So I get home from work and Mrs Gnomepants is there flapping. “Wazup” sez I
“Flud wer” sez I
“Flud there” sez her
I go into the kitchen (I live in Yorkshire, we enter houses here through the BACK door) and notice the wall under the electric meter is sodden. “O Noes” sez I “Best turn electric off”
On entering the bathroom (which is above the kitchen) I notice the carpet has been lifted and that the floorboards are sodden too. A tiny trickle of water issuing from a pipe which was connected to a radiator only 24hrs previous. So grabbing my spanner and using all the brute force I can muster (which isn’t very much because I am a bit weedy despite appearances) I try to tighten the nut from where the leak issues
It just spins round and round. I tighten it as best I can. Water is still weeweeing out of the pipe. An emergency plumber is called and the soonest they can get there is 2 hours. In two hours my house could be under water. So lifting the floorboards I assess the situation. Somehow I need to capture the water before it goes into the floor…..Then GCSE Physics kicked into gear! Capillary attraction!
Using a careful system of well angled weighted string and baking trays I create a system that requires the minimal effort to bail out.
Note the string going to the left of the picture. The drip travels down the string and into the baking tray.
Looking downward here. Note the careful system of trays used to collect drips during the emptying of the trays.
After further consideration a deeper container was located. Note the ingenious double line of string. This helps capture twice as much water and delivers it to the larger container.
The plumber arrived.
He took the piss out of my ingenuity.
He stopped the leak though.
So yesterday. Making 6 pints last 8 hours is really good going though I suppose having a KFC Variety meal for lunch AND a bowl of nachos for tea helped. Smoked far too much though.
What delights await this weekend? Well apart from work today and Monday, an emergency lecture on Monday and, more than likely the wife going off to the sister-in-laws for a few hours, I have the joys of a 3 year old’s birthday party and all the “fun” that brings.
I have also discovered a nice way of enjoying my home. I do this by sitting in the garden with a cup of tea looking at the horsies in the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” of course the horsies in the field behind the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name”, not having been around as much lately, kind of make the field behind the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” kind of empty. I must get round to taking pictures of the view from the cliffs behind the houses behind the field behind the field behind “the lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” . However I fear for my life when I wander up that part of Brierley. The banjo music is definitely stronger there.
I also suppose I also should do a bit about the field behind the bus stop across the road from the housing estate that backs onto the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name”.
Sat to my left are a young couple. They are billing and cooing like a bunch of teenagers. They’re supposed to be working. This is a library not behind the fucking bikesheds. He’s talking in that fucking irritating cute voice and she is clinging to him like some fucking human limpet. I’ve seen them about Uni. He talks on her behalf and she just looks sheepish and docile. I bet they’re members of some weird cult.
Yesterday I was trying to get down the Lane with no name. That irritating ignorant fuck next door but one (the aka Good Life) was trimming his hedge. Mr Goodlife, you may recall, is married to a woman that looks like that woman from the eighties BBC drama Life and Loves of a She-Devil. They give the impression that they live self sufficiently and seem to think they own the fucking Lane with No name.
It is communal which means it is shared ownership.
As well as that they were the only people on the row of houses we live on to not come and say hello when we moved in. Anyway, his step ladder (I say step ladder it was more like a stool) was slightly blocking the lane. Now any normal person on seeing a car trying to get past would get out of the way until the car had passed. Not fuckwit. No. He just acted as though I wasn’t there. Ignorant fuck. Instead I had to turn the car round and risk the wrath of Mr Pritchard (next door but one the other way) and go through his gate. As I turned I noticed Mr Good Life topple over onto his front into a bank of nettles. Serves the fucker right.
I told G the Human Dog this morning who added that he had also had run ins with Mr Goodlife blocking the lane with no name when G had been trying to get by.
“Next time ‘e does it ‘am gunna jus leave me car behind his see how he fucking likes it”
I added that G should get me and I’ll move my car into the lane too so Goodlife won’t be able to get past.
I’m sure Mrs Gnomepants wouldn’t approve though.
Had you been in my kitchen just 20 minutes ago you may have witnessed me slicing parsnips. I hate the bloody things. It’s for the wife.
Contrary to widely held belief I am not trying to poison her (though allowing her to ingest parsnip is the equivalent of her allowing me to smoke cigarettes) she requested parsnip to accompany the rather splendid roast (free range locally sourced) chicken that is brewing in the oven.
In other news, I still lack a plumber. We have a lovely new bathroom suite in Gnomepants Manor, only it’s in the dining room rather than the bathroom. This is inconvenient as most people prefer to eat their dinner away from people taking a dump or having a wank in the shower. But until a plumber is found we will have a bathroom suite in the dining room. Like the pikeys we are.
Furthermore, I have managed, despite constant interruption by LJ and other distractions to complete 1.25 of my 5 outstanding assignments. This makes me feel good.
Tomorrow, Doncaster calls.
So after a long hard day attempting to motivate myself into doing some of the tonnes of work I have to do before April 16th I return from Uni and put the car into the garage.
While I am closing the garage door I hear a strange harrumphing noise coming from behind me. Worried that it might be G the Human Dog in distress I look round to see, in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name, the horses.
Now you may recall recent events where the people who own the field behind the lane with no name went and bought a rather beautiful chestnut mare much to the delight of the white and black patchy horsy in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name. Since then, the black and white patchy horse (who shares a field with an off white horse and a donkey), has been putting on a fine display of horse widginess. I tell you, you’ve never seen a knob so big in all your life! It even rivals mine! So theres the patchy horse wopping it on display like some weird Long John Holmes of the horse world driven to heights of lust and desire by the chestnut mare, separated by a barbed wire fence.
So I’m there, I’ve looked round, and my eyes beheld a sight which I’ve only ever seen in websites frequented by Uncle Monty and Girlzy. The two (male) horses in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name…..were…..bumming!
Of course I’m insanely jealous of this. But I tried to take a picture of the act for billzy you to wank gasp in awe over but the sun was in the wrong position and my camera phone is a bit slow now it’s over a year old. Still I’ve shoved it below the cut to protect the more sensitive readers. Even if it’s a crap picture.
While outside this morning I was treated to
As a happy ending, the people who own the field behind the “lane with no name” took a trip to an equine fair this weekend and purchased this lovely chestnut mare
A Horse Called Man
Behind the field behind the lane with no name is another field (separated by a patchy hedge and some skilfully placed barbed wire). In the field behind the field behind the lane with no name there are two other horses and a donkey, together with a collection of tatty farm machinery.
One of the horses in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name is a white and black patchy horsey. The white and black patchy horsey and his friends the donkey and the white horsey all came to say hello to the chestnut mare.
The white and black patchy horsey what has a big cock
I think the white and black patchy horsey was pleased to see the chestnut horsey (judged by the size of it’s dripping widgy). They all stood round looking at each other over the barbed wire fence. I suspect they have a lot to discuss.
The horse in the field behind Gnomepants Manor died last week. It was quite sudden.
G the Human Dog told me that he suspects foul play. No. He was sure it was foul play. In that some third party, notably a shifty chap that holds a grudge against the people that now live in the house at the end of “The lane with no name” who own the field, had on numerous occasions left the gate open and, in one final act of revenge, fed the horse poison. The motive, is as yet, unclear. But G is adamant that this unscrupulous character had committed the act.
Of course G has no proof to support these claims. It could just be that the horse has eaten something that didn’t agree with it. But village gossip being what it is, such a scandal as a equine poisoner at large, will no doubt keep tongues wagging for some time.
stegzy – Where are you?
Mrs Gnomepants – I’m in the Raven in Wakefield with Scott.
stegzy – What time will you be home?
Mrs Gnomepants – I’m setting off soon why don’t you come and join us?
stegzy – Because I’m nearly home now. I’ll see you when you get back
Text from Mrs Gnomepants – Will be home soon. Just waiting for Scott.
Text from Mrs Gnomepants – Our Lyndz will bring me home. Won’t be long now
Lyndz – I’m calling you from the speed camera on Pontefract Road do you know why?
stegzy – You’ve hit someone?
Lyndz – No. Because I’ve had to stop to let your drunken wife be sick
stegzy – Ah. Right.
Mrs Gnomepants returns. Drunk. Very very drunk. She is currently talking to Rolf on the great white telephone.
Imagine if you will a neighbour. An elderly neighbour of about 74. An elderly 74 year old neighbour who is widowed.
Then imagine noticing that same neighbour recieves nightly visits from a mysterious man whom she makes no mention of in idle chit chat.
Now imagine the same man arriving everytime under the cover of darkness. Rolling his car in neutral down the hill that is the private lane out the back. Rolling the car in neutral with no lights on.
Finally imagine the same man leaving very late at night. Again under the cover of darkness and again by rolling his car down the hill in neutral…..
What must the neighbours think?