Have you ever sent someone a picture of ytour winkle?

[Monty92]

Wide angled lens m. Not very technical are you.

Ah, I have a question.

Since our boiler was serviced a few months ago, whenever we run the dishwasher or washing machine of an evening we get crazy loud gurgling sounds from the plug hole in our sinks and particularly the bath.

We had a fella come round the other day from the property management company who insists it's all perfectly normal and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they did a service and ****ed some **** up in the process.

Can you shed any light on why this might be happening and what we could do about it?

If you could also express your deep loathing for Jews somewhere in your response, that too would be appreciated.

Thanks in advance.

[Burney]

Ah, I have a question.

Since our boiler was serviced a few months ago, whenever we run the dishwasher or washing machine of an evening we get crazy loud gurgling sounds from the plug hole in our sinks and particularly the bath.

We had a fella come round the other day from the property management company who insists it's all perfectly normal and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they did a service and ****ed some **** up in the process.

Can you shed any light on why this might be happening and what we could do about it?

If you could also express your deep loathing for Jews somewhere in your response, that too would be appreciated.

Thanks in advance.

I'm no expert, m, but it sounds to me like there's probably some jobbies jammed in the shítpipes. In which case h is your man.

[Monty92]

I'm no expert, m, but it sounds to me like there's probably some jobbies jammed in the shítpipes. In which case h is your man.

I did, after carefully weighing up my options, flush a pair of shít-stained knickers down the crapper the other day, but the gurgling issue pre-dates that regrettable incident.

[Burney]

I did, after carefully weighing up my options, flush a pair of shít-stained knickers down the crapper the other day, but the gurgling issue pre-dates that regrettable incident.

Why were you wearing knickers?

[Monty92]

Why were you wearing knickers?

Don't be ridiculous.

They were the missus's.

[IUFG]

Don't be ridiculous.

They were the missus's.

your missus shat herself?

and...why not throw them in the bin?

[Monty92]

your missus shat herself?

and...why not throw them in the bin?

We're toilet training my daughter and she did a shiite in her knick-knacks. Flushing them down the shítter seemed the best of a very, very bad range of options.

[Burney]

Don't be ridiculous.

They were the missus's.

Your domestic arrangements alarm me, m.

Mind you, this does remind me of a time when the main sewer that ran in an alley next to my old house had some issues and I called the water people. I was working at home at the time and a grubby little homunculus dressed in overalls of indistinct colour and dubious cleanliness came to the door to announce he was going to have a poke about as his calling demanded. "Jolly good," I said, backing away imperceptibly. "Crack on, there's a good fellow."
Half an hour later, he rang the doorbell again wielding a huge and filthy shovel which he jabbed towards me accusingly, saying: "THERE'S YOUR TROUBLE!"

On the shovel were a simply enormous pair of perished, shít-covered Y-fronts of ancient vintage.

"You can't flush things like that!" he continued. "No wonder you've got bloody trouble."
I pointed out hotly that the sewer served the entire street, that these were clearly not my Y-Fronts and that he needed to look elsewhere for the felonious flusher. "Pshaw!" he said (or similar), gave me the stinkeye and stalked off, muttering darkly.
A very distressing experience. I imagine he was one of h's chums. Indeed, when I think of h, I imagine this fellow.

[Monty92]

Your domestic arrangements alarm me, m.

Mind you, this does remind me of a time when the main sewer that ran in an alley next to my old house had some issues and I called the water people. I was working at home at the time and a grubby little homunculus dressed in overalls of indistinct colour and dubious cleanliness came to the door to announce he was going to have a poke about as his calling demanded. "Jolly good," I said, backing away imperceptibly. "Crack on, there's a good fellow."
Half an hour later, he rang the doorbell again wielding a huge and filthy shovel which he jabbed towards me accusingly, saying: "THERE'S YOUR TROUBLE!"

On the shovel were a simply enormous pair of perished, shít-covered Y-fronts of ancient vintage.

"You can't flush things like that!" he continued. "No wonder you've got bloody trouble."
I pointed out hotly that the sewer served the entire street, that these were clearly not my Y-Fronts and that he needed to look elsewhere for the felonious flusher. "Pshaw!" he said (or similar), gave me the stinkeye and stalked off, muttering darkly.
A very distressing experience. I imagine he was one of h's chums. Indeed, when I think of h, I imagine this fellow.

I'm interested to know what it was about these presumably barely-identifiable pair of under-crackers that gave you the confidence to declare them "clearly not mine"?

Men who deal with this kind of stuff seem entirely unaware of how profoundly uninterested anyone else is about the mechanics of plumbing. A fella came round yesterday and insisted on taking me into the basement to point out all of the various pipes and which flats they belong to.

Still, at least he didn't rape me.

[redgunamo]

Your domestic arrangements alarm me, m.

Mind you, this does remind me of a time when the main sewer that ran in an alley next to my old house had some issues and I called the water people. I was working at home at the time and a grubby little homunculus dressed in overalls of indistinct colour and dubious cleanliness came to the door to announce he was going to have a poke about as his calling demanded. "Jolly good," I said, backing away imperceptibly. "Crack on, there's a good fellow."
Half an hour later, he rang the doorbell again wielding a huge and filthy shovel which he jabbed towards me accusingly, saying: "THERE'S YOUR TROUBLE!"

On the shovel were a simply enormous pair of perished, shít-covered Y-fronts of ancient vintage.

"You can't flush things like that!" he continued. "No wonder you've got bloody trouble."
I pointed out hotly that the sewer served the entire street, that these were clearly not my Y-Fronts and that he needed to look elsewhere for the felonious flusher. "Pshaw!" he said (or similar), gave me the stinkeye and stalked off, muttering darkly.
A very distressing experience. I imagine he was one of h's chums. Indeed, when I think of h, I imagine this fellow.

Have you been reading Wodehouse again? He's the only man that can use "pshaw!" and get away with it, imo.