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
Magnifico

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…

Two down, two to go

Howya
It’s day three and I’m sitting here with a smile the size of Cork on me bake. Jaysus but it’s been deadly so far.
Tuesday was brand new and I was laughing me cacks off at the faces of the English eejits who thought they were all in on this steamer for Sweet Wake to romp the first. You’d have thought their Queen had found crap in her cornflakes.
Serves them bleedin right. They were jumping on a bandwagon that wasn’t theirs only to find that the poor thick Paddies had pulled the wheels from under them and had all piled on to Nicholl’s nag instead. Lovely so it was.
Then didn’t Brave Inca go and win as well and we started the hooley of all hoolies.
I was circling over Shannon before me afternoon snack, off me face by the start of the last race, futhered by the end of it and absolutely stocious by dinnertime. Joe Mangled so I was.
Man but I was gumming for some scran to soak the black stuff up. In the end I lost count at two steak pies, a bit of beef, a gansey of mash, ten pints of plain, two plates of ice cream and a wafer thin mint.
Jaysus I was so full that I could only manage half a pack of Jaffas and a couple of Bushmills for dessert then a Bill Murray before I hit the hay. To be fair the Peggy Dell in the room was atrocious but I was so ossified that I couldn’t have cared less.
I had a head on me alright the next morning but a quick dump, a shave and a Paddy Power and I was right as rain. Well I was till I got a dose of the scutters and left the bog looking like the Somme and smelling like Best Mate. It was Guinness apple tarts all the way to the course I tell you.
Another fine day Wednesday was too though. I did Newmill and Star de Mohaison and me pockets were heavier than a priest’s conscience. Of course cousin Donal and the Buncrana boys did the last of their euros on Moscow Flyer and the sentimental gobshites were last seen heading for the easyJet standby desk, their wallets as empty as Tony Dobbin’s ballbag. As useless as tits on a bull the lot of them.
Ah Cheltenham is deadly so it is. Even the bleedin bookie’s benefit stealing home at 33s in the last couldn’t take the shine off it.
I spent the night with Barry Geraghty who was buying black and burgers for every bucko he knew. He scooped his share as well so if you are after backing Ambobo in the stayer’s hurdle then you’d better be hoping that either he had a right good dose of the diuretics or had brekkie at Eddie Rockets.
Ah Jaysus there I go talking about food again. I had half a pig between a few baps a good hour ago but I’m fair gummin for some more. There’s a grand carvery next to the champagne tent and I could do some proper damage over there.
Hungry? I could eat a bus driver’s arse through a security grill.
See youse at the track.

George W Bush

Just yesterday I was fitting a new s-bend for a woman in Richmond Place. I say ‘new’ it was actually a bit second hand and had spent the previous ten years of its existence in a flat round the corner. I say ‘woman’ but I’m not completely bleedin sure it wasn’t her husband in an Irish jig and her best Dorothy Perkins frock. I was a bit suspectful from the off but the toilet seat was up and the room smelled like a Turkish whore had spent the previous night drinking Guinness. People these days.

Anyways, this customer — either Mrs Morgan or her light-loafered man — was telling me how it was a flippin disgrace that President George W was coming to have tea with the Queen. On account of him being a murdering, warmongering, cheating, lying son of a murdering, warmongering etc etc.

Now I wasn’t having any of that. The customer may always be right — that’s complete bollocks obviously — but I wasn’t going to sit there making a five minute job last just over an hour while someone slagged off the man who saved us from Saddam Hussein and his 45 minute boil-in-the-bag nuclear weapons.

All this bollocks about President George being a war mad daftie who doesn’t know his nuclear arsenal from his elbow is a bit unfair. Okay so he’s not Brain of Britain, well he couldn’t be could he, but he isn’t a complete idiot. Not really.

Okay so he’s not so hot on geography or history and he has a hard time speaking English proper but then it’s not his first language. He’s American, you know. But he’s not a complete buffoon. I bet he’d do really well on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Well, The Price is Right at the very least.

And the loopy lefties like Mr or Mrs Morgan can moan all they want about President George blowing the bejeezus out of Baghdad but where would they be today if he hadn’t? Well, okay they’d be in the same place and nothing would be different except a lot more people would be alive but that’s not the point. Sometimes democracy means you have to kill a lot of innocent people whether there is a reason or not.

So I told all this to Mrs Morgan — and probably to Mr Morgan as well — and she/he ranted on about how George had made up all that stuff about Saddam and his weapons. Well, so what? If he’d told the truth then obviously no-one would have wanted to go to war with the towel heads so he had to make it up. That’s what politics is all about. I’m afraid Mrs Morgan was just too stupid a man to understand all that though.

She kept banging on about democracy as if that was something available to the likes of him. But there’s always a price to be paid for democracy and in Mrs Morgan’s case it was a hundred quid surcharge for being a prat. That’s not quite how I phrased it on the invoice of course, cracked soldering or something.

You see what the likes of Mr Morgan doesn’t understand is that America is the greatest democracy in the world. And the 47 per cent of Americans who voted for President George will testify to that. So although Mr Morgan may say that size doesn’t matter (Mrs Morgan probably has a different view) it surely does. As my old gaffer used to say, never use a small mallet when a flippin great sledgehammer will do. It looks good, scares the crap out of anyone watching and you can charge five times the price for a clean-up operation. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Plumb on President George.

Plumb on.

Auntie Joanna

Hello sweeties

I speak to you this week as a woman shocked and angry. No, Fortnum and Mason haven’t messed up my Bolly order again, thank heaven. I am really quite peeved at this latest media kerfuffle about the Royals.

It’s bad enough when the ghastly guttersnipes among the red-tops try to spark revolution by bad-mouthing our Royal family but now we have a supposedly superior journal trying to do the same. The lentil crunching lefties that run the Guardian have scurried off to court, pleading to be allowed to print a tissue of scurrilous truths.

I know what you are thinking. It’s just Lady P sticking up for her own. And while that is very sweet of you, I am not, despite all appearances au contraire, actually bona fide royalty. We’re not exactly related but you know how it is, lots of their family have rogered lots of mine and we exchange Christmas cards with the ones we admit to.

However I do have delicious skinny by the gilded carriage load that I could share with you if I were the kind of gal that soiled other people’s finery in public. And, as you know, I am.

Pour exemple, Henny Throckmorton was at Buck House a couple of years back and says they were all sitting around watching the goggle box when Absolutely Fabulous came on. There was La Lumley flashing her leathery old tart skin and suddenly you could have cut the air with a ceremonial sword. Then up pips one of Fergie’s little retards, “Oh look, there’s Auntie Joanna on the television.”

Apparently Philip nearly choked on his ouzo while Her Maj had that look she always got when told that the dear old Queen Mum had wet the bed yet again. Henny says Philip disappeared to his club muttering about how he’d told Andrew he should have got that ginger slut sterilised when he had the chance.

The silly thing is that people think the Windsors are boring old fuddy-duddies but that’s utter tosh. There’s more jiggy-jiggy in the Palace than in the Playboy Mansion on viagra discount day. Put it this way sweeties, in well-informed circles Buck House is strictly rhyming slang.

If it’s not the family and each other then it’s the family and the staff, the staff and the guests, the Queen and visiting heads of state; they are at it like royal rabbits darlings. It’s hardly surprising there’s been one or two teensy-weensy mix-ups over the years — with so much seed flying about some of it was always likely to end up in the wrong bed. So just because Andrew was the product of a bit of employer-staff relations is no reason for Philip to love him any less than his real children — actually the Greek does hate Andy’s garters but only because he’s a fat-headed duffer not because he’s an equerry’s bastardling.

It’s the same with this latest nonsense about “a senior royal and a member of the household staff”. Such a horrid hullabaloo about a bit of harmless fun designed to maintain harmonious relations between a future king and his people. Oh did I say that out loud?

Well honestly darlings, everyone knows it was Charles so why should I keep my mouth closed? Mind you, if he had kept his closed there wouldn’t be so much ghastly commotion. Henny tells me the chap wasn’t called the head footman for nothing — absolutely prodigious spanner by all accounts.

As you know I am not in favour of sodomites, a perfect waste of some scrummily lovely bodkins if you ask me, but whatever they get up to in the privacy of their own palace is up to them. And anyway, they don’t call them manservants for nothing. Mieow.

So I say lay off the Windsors. They are just an ordinary family with some super houses and a peculiar taste in clothes. Every family tree has a few bad apples held by skeletons in cupboards, if you get my driftwood. It’s just that Buck House has bigger cupboards than most.

So get off Charles’ back, that’s his servant’s job. Joking, Charlie darling, joking.

Toodlepip

Review of 2002

YEARS ARE like pipes – you can look back at them, up them, down them or  along them but you can’t change the crap that was in them. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

In January, Johnny Foreigner and his continental cousins threw away their money and started spending this new Euro thingy instead. Quite right too, I say. If we have to go to their hot and smelly countries on holiday then there’s less chance of us being confused by all the different funny money they used to have. Just don’t try the same with the pound, Johnny!

Then in February, the nation was gripped by curlers for the first time since Hilda Ogden went to that great corner shop in the sky. If only Rhona Martin hadn’t looked like Lily Savage’s harder sister then she’d have made a fortune.

All in all, 2002 was a good year to be a friend of Dorothy. Paul Burrell didn’t get knicked for thieving Diana’s gear, Will Young had his first number one and Michael Barrymore learned to swim. Sadly, it was the year of the queens but not the Queen’s year.

After 50 years on the throne (a plumber’s nightmare if ever I heard one) her Maj and the rest of the nation were in mourning in March for the dear old, darling Queen Mum, cruelly taken from us in her prime. Never again will those lovely yellow teeth light up our lives. Never again will the smell of
stale biscuits waft down the Mall in the morning. It was the annus horribilus to end all annuses. Oh and Princess Margaret died too.

In April Little Lord Beckham broke a bone in his foot and suddenly the metatarsal was the country’s most famous bone since Linford Christie retired. There is clearly some link between bones, dogs and South Korea that runs alongside metatarsal, Victoria Beckham and the World Cup but it’s beyond me.

In May, Roy Keane left the Irish World Cup camp in the huff. It left Mick McCarthy without a pyschotic, leg-breaking midfielder but he failed in a last gasp bid to call up Martin McGuinness as a replacement. By June the World Cup and the Jubilee were in full swing and flags of St George were
selling like pillow cases at a Ku Klux Klan convention.

In July a man waved a fake gun at Hear’Say at a motorway service station. Fake pop band, fake gun, seems fair enough. Next thing you know someone will be waving an arse at Robbie Williams.

Guns were in the news again in August and September when America was terrorised by the Washington sniper, or George W Bush as he is known. George has disproved the myth that any American boy can grow up to be President. Now you don’t even have to grow up.

One of the most tragic moments of the year was in October when 128 people died after the siege of a Moscow theatre. The biggest tragedy was that Will and Gareth hadn’t been on a tour of eastern Europe at the time.

In November our brave, heroic firefighters bravely and heroically laid down their poker hands to stand bravely and heroically on the picket line to demand a 40 per cent pay rise, a new cue for the pool table and an ACAS agreement on whether one-eyed jacks should count as floaters.

In December Cherie Blair got into bother over her involvement with a lying conman. She was also in trouble for her relationship with Australian fraudster Peter Foster. Lady Macbeth was also shocked by reports that Osama bin Laden wore a Cherie Blair mask for Halloween.

When we look back on 2002 and remember floods and fires, lost jobs and lost Royals, we shouldn’t be too gloomy. Don’t think of 2002 as the year of economic and environmental disasters, instead remember it as the year Jeffrey Archer spent in jail. Wasn’t so bad after all, was it?

Plumb on