All About Plumbing


It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in your tank
Under the moonlight you catch a wiff that’s smellin’ pretty rank
You try to clear but water floods the floor before you make it
You start to scream, but a hero is on hand to have a bash
He’ll only take cash

All About Plumbing

St. Vincent

mcleanBathroom shining white
Fix that shower and the old bidet
Realign that water spray
With eyes that know the darkness in my bowl.
Smudges on the bills
On your knees amid the toilet spills
Catch the slops and use your skills
To get your payment on demand

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
And how you struggled to fit that vanity
How you tried to let them pee
They would not plumb, they did not know how
Perhaps they’re plumbing now

Bathroom shining white
Smelly powers of strange bouquets
Swirling clouds of violet Haze
Reflect in St Vincent’s eyes, that china loo
Colours of shampoo
Morning needs, that usual strain
Flushing faeces down the drain
Soothed beneath the plumber’s loving hand

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
And how you struggled to fit that vanity
How you tried to let them pee
They would not plumb, they did not know how
Perhaps they’re plumbing now

For they could not pay you
But still, your bill was true
And when no soap was left inside
In that bathroom shining white
You left a hole as plumbers often do
But I could’ve told you, St Vincent:
This bathroom was never meant
For one as beautiful as you.

Bathroom shining white
Towels hung in empty stalls
Radiators in countless halls
With guys that plumb the world with no sweat
Unlike the plumbers that get wet
The cowboy men in plumbing clothes
A pipe is torn, the water flows
Clothes lie soaking on the bathroom floor

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me
And how you struggled with that vanity
And how you tried to let them pee
They would not plumb, they’re not plumbing still
Perhaps they never will…

All About Plumbing

Plumbing Rhapsody

wintonIs this a real job?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught on the wet side,
No escape from a guarantee
Open your eyes, look up to the guys like me
I’m just a plumber, I need no sympathy,
Because I’m easy plumb, easy dough, Little dry, little flow,
Any way the bend goes doesn’t really matter to me, to me

Mama just billed a man,
Put a ton against his spread, made it bigger, now he’s bled
Mama, the job had just begun,
But now I’ve gone and flushed it all away
Mama, ooh, Didn’t mean to bleed him dry,
If I’m not plumbing again this time tomorrow,
Carry on in the john as if nothing really splatters

Too late, it’s time to plumb,
The shower’s not so fine, drain’s stinking full of lime
Good God it is shoddy but I’ve spent the dough
I need a new hub-spigot and that’s the truth
Mama, ooh, I don’t want to buy,
I sometimes wish I’d never been a plumber at all

I see a little plumbing ghetto from my van
Looks a skoosh, looks a skoosh, can of orange Tango
Tensile bolt needs tightening, very, very exciting me
Thomas Crapper, Thomas Crapper, Thomas Crapper Mario

But I’m just a plumber and nobody loves me
He’s just a plumber from a plumbing family,
Spare him the strife of bulk viscosity
Easy plumb, easy flow, will you give me dough
St Vincent! No, we will not give you dough
(Give him dough!) St Vincent! We will not give you dough
(Give him dough!) St Vincent! We will not give you dough
(Give me dough) Will not give you dough
(Give me dough) Will not give you dough (Give me dough) Ah
No, no, no, no, no, no, no
(Oh mama mia, mama mia) Mama mia, give me dough
Inland revenue has a bill put aside for me
For me
For me
For me

So you think you can phone me and say it’s not dry
So you think you can moan at me and start asking me why
No maybe, you’ve paid it now, maybe
I’m going out, I’m gonna get right out for beer

Nothing really splatters, Anyone can pee,
Nothing really splatters,
Nothing really splatters on me
Any way the bend goes…

Plumb Line

Tight Squeeze

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

Plumb Line

Cheese Eaters

As the constipated man says, it’s the waiting that’s the worst.

Well I’ve been waiting for flippin weeks for this war to start and there’s not been so much as an exocet fired by accident. Not even a bit of death by friendly fire. Call this a war?

Honest tradesmen like myself will obviously need to put our prices up if there is a war and we need a bit of notice to get the stationery changed. It’s a sad but inevitable consequence of global conflict but there’s always a price to be paid for freedom.

I just wish they’d hurry up and get started. We all know President Dubya is gagging to bomb the towel heads so why doesn’t he get on with it? All this pussy-footing about with the Untied Nations is just wasting time. Bomb Mustaffa Moustache and get it over with.

As for Blair, he is spending far too much time listening to the lentil-eating, cardigan-wearing, bleeding heart Guardianistas. Why listen to them when you can just run them over with tanks?

Then there’s the French. The frogs. Garlic-loving, soap-dodgers who have suddenly developed a conscience when the rest of the time they are quite happy to choke geese to death to make a starter. We bail them out of two world wars and they can’t even be bothered to let us go fight without them.

Britain and America want to make the world a safer place to buy oil and all the frogs can do is say Non. Typical, they can’t even say no properly.

We all know that the real reason they are scared to go fight in the Gulf is that the Iraqis will be able to smell them from miles away and they’d be sitting ducks a l’orange.

Okay, so the brown rice brigade want to give Saddam more time to prove that he’s evil? Fair enough. Let’s not attack him for a month or two and use the time in between to practice by fighting the French.

Dubya and Tony the Toady should declare the frogs as enemies and nuke the garlic out of them. If they ain’t for us they are agin us. Let them join the axis of evil along with Iraq, Sudan and that horrible wee Pekinese that won Crufts and bomb the bejeesus out of the lot.

It is pay back time for Sacha Distel, Allo Allo, Plastic Bertrand and Camembert cheese. Fry the French — except maybe Thierry Henry, who could then play for Scotland as he won’t have a country of his own. Pulverise Paris, obliterate the Onions Johnnies, destroy Disneyland Paris and put and end to those poncey poodles. Anyway, it’s much closer than Iraq and our boys won’t be away from home for so long.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Sort the pong and you sort the problem. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

In this case, the pong comes from the ponging French. Sort out that smell and then we can turn our attention to old Mustaffa. He’s probably a bit whiffy at the moment too.

Plumb Line

Tories in Trouble

I’ve been having a good think about the state of the Conservative Party in Britain. Two minutes it took me. Shower of flamin’ losers.

Lady Thatcher would be turning in her grave if she could see the mess this lot was in. If she was dead. To think that the party she led to three General Election wins can’t even organise a day’s outing to a distillery. Disgraceful.

There’s Iain Duncan-Thingy, the biggest loser since the last one. I can’t even bring myself to call him leader of the party because he wouldn’t make a lead for a dog. What was the point of getting rid of the baldy wee Yorkshire boy and replacing him with a double-barrelled baldy wet blanket? If they had just changed him over and kept the same name no-one would have noticed.

If anything, this one is even more boring than the last. Mrs Campbell in Harding Street had the telly on last week when I was backing up her waste pipe and Duncan-Thingy was droaning on and on about something or other. Next thing I knew I’d fallen asleep on the job and Mrs Campbell was far from happy. The man’s a bloody menace.

I see the Spaniard is causing trouble again. Why this Portillo bloke can’t just go back to Magaluf and be a waiter is beyond me. I’m sure he’d make a perfectly good waiter, if a little light on his feet. But oh no, first chance he gets he has to stir up the effluence. Any apprentice worth his solvent weld will tell you that if you continually stir the excrement then sooner or later you will get covered in the stuff. The sooner the better in the Spaniard’s case.

Then there’s this Theresa May who I used to think was one of those bits of tottie that the lads like looking at on page three of the Sun. Turns out this one’s a different sort altogether and we’d happily have a whip round for her to keep her gear on. Mind you, she is usually seen with some right tits. There’s that little Liam Fox chap. Five foot nothing and dandruff like a blizzard. There’s Michael Ancram. Six foot tall and dandruff like a blizzard. Then there’s… Well there’s bound to be others but I just can’t think of them. They need to bring back some of the old guard and give Blair and his cronies a kick in the Commons.

Bring back Maggie and Stormin Norman, Howard and Parkinson. Bring back Selwyn-Gummer and … okay let’s not go too far. But if something works once it will work again. If I had a pound for every time I’d sorted a leaking tap with a dod of chewing gum then I’d be plumbing in the Bahamas. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Bring back Maggie. You know it makes sense. Even if she doesn’t.

Plumb on.

Plumb Line

Asylum Seekers

It makes my blood boil, it really does. Who do these people think they are?

You give them the English language, teach them cricket and football, put shoes on their feet and all they want to do is come to Britain and blow us up. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they want to take money from the social while they are at it.

They call them asylum seekers but as far as I can see they are asylum assassins, towrag terrorists, traitors with tea towels, lethal leeches in our legal system. Come on, don’t tell me I’m the only one who thinks that way.

I’ve been reading my Daily Express and I know that every single one of them is a potential terrorist. I’m not suggesting that every corner shop has bombs beside the bonbons but all the Johnny-Foreigners-come-lately are likely to have semtex in their satchels.

What about this mad cleric fellow, this Abu Hamza from the Finsbury Park Mosque? You only have to look at him to see he’s a couple of warheads short of a nuclear holocaust. I’ve watched enough James Bond films to know that anyone with one eye and one hand has to be a danger to the western world. Especially if they are not white.

The mad mullah has been coining in 20 grand a year in benefits as well. Disgraceful. Just because he is a British citizen, has committed no crime and is technically entitled to these benefits, that is no reason why he should actually get them. It’s a scandal.

No wonder this country is going to the dogs when one-eyed, one-handed terrorists can put two-fingers up to the flag and get away with it.

The Express tells me that Hamza stands accused of being a terrorist, a serial rapist, being rude to nuns, not washing his hand after going to the toilet, kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, killing Maxine Healey and grievously wounding Emily Bishop, cheating at snap and of being black. None of these charges have been proven yet — except him being black — but it’s only a matter of time.

An old boss of mine used to say that if a pipe was going to break, and you knew it was going to break then there was no harm in giving it a wee twist until it snaps. Okay so you have to charge the punter £100 for a new pipe but it saves them money in the long run. If you wait until everything goes to pot then you’ll have all sorts of crap on your hands. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Lock up the traitors with tea towels now, I say. Don’t wait till they blow up the House of Commons first. Well, okay maybe let them do that but not anything else.

We’ve already lost the Empire, let’s not lose the corner shops as well.

Plumb on.

Plumb Line

Cherie Oh Baby

Who amongst us hasn’t enlisted the help of the convicted fraudster boyfriend of your former soft-porn actress best friend in order to save a few quid on a house? No, me neither.

Does Mrs Blair really believe we will all fall for that quivering lower lip, I’m just a girlie, don’t really understand business, my poor son is leaving home, Tony is too full of the milk of human kindness, yada yada yada sob story? I should cocoa.

I can see why she would want to avoid putting cash into Gordon Brown’s pockets seeing as her old man hates him but when you wait on nature’s mischief you get yourself in a heap of soapy bubble.

Let’s face it, hell is nowhere near as murky as the spinning cesspool of doo doo created by Alastair Campbell and his spin liars. If they think they are going to get a plumber to clean up this mess then they can think again. This plumber’s not for churning.

Can you believe that the chiselling Cherie even has the cheek to suggest that she is getting a hard time because she is a woman? Unsex me here, she cries. No thanks love, you appear to be chewing a bag of spanners and that’s not a particularly attractive look.

The brazen barrister even thinks it’s okay to nobble judges to stop this crook being chucked out of the country. I don’t know how much it costs to bribe the bench these days but it will be a pretty penny. Has she pinched that money off Mr Brown as well? We should be told.

Anyway, what’s the world coming to when Australia start sending us their convicts instead of the other way round? This Peter Foster bloke has been up before more judges than… well, Cherie Blair. Yet who would have thought the man had so much dirt on him? Not Cherie obviously. If only she’d had some knowledge of the law she might have been okay.

As I always say, if you can’t stand the crap then get out of the bathroom. And, as we all know, if it is true in plumbing then it is true in life.

Out, out damn Cherie! Out, I say!

Plumb On

Plumb Line


Now I’m the last man to stand in the way of someone earning a decent wage but those firefighters are getting right up my hooter.

How can they honestly expect a 40 per cent pay rise for sitting around playing pool all week and rescuing cats from trees? The odd chip pan fire and the occasional terrorist bombing hardly justifies 30 grand a year now does it?

Your average fireman’s average week may make him an expert at 13-card brag but it doesn’t make him a proper tradesman

Sparkies, chippies, builders and God’s own plumbers are time-served craftsmen who have honed their art over years of slavish public devotion and commitment to their art. Firemen are labourers. Admittedly they are labourers that I would be happy to call on in the unlikely event of my gaffe being on fire but essentially they are navvies in uniform.

Yet because they have mastered the art of turning on a hose and pointing foam at a fire they think they can hold the country to ransom. You’re not on, Fireman Sam.

And that’s another thing, name me a famous fireman. Go on. If you’ve come up with anyone other than Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb then chances are you are a fireman and you don’t count. Firemen aren’t famous because manual workers are ten a penny not 30 grand a year. Could they re-route an ABS sweep while no-hub clamping the outlet of the sweep to a drainage system? No way. Could I interrupt a game of rummy to turn on a hose? Oh yes, I think so.

My old gaffer always said to me that if you hired monkeys then it was perfectly okay to pay them peanuts. He knew there was no need to have a time-served artist stick his arm down the pan when there was an apprentice happy to get shite on his hands for £3.60 an hour. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

If Fireman Sam and his poker-playing pals want to retrain as surgeons or computer programmers then they’ll be entitled to whatever they can earn. But oh no, they cant on account of the fact that they are too thick. And more importantly it would mean giving up the brag school and not using lines about shiny helmets, poles and long hoses to women stupid enough to fall for anything in a uniform.

Anyway, personally I’ve always thought a well-ironed set of overalls much more fetching than any uniform.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb

Plumb Line

Posh Kidnap

What a rumpus about that so-called kidnap attempt on Mrs Posh Beckham by a gang of crazed Romanian gypsies. As usual the newspapers got it all wrong.

Fair enough, it wasn’t nice that the gypos wanted to abduct Lady Victoria, hold her for a £5m ransom and threaten to chop her up into tiny pieces. That kind of behaviour just isn’t called for.

But everybody seemed to miss the point. If a gang of hooligans is going to kidnap your high-profile celebrities, why do we need cheap overseas labour to do it?

There are plenty of kidnappers in the UK who could have done the job just as well. In fact they could have done it a whole lot better. How difficult can it be to get an Essex girl into the back of a van?

But oh no, forget the fact that there’s shedloads of honest, tax-paying British villains who would kill for a chance to kidnap the Beckhams. Instead just get some scab Johnny Foreigner labour to do the job for half the price. No wonder this country’s going to the dogs.

And at the end of the day we all pay the price. Do you think that Albanian assassins pay their stamp? No and neither do Polish plumbers, Kosovan carpenters or Namibian navvies.

Scabs the lot of them, prepared to work for washers and do your honest, local tradesman out of a job. Okay we may charge a bit over the odds and change a perfectly good u-bend for no reason, but that’s what living in a democracy is all about.

Put it this way, if you get an Afghan asylum seeker round to sort your cistern and tell him your ballcock needs twisted back into position then you better make damn sure he speaks the proper lingo.

I always tell my apprentices that it doesn’t pay to put a two bob washer on a ten quid tap. And, as we all know, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

If you pay peanuts you get monkeys, you pay scab labour and you get scabs. Simple law of physics.

Mr David Beckham should just be grateful that it wasn’t a gang of proper, registered, time-served British kidnappers that were after Mrs Posh. She’d have been sliced into thin (even thinner) pieces and popped through his letter-box before you could say Dago Forlan.

Buy British, pay for proper plumbers and save celebrities from assassination. You know it makes sense.

Plumb on.