Up until one am last night my weekend was going rather nicely. I met up with drinks with some friends round Clapham Common, laughed my face out and got back to my flat at a reasonable hour, arseholed.
I awoke on Saturday feeling ropey, ate some kippers/toast, drunk pints of tea before heading off to fucking Sainsbury’s for the weekly shop. In addition to my Triumph I also have a white van, it’s been converted into a sort of camper thing but from the outside looks like any other shitty white van. The intention of its purchase a year and a half ago was to make the summer festival circuit that little bit more bearable but so far it’s primary use is somewhere to put my tools, bicycle and aforementioned weekly shop. Utter waste of money and resources but it allows me to purchase food/booze without fear of overloading, besides it has a very competitive sound system and, used to riding without music and cigarettes, offers a weekly opportunity to travel listening to Slayer and smoke, which is rather jolly.
On my return I unpacked the various comestibles, wines and lilies. The latter is something I insist on having in this flat, weekly, fresh. I’m not gay, incidentally, despite being good with colours. I pushed a ham, melted cheese and salad sandwich into my maw and prepared myself for a late pm pub encounter with some friends and my brother. We imbibed quite heavily in a atmosphere of public school cunts and those that clearly enjoy a game of rugger. It wasn’t ideal but we had arrived in time to get a table and throughout the evening were deliciously aware of being regarded with mixture of jealously and contempt. When done we staggered back to tube, said fond farewells and left for home. On exiting the tube station a bubble of gassy beer arrived into my mouth resulting in my being forced into spitting a geyser of white spume at the pavement in front of some less than impressed revellers. One of them clearly wanted to object to this act of filth but following a withering glare from yours truly thought better of it when he realised I was beyond care.
I rolled a joint when I returned and puffed happily watching something on BBC4 about British sci-fi, or something. I declined the temptation to listen to some music as this would inevitably lead to more alcohol, and I was already filled with booze. My intention was to ride to Camden on the Sunday and exchange a leather jacket and I didn’t want to face the journey with a hangover. At some point after one am I decided to turn in so I toddled off to the bathroom for a final whizz. Then everything took a dark turn for the worst.
When I entered the bathroom my feet were instantly soaked in freezing cold water. Confusion shifted into deep concern, as there was no earthly reason my bathroom should be half an inch deep in fucking H20. Panicking I desperately searched for the source of this atrocity and to my utter horror bore witness to the bathroom radiator weeing a jet of liquid from its base. Oh FUCK. I said. Then I said it again. I tore into the kitchen and shoved a washing-up bowl in the washing-up-bowl-space between the radiator and ever-expanding pond. To my utter dismay the bowl began to fill more quickly than I had anticipated and I worked out that in the space of less than half an hour the bloody thing would overflow. I tried to shut off the radiator valve but it made little difference, so I opted for draining the water from the top using the radiator key. I grabbed a bucket from under the sink in the kitchen and offered it up to the screw, I turned it once and black dribble of water trickled down the side of the unit, on the second turn the dribble was more of a spurt, on the third turn the screw shot out -flying over the bucket into the ether- and a high pressure jet of thundering water pissed into the bucket. Anticipating the pressure to subside following the shock of the sheer volume and force of the water, I started to feel more relaxed, by this time it was past two am and I was shattered. Needless to say this was a short-lived respite, the pressure didn’t subside, the bucket was filling rapidly and I couldn’t find the fucking screw. To make matters worse I was jammed in between the toilet and the wall, the bucket had exactly one precise location to catch the pressurised liquid so my ability to search for the screw was compromised to the point of panic. So I panicked heroically. I was literally screwed.
I hurled the bucket into the bath watching hopelessly as more water streamed onto my floor, a wooden floor I hasten to add with large unfilled gaps leading to the ceiling of the flat below. For a heart-stopping five seconds I splashed down onto my floor boards and scanned the area like a man in the grip of a Parkinson’s episode, there it is! Behind the toilet! I picked it up and tried to jam the screw into position but the force of the jet was such that the screw wouldn’t find purchase, water fired out in all possible direction soaking the parts of me and the bathroom that hadn’t already become deluged. After what seemed like a lifetime the screw bit into the thread and I was back to square one. I took the chance to replace the soaking towels from the floor with any material that would absorb water, tee-shirts, pants, jeans, on they all went, my main concern now being sued by the cunt below for a collapsed ceiling… The radiator was still happily leaking but I noticed the stream was now a fast drip. I emptied out the washing bowl and put it back into position. It was now gone two-thirty and I was exhausted, my eyes barely able to stay open. I monitored the speed in which the bowl was filling and surmised it would take roughly two hours before the bowl would overflow. I HAD to sleep so I set the alarm for four-thirty and went to bed. Two hours later I was bolt upright to the horrific buzz of the alarm, bleary eyed I wandered into the bathroom just as the water in the bowl was on the point of running over the side. The bowl was emptied and I returned to bed, this time setting the alarm for six-thirty. This awful procedure was repeated until ten-thirty on Sunday morning where a sufficent, albeit frugal, quantity of sleep offered the merest ‘what the fuck do I do now?’ Conjecture-window. I went immediately online to find a plumber who’d work on a Sunday without my having to re-mortgage this fucking shithole to pay the cunt.
After a bit of research I made contact with a polite Australian chap who arranged for a plumber to arrive between two and four pm, for the cost of £85 plus VAT and not including materials. Jesus Christ.
This wouldn’t necessarily be an issue but in the space of a month, my boiler has broken down twice (£500) my washing machine died (£400) and on Friday a slow puncture and replacement of rear brake pads on my beloved Triumph totalled £70.
My trip to Camden has been iced, my brother can’t make it for a drink tonight and on top of it all, the fucking plumber still hasn’t arrived and it’s gone four already.
I’m actually looking forward to going to work tomorrow.