Drainspotting

I’ve spent my day with my arm up my U-bend, which – trust me - isn’t a euphemism.

It does however get interesting looks from the neighbours, and is of crucial importance when washing up, if you don’t want a fountain of water between 2 and 6 inches high (depending on how many beers you’ve had when telling the story) from shooting up the other sink, and spraying you with d’merde.

Which is all the stranger, considering the bleeding thing isn’t blocked. It’s had gallons of drain cleaner, and half a mile of wire pipe cleaner poked down the hole, and if I could see inside it would be as clean as a whistle. Except I can’t as it wends it’s weavy way through every inch of the labyrinth under the hovel, out through the wall, under the shrubbery where Lizzy the blue tongue lizard sleeps, and beneath the car park.
I did think of pouring some petrol down, and lighting a match, but if you try that trick down under, they come down on you like a can of worms.

Finally, however, I have a solution! I would should Eureka! However, rather like Archimedes after leaping out of his bath, I’m covered, head to toe, in 30 years worth of raw sewage. When I unscrewed the vent cap off the top of the drain, there was a rush of air, a gloop, and a fountain between 2 and 6 feet high (depending on the tour guide) of the primeval gloop that was down my sink.

Would you believe the pillocks that built it, forgot to put an air vent in. Who would think that drains need air, or you end up with vacuum that will consume small rodents whole.