"Got no conception, 'ave yer? That's the trouble with yer young 'uns terday, 'ad it too bleedin' easy all yer lives. Not like when I were young."
Uncle Hobart was holding forth on his favourite topic, himself, and listening to him you'd have been excused for thinking that he'd spent his childhood as Oliver Twist. His next remark really had me laughing though.
"A soup bowl!" I exclaimed.
"God's truth. True as I sit 'ere. One o' our soup bowls."
I pulled a face. "But that's disgusting, how could anyone do that!"
"That's easy fer yer ter say," he replied, "but there weren't no inside loos in them days, were there?" Frowning, he clicked his dentures at the distant memories. "Yer know, it weren't her using a soup bowl that got us so upset really, we all thought that were kind o' funny. Nah, it were the way she'd put the bleedin' thing back in the pile without washing it first that got us going. And like as not, just afer dinner were being served too." Uncle Hobart smiled, nodding at the window and a bygone era. "First sign o' wet weather and we'd all be clamouring fer jam butties." He chuckled softly. "Soup weren't none too popular in our school when it rained, I can tell yer that."
I shook my head in wonderment. "I really can't believe that a teacher would do that, yer know."
"Well, believe it or not, Peter boy, I seen 'er do it many a time." Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures again, tipping his head to one side. "Pissy Lill we used ter call 'er, but not to 'er face mind. We wouldn't 'ave dared do that."
Draining my glass, I leant back in the chair, smiling indulgently, convinced that Uncle Hobart was trying to wind me up again.
"Martha's going ter 'er sisters termorrer," he said, cutting through my thoughts.
"Yeah, I know," I replied, opening another can.
"Reckons she'll be there fer a few days."
"So?" I asked.
"Well, I thought we might take the opportunity ter get a couple o' things done while she were away, like."
I looked at him sharply. "What sort of things?"
Standing up he crooked a finger at me and I dutifully followed him down the garden path to his old shed.
Uncle Hobart's shed was filled to the gunnels with various odds and sods that he’d collected over the years, including all the things that he didn’t want Aunt Martha seeing. Things like betting slips, beer, and soft-porn magazines. I watched him pull aside an old tarpaulin, wondering what he’d got hidden underneath.
"A bath?" I exclaimed, when he finally stood back, proudly displaying the object.
"Not just a bath, Peter boy. It's one o' them Juicy Coozy things, ain't it?" He rubbed his hand along the rim while I studied the chrome water outlets dotted around the inside, pursing my lips. "Swopped it fer a pig," he told me proudly.
"And just what do you want with a bath?" I asked.
Sighing heavily, Uncle Hobart looked at me as though I were a simpleton. "I'm going ter put it in the bathroom, ain't I yer silly bugger? If we take out the shower and move the loo over, it'll fit in just right, I reckon."
Raising my eyebrows, I tried to ignore the gentle flutter that was struggling to make itself felt in the pit of my stomach. "We?" I checked, in case I’d misheard him.
He nodded vigorously. "Shouldn't take no more than a couple o' days, if we put our backs inter it."
"But neither of us knows the first thing about plumbing," I argued.
"Well that's just where you're wrong, ain't it?" he snapped back.
Pulling aside a couple of sacks, Uncle Hobart revealed a heap of materials thrown together in a disorganised pile: a bundle of copper tubing, a bag of pipe fittings, a bending machine, and a 'Do It Yourself' plumbing manual. Feeling behind me for the door I quickly backed my way out of the shed.
"Oy, where do yer think yer going?" Uncle Hobart demanded.
"I need a drink," I called over my shoulder, heading back to the house at a fast trot.
*
Groaning for the tenth time, I clutched at my stomach in desperation. Curries always had this effect on me, especially when they were followed by sixteen pints of beer. I groaned again and Uncle Hobart looked around at me.
"What's wrong with yer now?" he wanted to know.
"It's that curry we had last night. I need to use the loo real bad." Looking with longing at the empty space where the toilet had stood until a short while ago, I wondered just how long I would be able to hold on. "And I need to use it now," I finished between clenched teeth.
Glancing out of the window, Uncle Hobart shook his head and tutted quietly to himself. "It's raining fit ter bust out there," he smiled mischievously. "Tell yer what, why don't ter borrow me brolly? Or 'ow about I fetch yer a soup bowl?"
Ignoring his jibes, I studied the grey sewage pipe sticking up out of the floor. If I juxtaposed myself correctly, I could see no reason why I couldn’t squat over the pipe and do the necessary.
Uncle Hobart followed my thoughts and chuckled quietly to himself. "If yer thinking what I think yer thinking," he told me, "then I'm off ter get meself a beer."
Closing the door on his disappearing back, I took up position, feeling the skin on my buttocks wrinkle as a blast of cold air puffed upwards from the open end of the pipe. At last the cramps in my stomach began to ease and a huge grin of relief spread across my face.
I heard a scrabbling noise from somewhere below in the sewer pipe, then something brushed against the side of my foot. Glancing down, I spotted a pair of beady little black eyes glaring back up at me. Before I could make a move the rat darted forward, sinking its teeth into my rump. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I shot upright, tangling my feet in my trousers. Careering across the room into the opposite wall, my head smashed through the thin plasterboard, bounced off the cold water supply-pipe, broke a joint and immediately icy cold water started spaying up my left nostril.
Doing my best to ignore the rat that was still chewing onto my nether regions, I struggled to extract myself from the partition wall. With a desperate heave, I managed to pull myself free and stumbling backwards, crashed to the floor with a thump that rattled my teeth.
Uncle Hobart appeared at the bathroom door, a beer in one hand and a wide smile spread across his face. His smile widened even further as he took in the scene: the hole in the wall; the water pouring from the broken pipe; the flattened rat protruding from beneath my buttocks. All the signs that yet again I’d managed to make a complete arse of myself! Shaking his head slowly, he clicked his dentures a couple of times in sad resignation, before slowly backing out of the room.
Struggling to my feet, I carefully detached the rat from my posterior and tossed it out of the bathroom window for the cat to find. Then I turned the water off at the mains and was left with the steady splat, splat of water dripping from the ceiling, plus Uncle Hobart's throaty chuckles from the kitchen below.
*
Uncle Hobart pointed at the opening he’d just cut in the bathroom floorboards. "Yer cut the slots fer the pipes, while I shift this lot," he ordered.
Studying the floor joists, I tentatively picked up the electric saw.
"And when yer've finished doing that, put them pipes in and nail the floorboards back," he instructed me. "But give us an 'and with this lot first."
I loaded the old pieces of copper pipe into his arms and watched him stagger off down the stairs with them. Then kneeling on the floor, I picked up the saw and furrowed my forehead in thought. "How deep did he say?" I muttered to myself, trying to remember whether it was two or four inches in depth that he wanted the slots cut. Tutting at my forgetfulness, I crawled to the bathroom door and stuck my head around it. "Hey, Uncle Hobart, was it two inches or..."
A loud, clattering crash drowned out my words. This was quickly followed by a torrent of foul language. "What yer want ter go shouting out like that fer, yer bleedin' idiot? Yer nearly gave me a buggering 'eart attack, yer stupid sod! Now just shut up and get on with it, will yer." I quickly withdrew my head, just in case he decided to follow the strong words with a hail of pipefittings.
Studying the floor joists with a critical eye, I pursed my lips and came to a decision. "Four inches should be about right," I muttered.
The slots cut, I installed the pipework and was hammering the last of the floorboards back into place, when a voice bellowed in my ear, "Ain't yer finished that yet, then?" The air turned blue when I hit my thumb with the hammer. "Oh sorry, Peter boy," Uncle Hobart chuckled. "Did I make yer jump? Dear oh dear. I wonder 'ow I managed ter do that?"
Glaring up at the wide smile on his leathery old face, I came exceedingly close to using his head as a storage rack for the hammer!
*
Aunt Martha balanced her weight on one hip and puckered her lips into a tight little moue as her eyes traversed the bathroom with a trenchant stare. Then she broke into a smile, her long nose jerking in unison with the movement of her head. "Well Hobart," she finally said, nodding her head in satisfaction. "I must say, you've made a splendid job of it."
Decrying her praise, I flapped my hand. "Oh it was nothing really, Aunt Martha."
"What yer mean, it were nothing?" growled Uncle Hobart. "It were bleedin' 'ard work is what it were. At least fer some o' us," he finished with a withering look in my direction.
"And much appreciated Hobart, much appreciated," Aunt Martha assured him, with a soothing smile and a peck on the cheek. "Has anyone tried it out yet?"
I shook my head. "We thought that we'd leave that honour to you, Aunt Martha."
"Well that's very kind of you. Thank you." She beamed at Uncle Hobart once more before heading for the hall.
By this time I was beginning to wonder if my contribution to all this work counted for anything at all.
Uncle Hobart winked at me. "I reckon I'll be alright ternight," he whispered, following Aunt Martha out of the bathroom.
*
"I'm just going to have a quick bath before the parade starts," I called, sticking my head around the kitchen door.
Lowering his newspaper, Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures at me. "If yer going ter use the Juicy Coozy, watch out fer the 'andle. Martha reckons it's a bit on the stiff side."
I waved an okay at him and headed up the stairs for a nice long, relaxing bath.
That was my first mistake.
Filling the bath with hot water, I gingerly lowered myself into it with a sigh, watching the skin on my thighs turn beetroot red. When I have a bath I like the water hot. I’ve always been a bath person myself. I hate using a shower. I know some people turn their noses up at the thought of bathing in their own dirty water, but that’s not me. Eyeing the controls of the Jacuzzi, Uncle Hobart had knocked together from the remains of an old crop sprayer. I shrugged and decided to give it a go.
That was my second mistake.
Using my fingertips, I pushed nervously at the lever, grunting in disappointment when it failed to move. I tried pushing harder but it still refused to budge. Swearing softly to myself, I decided to persevere.
That was my third mistake.
Thumping the lever to a mid-way position, I lay back with a smile of satisfaction as a gentle stream of bubbles erupted from the chrome-plated nozzles. The sensation of frothy water running over my skin was quite stimulating and I hummed to myself as I luxuriated in the feeling. It was extremely relaxing and as I listened to the quiet, hypnotic thrum of the motor, I allowed pleasant thoughts to fill my mind, drifting off into a dream-world full of booze, birds, and football.
Some time later, I dropped my arm over the side of the bath and reached for the towel, cursing myself when I realised that I’d left it hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I looked at the dirty floorboards with distaste. The bathroom carpet was still hanging on the garden fence, drying off after my earlier accident. Dropping the flannel onto the floorboards so that I had something clean to stand on, I got out of the bath and reached for the towel. It was just out of my reach. I stretched my arm to its full extent and overbalancing, fetched up against the bathroom door, one leg stuck out behind me, tottering at an acute angle on the small, slippery flannel. But at least I had the damned towel in my clutches. Trying to push myself upright, I thrust myself away from the door, and almost made it.
Almost, but not quite.
After another couple of fruitless attempts, I finally lost my temper and pushed myself away from the door with all the strength I could muster.
And that was my biggest mistake, because it sent me a lot further than I’d intended going.
My outstretched leg sailed over the edge of the bath, my foot landing smack on top of the soap. The soap shot out from under my foot and I suddenly found myself suspended above a bath full of gently steaming water. Grabbing the handle of the Jacuzzi as I fell, I pulled it straight to the highest setting, where it promptly broke off. The pump immediately picked up speed and began shaking the bath as it strained to pump air and water through the system at an ever-increasing rate.
Water began gushing from the bath outlets with incredible power, spraying everything in sight, bouncing off the bathroom ceiling before splashing down into the bath again, where it swirled around between my legs, disappearing down the outlet pipe with a force that pulled me along with it. I looked down in horror as the swirling water sucked my testicles into the plughole with a hungry slurp.
My cries of pain grew louder in direct proportion to the suction applied to my elongating balls. The motor went into overdrive, trying to compensate for the blockage and the pump began to scream like some demented banshee. The din built to a crescendo, the the bathroom shaking as though a point-seven earthquake was in full swing. I prayed that the pump would stop, releasing me from its painful embrace before the whole house collapsed.
Finally my prayers were answered when the motor gave up its unequal struggle and exploded into a shower of shrapnel that smashed through the bottom of the bath. As my backside was painfully peppered with tiny pieces of red-hot metal, I grabbed the rim of the bath, desperately rocking it from side to side, trying to release my poor mistreated nuts from their torture.
Somewhere away in the distance, I heard Uncle Hobart shouting and hammering on the bathroom door, which suddenly burst from its hinges, joining me in the bath. Uncle Hobart erupted into the bathroom, closely followed by a very worried looking Aunt Martha and I mouthed a long, soundless scream at them, desperately pointing down between my legs.
"What on earth's the matter with him, Hobart?" Aunt Martha asked, looking at me over his shoulder.
"Stuck ... stuck ... stuck," was all I could manage between clenched teeth, desperately clutching at Uncle Hobart's jacket and nearly dragging him into the bath with me.
He slapped my hand away and knelt down beside the bath, plunging his arm down between my legs. "Good God!" he yelled. "'E's got 'is...", glancing up at Aunt Martha, he frowned, "er... thingamees stuck down the plug-'ole."
Aunt Martha and Uncle Hobart grabbed on arm each and began pulling for all they were worth but as they struggled to free me an ominous cracking noise issued from beneath the bath as the weakened joists collapsed under our combined weight.
I screamed as the bath canted over and I was left suspended by the most delicate part of my anatomy.
I screamed as the bath slid across the floor, dragging my exposed nether regions over the rough wooden floorboards, filling it full of splinters.
I screamed as the bath fell into the kitchen below and crashed through the kitchen window in a shower of glass.
And I screamed my biggest scream as the bath hit the muddy front-yard, sliding halfway up the lane.
At that point I gave up screaming and fainted.
*
I learnt later that Uncle Hobart had loaded the bath, with me still attached, onto his trailer and had headed for the hospital. Unfortunately the village parade was in full swing by this time and the police, thinking that we were another entry, directed Uncle Hobart to join the rest of the floats. What theme they thought a naked man sitting in a bathtub represented, I shudder to think.
It was at this point that I regained my senses to find myself part of a long procession of floats being driven slowly through a crowd of flag waving revellers. Every time we hit a bump, my testicles were bounced about in the outlet pipe, which caused me to scream at the top of my lungs. Pretty soon the heavy-metal rock band on the float behind us began to take up the beat and the crowd roared their approval, joining in the screaming and shouting with gay abandon, having a grand old time of it. Everyone but me treated the whole event like some continental Mardi Gras. Even Uncle Hobart began clicking his dentures in time to the music.
*
I spent the next two weeks recovering in hospital and the only thing that kept me sane was the thought of what I was going to do to Uncle Hobart when I finally got out. During this enforced period of idleness, I received two telephone calls. One from the Annual Parade Committee, asking me if I would appear in the next years parade, as my float had won first prize. The other from the heavy-metal rock band, letting me know that our song had entered the charts at number eight and that they needed my signature on a contract as soon as possible.
It was called, 'Little Balls Get Bigger Every Day!'