The Plumb Line
Take a look at the news headlines through the eyes of a plumber. Peter Plumb knows his mind and isn't afraid to lose it. Check out the Plumb Line.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Blimey what a rammy about Sven giving it large to that bird from the FA. Can you Adam and Eve that they were going to sack him just for having a bit of extra time with a secretary? Bleedin crackers.
If they wanted to give him the boot because he couldn’t get his team to beat a bunch of waiters in the Euros then that would have been fair enough but not just for a bit of how’s your father. Look the bloke is Swedish, he can’t help himself. They are all it over there, nothing else to do is there? Blimey I’ve seen enough videos to know what they’re like.
If you’re brought up in the fjords, Abba records on all the time and nothing but porn on the telly then it’s hardly surprising that you are going to grow up and not be able to keep it in your trousers. The man’s only human.
England should be proud that they’ve got a manager who makes all that top totty want to get inside his tracksuit. For years there was blokes like Graham Taylor and Kevin Keegan who had all the sex appeal of a digestive biscuit. Saint Glen Hoddle was too busy raising the dead or what ever it was he did and El Tel always had his finger in pies but never cherry ones. As for poor old Sir Bobby Robson, by the time your average footballer-chasing slapper had strapped on the jump leads and waited for a bucket of Viagra to take effect he’d probably have wet himself twice. Blimey.
So let’s hear it for Sven. As a football coach he’s flippin rubbish — I give you two words, Emile Bleedin Heskey — but when it comes to pulling birds he’s a genius. He’s nearly bald, he’s got stupid teeth, he wears glasses and he always looks like he’s just sat on a hairbrush. Yet he pulls the toppest totty in totty town on totty day.
Okay Ulrikaka doesn’t really count because she’s had more footballers than Manchester United. If that woman isn’t a nymphocrazy then I’ve never added a little surcharge owing to the fact that I didn’t like someone. Blimey she’s looser than a van load of WD40.
But that Nancy Dell’Olliollio is a bit of all right. There’s something about Italian women that make you think of Spain, isn’t there? Ariba, ariba. That women could make a pan of pasta sauce boil over at ten paces. She’s a whole lot of woman but even that wasn’t enough for our Sven. He wanted amore.
I’m not sure about this secretary bird though. She looks dirty right enough but it seems like she’s done dictation for half the building. Would you really want seconds after the Greek bloke had dipped his taramasalata? Not bleedin likely.
Still, you’ve got to take your cap off to Sven. He might look like he should be lying on Tesco’s fish counter but he can pull birds like a man with a knife.
Just goes to show, never judge a book by its cover or a swede by its turnip. Even an apprentice who doesn’t know shit from chocolate knows that you can look at a cistern lid but you can never tell what’s inside. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Don’t sack Sven, give him his head. Oo’er missus.
Plumb on.
Peter Plumb.
If they wanted to give him the boot because he couldn’t get his team to beat a bunch of waiters in the Euros then that would have been fair enough but not just for a bit of how’s your father. Look the bloke is Swedish, he can’t help himself. They are all it over there, nothing else to do is there? Blimey I’ve seen enough videos to know what they’re like.
If you’re brought up in the fjords, Abba records on all the time and nothing but porn on the telly then it’s hardly surprising that you are going to grow up and not be able to keep it in your trousers. The man’s only human.
England should be proud that they’ve got a manager who makes all that top totty want to get inside his tracksuit. For years there was blokes like Graham Taylor and Kevin Keegan who had all the sex appeal of a digestive biscuit. Saint Glen Hoddle was too busy raising the dead or what ever it was he did and El Tel always had his finger in pies but never cherry ones. As for poor old Sir Bobby Robson, by the time your average footballer-chasing slapper had strapped on the jump leads and waited for a bucket of Viagra to take effect he’d probably have wet himself twice. Blimey.
So let’s hear it for Sven. As a football coach he’s flippin rubbish — I give you two words, Emile Bleedin Heskey — but when it comes to pulling birds he’s a genius. He’s nearly bald, he’s got stupid teeth, he wears glasses and he always looks like he’s just sat on a hairbrush. Yet he pulls the toppest totty in totty town on totty day.
Okay Ulrikaka doesn’t really count because she’s had more footballers than Manchester United. If that woman isn’t a nymphocrazy then I’ve never added a little surcharge owing to the fact that I didn’t like someone. Blimey she’s looser than a van load of WD40.
But that Nancy Dell’Olliollio is a bit of all right. There’s something about Italian women that make you think of Spain, isn’t there? Ariba, ariba. That women could make a pan of pasta sauce boil over at ten paces. She’s a whole lot of woman but even that wasn’t enough for our Sven. He wanted amore.
I’m not sure about this secretary bird though. She looks dirty right enough but it seems like she’s done dictation for half the building. Would you really want seconds after the Greek bloke had dipped his taramasalata? Not bleedin likely.
Still, you’ve got to take your cap off to Sven. He might look like he should be lying on Tesco’s fish counter but he can pull birds like a man with a knife.
Just goes to show, never judge a book by its cover or a swede by its turnip. Even an apprentice who doesn’t know shit from chocolate knows that you can look at a cistern lid but you can never tell what’s inside. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Don’t sack Sven, give him his head. Oo’er missus.
Plumb on.
Peter Plumb.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Blimey, can a man not speak his mind these days without the politically correct brigadiers getting all hot under their collars?
Big Ron Atkinson, the working man’s microphonist, said a couple of things he didn’t mean anyone to hear and suddenly the poor bloke’s lost his job. Bleedin ridiculous if you ask me.
Okay, so he shouldn’t have called Marcel Desailly a f***ing lazy ni***r out loud with people listening but he was just making a private comment within the privacy of his own broadcasting booth. It’s hardly his fault it was heard in Dubai and Bahrain. I know he shouldn’t have used the ‘f’ word but it was the heat of the moment and anyways, we’re all grown-ups.
As for this business of calling black people coloured — or is it calling coloured people black? I can’t keep up — well Big Ron is just a man of his time. Look at it this way, he was brought up watching the Black and White Minstrel Show in a time when everything was black and white, there was no colour. Bleedin natural that some of it is going to stuck, innit?
Just because he looks down on black people and thinks it is okay to call them by some quaint old-fashionable names, that don’t make him a racist does it? Bigot Ron is just one of the lads and uses the kind of language that you would find any racist using down the pub of a Sunday afternoon.
When Bigot Ron was manager of West Bromwich Albino he had more black players in his team that anyone else. He wouldn’t do that if he was a racist, now would he? It’s like the old landowners in olden days who brought slaves over from Africa and gave them a job and a roof over their heads. Racists my arse.
Peoples are just too politically corrected these days and you can hardly find a programme on the telly any more where the black chap is the butt of the white man’s jokes. What’s that if not flippin racist?
I tell you this, people go on about Love Thy Neighbour and say how it wasn’t funny but it was a flippin scream. I say bring it back, much better than some of the rubbish comedies they have on today like The Office or EastEnders. And don’t go thinking I’m a racist either, I used to really fancy that black woman that played the wife next door.
Bigot Ron is like me, just a man who speaks his mind. He is like your perfect microphonist because he says things so bleedin dolly that you think to yourselfs, ‘I could do that. I could say something as stupid as that if I had seven pints inside me.’
Now he has said one thing too stupid too far and they want to crucifix him. It’s like that film, The Passion of the Christ. Bigot Ron is Jesus and the politically correct brigadiers are the Romans. Or the Jews, whoever it was. And the ‘f’ word and the ‘n’ word are the nails. And his microphone is the crown of horns. And it’s nowhere near bleedin Easter. Blimey.
Listen, I always say that just because a washer has been used before doesn’t mean it can’t be used again. It can be resurrected and put to good use elsewhere. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Non-racist Ron will rise again and walk among us once more. I say we should start a campaign. Bring back the Racist One.
Plumb on.
Peter Plumb.
Big Ron Atkinson, the working man’s microphonist, said a couple of things he didn’t mean anyone to hear and suddenly the poor bloke’s lost his job. Bleedin ridiculous if you ask me.
Okay, so he shouldn’t have called Marcel Desailly a f***ing lazy ni***r out loud with people listening but he was just making a private comment within the privacy of his own broadcasting booth. It’s hardly his fault it was heard in Dubai and Bahrain. I know he shouldn’t have used the ‘f’ word but it was the heat of the moment and anyways, we’re all grown-ups.
As for this business of calling black people coloured — or is it calling coloured people black? I can’t keep up — well Big Ron is just a man of his time. Look at it this way, he was brought up watching the Black and White Minstrel Show in a time when everything was black and white, there was no colour. Bleedin natural that some of it is going to stuck, innit?
Just because he looks down on black people and thinks it is okay to call them by some quaint old-fashionable names, that don’t make him a racist does it? Bigot Ron is just one of the lads and uses the kind of language that you would find any racist using down the pub of a Sunday afternoon.
When Bigot Ron was manager of West Bromwich Albino he had more black players in his team that anyone else. He wouldn’t do that if he was a racist, now would he? It’s like the old landowners in olden days who brought slaves over from Africa and gave them a job and a roof over their heads. Racists my arse.
Peoples are just too politically corrected these days and you can hardly find a programme on the telly any more where the black chap is the butt of the white man’s jokes. What’s that if not flippin racist?
I tell you this, people go on about Love Thy Neighbour and say how it wasn’t funny but it was a flippin scream. I say bring it back, much better than some of the rubbish comedies they have on today like The Office or EastEnders. And don’t go thinking I’m a racist either, I used to really fancy that black woman that played the wife next door.
Bigot Ron is like me, just a man who speaks his mind. He is like your perfect microphonist because he says things so bleedin dolly that you think to yourselfs, ‘I could do that. I could say something as stupid as that if I had seven pints inside me.’
Now he has said one thing too stupid too far and they want to crucifix him. It’s like that film, The Passion of the Christ. Bigot Ron is Jesus and the politically correct brigadiers are the Romans. Or the Jews, whoever it was. And the ‘f’ word and the ‘n’ word are the nails. And his microphone is the crown of horns. And it’s nowhere near bleedin Easter. Blimey.
Listen, I always say that just because a washer has been used before doesn’t mean it can’t be used again. It can be resurrected and put to good use elsewhere. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Non-racist Ron will rise again and walk among us once more. I say we should start a campaign. Bring back the Racist One.
Plumb on.
Peter Plumb.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Blimey, I can’t believe all this locomotion about Sir David Beckham and this bit of Spanish skirt he’s supposed to have been knocking up. Can’t a man have any fun these days without it being plastered all over the bleedin papers?
This Loos woman who he’s been doing shooting practice with ain’t much of a looker but maybe she likes the tumble dryer on full tilt if you get my meaning. Many a man will tell you that if his smalls get a good wringing out a couple of times a week then it don’t matter if the dryer has to be hidden away in a cupboard. After all, you don’t look at the cistern while you are pumping the toilet, now do you? And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
So what if Beckham did give her one? Look he’s a fit, young bloke with normal bloke urges. His missus is away making music so he makes hay while the sun shines. And let’s face it, he’s in Spain so the sun shines all the flippin time. What does she expect him to do? Think of Gary Neville and hope it goes away? Course not.
Look the man is a bleedin demi-God and women are throwing themselves at him, luring him with paella and sangria and tickets for bullfights and all sorts. He may be a demi-God but he’s only flippin human. Listen, I’ve been to Torremo-bleedin-linos and I know what them sultry senoritas are like. Can’t keep their hands off us white men.
And anyways let’s face it, Lady McBeckham is hardly the kind of woman to keep a man happy is she? She’s so flipping arachnaphobic she makes the ladies of the Auschwitz dieting club look like Vanessa Feltz. I’ve seen more meat in a McDonald’s hamburger. Well, not really.
What is it with the mongrel press in this country? They can’t be happy just with pictures of Beckham’s latest haircut, oh no. They have to go printing the flipping truth all the time. Who’s interested in that? Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does. These tabloid journalists, these scumnalists, they should be strung up by their exclusives.
It’s high time the press in this country went back to the days when they kept things from the working man that they didn’t need to know. The old kings and the old queens used to be at it like rabbits and no-one was ever the wiser. The dear old Queen Mum once had the entire 3rd division of the Household Cavalry one cold winter’s night but you never read about that in the Daily Mirror did you? Instead we had proper stories about the price of bread, the suffering of the little Biafrans and the role of women in the workplace. Proper bleedin news, not stuff the likes of us don’t need to know. Blimey.
Look mate, if Beckham scores against the Froggies in Euro 2004 then I don’t care if he scores with every senorita between here and Barca-bleedin-lona. And what’s more I don’t want to read about it or see pictures of it. Well, unless the bird is better looking than that one he was shagging last week obviously. No offence meant.
And you know what? Do you? If Beckham isn’t absolutely flippin brilliant this summer then it will be the tabloid scumnalists’ fault for putting him right off his game. Bleedin treason so it is.
Come on you newspaper executors, get your act together. More stories about starving Biafrans. Less stories about Beckham’s nookie. It’s the patriotic thing to do.
Plumb on.
Peter Plumb
This Loos woman who he’s been doing shooting practice with ain’t much of a looker but maybe she likes the tumble dryer on full tilt if you get my meaning. Many a man will tell you that if his smalls get a good wringing out a couple of times a week then it don’t matter if the dryer has to be hidden away in a cupboard. After all, you don’t look at the cistern while you are pumping the toilet, now do you? And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
So what if Beckham did give her one? Look he’s a fit, young bloke with normal bloke urges. His missus is away making music so he makes hay while the sun shines. And let’s face it, he’s in Spain so the sun shines all the flippin time. What does she expect him to do? Think of Gary Neville and hope it goes away? Course not.
Look the man is a bleedin demi-God and women are throwing themselves at him, luring him with paella and sangria and tickets for bullfights and all sorts. He may be a demi-God but he’s only flippin human. Listen, I’ve been to Torremo-bleedin-linos and I know what them sultry senoritas are like. Can’t keep their hands off us white men.
And anyways let’s face it, Lady McBeckham is hardly the kind of woman to keep a man happy is she? She’s so flipping arachnaphobic she makes the ladies of the Auschwitz dieting club look like Vanessa Feltz. I’ve seen more meat in a McDonald’s hamburger. Well, not really.
What is it with the mongrel press in this country? They can’t be happy just with pictures of Beckham’s latest haircut, oh no. They have to go printing the flipping truth all the time. Who’s interested in that? Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does. These tabloid journalists, these scumnalists, they should be strung up by their exclusives.
It’s high time the press in this country went back to the days when they kept things from the working man that they didn’t need to know. The old kings and the old queens used to be at it like rabbits and no-one was ever the wiser. The dear old Queen Mum once had the entire 3rd division of the Household Cavalry one cold winter’s night but you never read about that in the Daily Mirror did you? Instead we had proper stories about the price of bread, the suffering of the little Biafrans and the role of women in the workplace. Proper bleedin news, not stuff the likes of us don’t need to know. Blimey.
Look mate, if Beckham scores against the Froggies in Euro 2004 then I don’t care if he scores with every senorita between here and Barca-bleedin-lona. And what’s more I don’t want to read about it or see pictures of it. Well, unless the bird is better looking than that one he was shagging last week obviously. No offence meant.
And you know what? Do you? If Beckham isn’t absolutely flippin brilliant this summer then it will be the tabloid scumnalists’ fault for putting him right off his game. Bleedin treason so it is.
Come on you newspaper executors, get your act together. More stories about starving Biafrans. Less stories about Beckham’s nookie. It’s the patriotic thing to do.
Plumb on.
Peter Plumb
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Well blow me down with a gift voucher from B&Q.
I was in this house in Argyll Avenue, up to my elbow in this woman’s waste pipe, when I heard the news on the radio. Turns out Tony Blair did nothing wrong in the whole David Kelly Iraq thingy after all. He’s cleaner than a Belfast sink on the 12th of July. Blimey.
At least that’s what Lord Betty Hutton says and what with him being a proper lord and all, who are we to disagree? Here was me thinking that Tony was in as much doo-doo as I was but no. Lord Betty says he’s innocent and that’s good enough for me.
Seems old Doc Kelly didn’t know his arsenal from his elbow and he topped himself after blabbing his big mouth off to that blubberguts from the BBC. The four-eyed fat boy reporter then made up all these nonsensicals about sexing up the dossiers just to get old Tony Blameless into bother. Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does.
The leftie bean eaters at the Beeb are no better than the scumbuckets that work for The Sun or the Mirror. They both make everything up but at least the tabloids have the decency to fill their pages with pictures of Jordan getting her bazookas out in the jungle. You can just about forgive a paper full of old horse droppings if it also has photographs that help the working man pass his lunch hour.
Lord Betty says that Tony didn’t order some beneathling to beef up the weapons report — that was just a figleaf of Andrew Gilliguts’ imagination. Saddam had all these weapons alright and in 45 minutes he could have found them in the holes he buried them in 10 years ago, dug them up, brushed out the sand, found some German scientists to put them back together, do a few tests so they didn’t blow up in his moustache then point them at the west and destroy anyone within a 20 miles radius. Them’s the truth whatever way you cooks your apples.
Betty also made it perfectly bleedin clear that there was no way Blair murdered old Doc Kelly. No way. He didn’t actually rule out Blair ordering fat boy Prescott to take Kelly down the woods, dope him up and give his wrist a slice. But then he didn’t actually say he did either. Ipso quod escape routus.
You see the bottom line — and if anyone knows the importance of the bottom line it’s a plumber — is that old Saddam the Sadist needed sorting out. Tony knew it, George Dubya knew it, even Mrs McGillivray in Ronald Place knew it and she’s as mad as a cheese roll. The plonkers at the BBC knew it too but oh no, they had to play up to the vegetarians and the Save The Whale crowd. “Oooh, show us proof.” Proof? I’d give them proof till they couldn’t sit on a cushion for a month.
That blubbery traitor Gilligan should be taken out into the streets and stuffed with meat pies till he bursts on national telly. That’s the only language these people understand. You see Gilliguts is the sort of bloke who has low self-esteem on account of him being fat and four-eyed so he makes stuff up to make himself important and get on the telly. I saw it on Sky once when I was waiting for a late night artistic movie to come on. It’s called Baron Munchhorses Symphony or something. Lying towrag if you ask me.
I’ve always said if you go throwing shit around then you better make sure the wind doesn’t change or your face will stick like that. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Now I’m not saying that Blair wouldn’t go making stuff up — I’m a plumber but I’m not that bleedin dolly. But the thing is, if he did then he would have been making it up for a good cause, right? And anyways he’s too flippin clever to get caught out by a fatty like Gilligan. If Blair was a bit ecumenical with the truth then Gilligan wasn’t going to see it. Blimey he can’t even see his own feet.
No, we can all sleep easy in our beds tonight knowing that British justice is as safe as it ever was. As long as we have men like Lord Betty looking out for the better interests of the empire then we know things are all right.
Plumb on
Peter Plumb.
I was in this house in Argyll Avenue, up to my elbow in this woman’s waste pipe, when I heard the news on the radio. Turns out Tony Blair did nothing wrong in the whole David Kelly Iraq thingy after all. He’s cleaner than a Belfast sink on the 12th of July. Blimey.
At least that’s what Lord Betty Hutton says and what with him being a proper lord and all, who are we to disagree? Here was me thinking that Tony was in as much doo-doo as I was but no. Lord Betty says he’s innocent and that’s good enough for me.
Seems old Doc Kelly didn’t know his arsenal from his elbow and he topped himself after blabbing his big mouth off to that blubberguts from the BBC. The four-eyed fat boy reporter then made up all these nonsensicals about sexing up the dossiers just to get old Tony Blameless into bother. Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does.
The leftie bean eaters at the Beeb are no better than the scumbuckets that work for The Sun or the Mirror. They both make everything up but at least the tabloids have the decency to fill their pages with pictures of Jordan getting her bazookas out in the jungle. You can just about forgive a paper full of old horse droppings if it also has photographs that help the working man pass his lunch hour.
Lord Betty says that Tony didn’t order some beneathling to beef up the weapons report — that was just a figleaf of Andrew Gilliguts’ imagination. Saddam had all these weapons alright and in 45 minutes he could have found them in the holes he buried them in 10 years ago, dug them up, brushed out the sand, found some German scientists to put them back together, do a few tests so they didn’t blow up in his moustache then point them at the west and destroy anyone within a 20 miles radius. Them’s the truth whatever way you cooks your apples.
Betty also made it perfectly bleedin clear that there was no way Blair murdered old Doc Kelly. No way. He didn’t actually rule out Blair ordering fat boy Prescott to take Kelly down the woods, dope him up and give his wrist a slice. But then he didn’t actually say he did either. Ipso quod escape routus.
You see the bottom line — and if anyone knows the importance of the bottom line it’s a plumber — is that old Saddam the Sadist needed sorting out. Tony knew it, George Dubya knew it, even Mrs McGillivray in Ronald Place knew it and she’s as mad as a cheese roll. The plonkers at the BBC knew it too but oh no, they had to play up to the vegetarians and the Save The Whale crowd. “Oooh, show us proof.” Proof? I’d give them proof till they couldn’t sit on a cushion for a month.
That blubbery traitor Gilligan should be taken out into the streets and stuffed with meat pies till he bursts on national telly. That’s the only language these people understand. You see Gilliguts is the sort of bloke who has low self-esteem on account of him being fat and four-eyed so he makes stuff up to make himself important and get on the telly. I saw it on Sky once when I was waiting for a late night artistic movie to come on. It’s called Baron Munchhorses Symphony or something. Lying towrag if you ask me.
I’ve always said if you go throwing shit around then you better make sure the wind doesn’t change or your face will stick like that. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.
Now I’m not saying that Blair wouldn’t go making stuff up — I’m a plumber but I’m not that bleedin dolly. But the thing is, if he did then he would have been making it up for a good cause, right? And anyways he’s too flippin clever to get caught out by a fatty like Gilligan. If Blair was a bit ecumenical with the truth then Gilligan wasn’t going to see it. Blimey he can’t even see his own feet.
No, we can all sleep easy in our beds tonight knowing that British justice is as safe as it ever was. As long as we have men like Lord Betty looking out for the better interests of the empire then we know things are all right.
Plumb on
Peter Plumb.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
I was rigging up a dishwasher for a family down Ronald Place last week. Don’t know why he couldn’t just have bought her a pair of pink Marigold gloves and saved himself a few quid but who am I to argue.
In fact he’d have saved himself a good few quid more if he’d been there instead of his missus. Moaned from start to flippin finish she did. My rule of thumb is add another 20 knicker to the bill for every time someone gets up me nose and this witch cost herself a fortune. I think she must have had the painters in.
Not that she really had the painters in because doing that at the same time as the plumber would have been silly. No, I think she was on her mental cycle. It’s the only think that could have explained her being such a pain in the Jeffrey.
Imagine getting on her high horse just cos I ran a lead off the washing machine and her smalls ended up cleaning her knives and forks. Picky mare.
Mind you she did also have the teenager from Hell’s kitchen living with her as well so it was no wonder she was intemperated. The bratling was this skinny blonde thing with a hankie making do for a skirt. Blimey such a short skirt would have been all right if she filled out a bit but I think she was that arachnaphobic way. Terrible so it is but I don’t see why they can’t just make her eat some pies.
So I had the moaning mother moaning in one ear and Lolita stick insect squawking in the other. How’s a man supposed to do a proper job when he can’t hear himself think about ways of turning the VAT into ready cash? I’ve got professional standards to meet you know.
Next thing the mother disappears and the teenager starts asking me how big my wrench is. Flippin eck — there’s no way I want to end up doing backing vocals for Gary Glitter and Pete Townshend so I told her it could slip through a 5/8 washer and she slung her hook. My old gaffer always told me never to put something too big inside something too small or you would end up in more hot water than you can handle. And, as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life.
Anyways, about the thing I wanted to tell you about. Once Lady Macbeth and the six-stone slapper pushed off out of the way I got into the trap under the kitchen floor to feed up the strainer basket. Blimey if I didn’t find five hundred knicker in used readies hidden in the hole. Result. Merry Crimbo, Mrs Plumb. I couldn’t have been more surprised if Saddam Hussein had popped his head out and sang Take Me I’m Yours. Actually that’s not so unlikely when you think about it.
My first thought was they might be drug dealers but there was woodchip on the walls and no bling bling round the arachnaphobic’s neck so I ruled that one out. Best guess was the old man had won it on the nags and was hiding it from the old cow so he could spend it on someone who moaned less. Or more.
He’d never miss it for months and what’s more he could hardly go tell her about it now could he? Anyways theft is nine tenths of the law.
So I’m thinking Mrs Plumb might just get that diamante thong she wanted after all. Then I’m thinking an extra large sets you back a good few more spondulicks and a monkey doesn’t go as far as it did. So I’m thinking about following the geezer’s example and putting the entire monkey on a pony. Investment.
I pick out this nag called Tight Squeeze. Can’t lose I reckon. Then I see this tip for an animal called Jack Pot 2. Kiss Me Kate I thinks to meself, must be fate. A second jackpot is just what the optician ordered. Flippin third it was.
Oh well, easy come easy went. A pair of Marks and Spencers cotton finest for Mrs P. Blimey.
Plumb On
Peter Plumb
In fact he’d have saved himself a good few quid more if he’d been there instead of his missus. Moaned from start to flippin finish she did. My rule of thumb is add another 20 knicker to the bill for every time someone gets up me nose and this witch cost herself a fortune. I think she must have had the painters in.
Not that she really had the painters in because doing that at the same time as the plumber would have been silly. No, I think she was on her mental cycle. It’s the only think that could have explained her being such a pain in the Jeffrey.
Imagine getting on her high horse just cos I ran a lead off the washing machine and her smalls ended up cleaning her knives and forks. Picky mare.
Mind you she did also have the teenager from Hell’s kitchen living with her as well so it was no wonder she was intemperated. The bratling was this skinny blonde thing with a hankie making do for a skirt. Blimey such a short skirt would have been all right if she filled out a bit but I think she was that arachnaphobic way. Terrible so it is but I don’t see why they can’t just make her eat some pies.
So I had the moaning mother moaning in one ear and Lolita stick insect squawking in the other. How’s a man supposed to do a proper job when he can’t hear himself think about ways of turning the VAT into ready cash? I’ve got professional standards to meet you know.
Next thing the mother disappears and the teenager starts asking me how big my wrench is. Flippin eck — there’s no way I want to end up doing backing vocals for Gary Glitter and Pete Townshend so I told her it could slip through a 5/8 washer and she slung her hook. My old gaffer always told me never to put something too big inside something too small or you would end up in more hot water than you can handle. And, as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing it’s true in life.
Anyways, about the thing I wanted to tell you about. Once Lady Macbeth and the six-stone slapper pushed off out of the way I got into the trap under the kitchen floor to feed up the strainer basket. Blimey if I didn’t find five hundred knicker in used readies hidden in the hole. Result. Merry Crimbo, Mrs Plumb. I couldn’t have been more surprised if Saddam Hussein had popped his head out and sang Take Me I’m Yours. Actually that’s not so unlikely when you think about it.
My first thought was they might be drug dealers but there was woodchip on the walls and no bling bling round the arachnaphobic’s neck so I ruled that one out. Best guess was the old man had won it on the nags and was hiding it from the old cow so he could spend it on someone who moaned less. Or more.
He’d never miss it for months and what’s more he could hardly go tell her about it now could he? Anyways theft is nine tenths of the law.
So I’m thinking Mrs Plumb might just get that diamante thong she wanted after all. Then I’m thinking an extra large sets you back a good few more spondulicks and a monkey doesn’t go as far as it did. So I’m thinking about following the geezer’s example and putting the entire monkey on a pony. Investment.
I pick out this nag called Tight Squeeze. Can’t lose I reckon. Then I see this tip for an animal called Jack Pot 2. Kiss Me Kate I thinks to meself, must be fate. A second jackpot is just what the optician ordered. Flippin third it was.
Oh well, easy come easy went. A pair of Marks and Spencers cotton finest for Mrs P. Blimey.
Plumb On
Peter Plumb
