After emailing the developer on a nauseatingly regular basis and suggesting his Matt black Range-rover might be compared to my cracked electricity meter cupboard in a delightful metaphor he agreed to see us and listen to our gripes over the house we moved into 2 months ago tomorrow, hopefully before irreconcilable differences develop and the whole chain of pointing at cracks in the skirting boards and ceilings, with decorators present as we suck air through our teeth, breaks down and the developer says he’ll sort it, whilst he sits in his palatial house made from shark fins and tiger penii counting his fucking enemies and laughing at the people who’ve bought his houses from him. But we will have the last laugh because he will probably get a stress related illness as I continually send pestering text messages, and then emails and then letters when he changes his number, on line address and then his actual address becoming a traveling tinker as I follow him round the country in my battered landrover laughing like a maniac as I throw flyers out of my window saying;

HCT homes are a bunch of Dunces 

Today’s episode was priceless as I offered him coffee, brewed it, then thought, “Nah, fuck it, I’m not giving him any” as we toured the house pointing, tutting and contributing to his ever growing list of financial irritations, which he tries to do cheaply but ends up costing him more due to being a twat and not doing the job properly in the first place. We did the inside, then pressed him to give us an answer as to what he planned on doing out side regards flattening out the garden which, as i’ve mentioned before, resembled the arse hole of a sumo wrestler, poorly planted and soft to the touch. He told me that it is too wet, to do anything, to which I replied that it was probably too wet in his head to come up with an idea to do anything and then got him to agree to flattening out the Somme, in time, when it gets drier. Honestly this tosser will not see anything beyond selling all the houses and then leaving Worcestershire behind as a place where they burn people from Kidderminster let alone G-X (Gerrards Cross) in a wicker pear. So we went to the front where I was complaining about the man holes standing 4 inches high above ground level in our front mud patch. I lifted up the cover and an almighty stench of shit and dirty washing exploded forth and we reaklised the drains were blocked to within 6 inches of overflowing.

“Get the Rods” was the call to James, the deputy site manager driven slightly insane by people complaining about the work he has authorised his contractors to do.  They’ve cut corners, filled drains with clay, covered up damp courses so even the slugs are too wet to get in, ours is ok, but half of the other houses are a shambles. In their wisdom once the houses have been plastered and painted then they can sign them off and get paid whilst disappearing into the wilds of Birmingham, bankrupting their company and re-emarging weeks later as a giant bug, in a remarkable metamorphosis. If only they’d do the job properly, they could be gone now, and everyone would be happy, instead they wouldn’t be rodding our shit filled drains, muttering under their breath in words and incantations only heard on a chai mat after a 3 night bender at a beach in Goa. 12 lengths of Rod went in and nothing was shifting until he pulled it out; the drains spluttered and exploded in a brown shitbow of wretchedness, sinking solidly into the drain aperture and off to the coast. James was left wiping his face, hands and jeans whilst remaining distanced from all who watched.

Hands-Face-Space.

All the pipes gurgled in our house as unseen stale shit tinged water was sucked downwards and out from the pipes, fart gas (thats for you C) exploded out into the closed atmosphere of our lovely house, and the kids immediately complained. I had the coffee I’d made for the developer and then went and played Wall-EE with my son, which I won, just.