges of phlegm from my eyes and hair, I invited the 'poorly' soul in. He was clearly unwell, and he spoke like he was gargling with gravel, needing a stopcock for his dribbling, raw and peeling proboscis.
I related the problem and asked him how long it would take to fix, as he suspiciously rifled the insurance papers like a suspect hand of cards. His gaze met mine. He took a sharp intake of breath. Looking at his watch and pointing at the kettle he nodded a nod. The sort of reaction you can expect from a paralysed mollusc experimenting with cryogenics.
"Well, sir, I can only fix the leak, if you first ascertain where it is." He cleared his sinuses and gave me a look he reserved for fools and drunkards.
The guy handed me back the documents with utter contempt for them. That expression. I swear if I was dying of frostbite and he a St Bernard, he would have expected a bl*wjob first. He skimmed the 'less than' convincing 'Platinum cover' rating, as it had just come out of a cereal packet and commanding the same attention as Tony Blair reading the manifesto for the Green party.
I thought for a moment that although his laptop was open, his toolbox was never going to be. It was firmly shut, and I began to doubt, if it held anything more than his sandwiches, a 'w*nkmag', and a deckchair within. I said nothing, and feeling that type of anger that starts to rise from your toes, I ripped at the cupboard lining like a demented wasp, pulling large shreds of hardboard pieces behind me, like a schizophrenic, let out into the community and a bit shy of some medication.
I pulled the washing machine out like it was balsa, and sure enough, behind it, water had 'sat for sometime' and was creeping into the next room, with the walls looking pregnant by about four months with swelling moisture. I knew water would always find its own level. I just needed to know, when the 'fitter' drinking my tea and eating my wife's homemade flapjack, would find his.
Speaking with his mouth full he spat crumbs as he spoke.
"Have a look at the waste pipe."
I took the hook of the pipe and with one eye shut, looked down the pipe.
"It's darker than a lorry load of arseholes down there." I said, using it as an ineffective telescope.
I was mildly irritated and starting to feel like I was some snotty nosed apprentice doing his NVQ.
"Hang on." The guy said.
I thought, "Hurrah" he's actually going to do something. Instead, he emptied his slop of tea into the sink and filled it with water and handed it to me.
"Pour that in."
I took the cup and started to pour the contents down the inch and one half pipe. It made a sound like a death rattle and promptly spewed back up making a direct hit on my suede shoes.
"Bugger." I cursed, not because the water splashed back up and drenched my shoes. But, the fact what water went in brought back out some foul smelling sludge. It was not water. It was the colour and viscosity 'Campbells condensed mushroom soup'.
"Ahh Harr!" The fitter cheered. "That's your culprit. A blocked waste pipe."
He smugly grinned, pointing. I started to feel like I was being psychologically abused by the whole scenario. What did he want? A paper hat for Christ's sake?
"Now what." I looked at him for inspiration, and hoped he might have the faintest idea and he might actually remember why he was in my house.
Wiping what looked like a years supply of elephant jism off my shoe with kitchen paper, I ventured to ask the languishing lout a burning question.
"So ok, I've found the leak. I have paid… my extortionate premium… can you 'sort it', please?"
He gave me a look, like he had already warned me against placing my entire estate on a horse that fell in the paddock.
"No can do, I'm afraid. You see, your 'cover' is for leaks, not blockages, so you will have to clear it yourself."
I felt every bit of air leave my body and my throat swelled up instantaneously making me actually choke on my next sentence. Except, I wanted him to eat my words.
"What?" Give that here." I politely, snatched the information back and remonstrated.
"Look…. it reads, "all blockages of drains". I whimpered, fearing the obsolete form could soon be confined to lining my bread bin.
"That's right, Mr Estelle. I can't argue with that." Nodding, with eyebrows raised and looking at his fingernails, calmly, like he had chipped one buying a copy of the 'News of the World'.
He went on.
"That's 'drains' of course. Outside. But the 'blockage' is inside, isn't it."
I tossed the worthless piece of paper back at him and turned, blue with anger and with the strength of ten men, I ripped the pipe off the wall now, myself became, soon evenly covered, from head to foot, with the blancmange substance. I gasped, looking at lumpy 'trunk spunk' trailing down my linen trousers and I wondered, how evil I must have been in an earlier life. I wondered how on God's green earth this could happen to me, with a professional and trained plumber in clean overalls giggling across the room. I hoped his feckin' 'cold' would turn out to be Typhus and he would die in his sleep that night.
I pushed a wire flue brush, down the pipe. Out, came a soggy sausage extrusion (pooh shaped) that looked like wet clay and tartar sauce held together with human hair. A globule of this, now, what's the word I'm struggling for? Ah yes…SHITE, splashed into my mouth, Not content with doing this revolting exercise just the once, I rammed the flue-brush, yet again, more firmly, this time, down one end of the pipe, while inspecting the other to receive more of the same. It was neither an intelligent thing to do, nor did it taste anything like, bloody… Tartar sauce.
Years of crud, collected from soap, limescale and doghair. Decades of body fat and sweat were now being cultured in my gob.
Needless to say, after spending hours fixing the problem and inventing a brand new directory of expletives this whole unique chapter in my life left me with literally a very nasty taste in my mouth.
Yes, I ended up bloody well fixing it myself and with the dexterity and prowess of a herd of wildebeests plunging to their deaths.
This experience has been a learning curve for me… that turned, slowly, at the beginning, into a rather tight bend. By 2 o'clock it became a 'hairpin', followed by a shicane, with a frickin' 1000ft drop… on each side!
I am of the cast iron opinion now, that like bouncing cheques, 'all that glitters is not gold' concerning warrantees for your plumbing, and that British Gas fitters are trained only to keep awake under all circumstances no matter how much shit they let you get covered in.
I would like to dedicate this article to Brian whom I should have listened to and would have done the job for a Mother and Father of a hangover having already told me that 'warrantees' are about as much use as last year's calendar.
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