The dreadfully draining life of a plumber

MEMOIR

PIPE DREAMS 

Nicholas James (Ad Lib £9.99, 256pp) 

Plumbers appeal to the unique British sense of humour, such is our obsession with the lavatorial. Years ago, I saw Harry Secombe in a farce called The Plumber’s Progress, in which the Goon did daft things with a monkey wrench.

In many a cinematic romp, Robin Askwith made play with a bucket and his big long hose. One of our greatest films — superior surely to Lawrence Of Arabia — is Carry On At Your Convenience, set in a sanitaryware factory, W. C. Boggs & Son.

James, who has a law degree and used to be in marketing, switched professions when he realised there was a shortage of plumbers. Stock image used

All this came to mind while reading Pipe Dreams, Nicholas James’s reminiscence about being in the trade. Day in and day out customers make suggestive jokes: ‘Have you been fiddling with my wife’s pipes?’; ‘She said you were very quick . . . you like to get straight down to it.’

It’s not really a funny occupation, though. James, who has a law degree and used to be in marketing, switched professions when he realised there was a shortage of plumbers. ‘I figured I’d never be out of work. I never was.’

Though he makes a good living from installing boilers and bathroom suites, his clients, for the most part, are obnoxious — judges, drug addicts, rock stars and obstetricians, who without fail want to renegotiate the agreed price and rip him off once a job is done.

He criss-crosses London, fixing taps in Highgate or radiators in Stroud Green. ‘I became an expert,’ says our author, ‘at winning over difficult, demanding, wealthy women who wanted something new but didn’t know what.’

There now appears to be a fashion for a vertical radiator which weighs 200kg, ‘and that was without any water in it’. Often, these beasts have to be manhandled up a ladder and in through a window, as they are too wide for the stairs. Then they’ll prove so heavy they rip the bolts straight out of the wall. All in a day’s work.

James has seen it all — horrible dogs, escaped tarantulas (one of which ‘wedged itself behind the hot water tank’) and randy workmates who ask: ‘What’s wrong with going down the pub, drinking ten pints, taking some bird home, fumbling around on the couch for ten minutes, then passing out?’ This is what’s called a rhetorical question — but praise the Lord, we are a romantic nation.

It is a not infrequent occurrence for plumbers to dash outside to grab something from the van only to find themselves locked out, the front door having slammed. James’s assistant, Dale, climbed back in over a fence and had a heart attack: ‘He’s unconscious and it doesn’t look good.’ In fact, he died.

Big Pete gets wedged between the roof joists. Ryan, covered in scars, sticks back his broken teeth with superglue. As the motley crew fall off ladders and break wrists or drill into live electricity wires, the creed of these amiable oddballs is ‘Health and Safety is for wimps’.

Working in Victorian buildings, James is for ever knocking nails into lead pipes concealed in the walls, releasing powerful water pressure. If he needs to find the stopcock in the street without ado, typically the council will have resurfaced pavements, covering everything with tarmac. The only solution is to dig up the garden, in search of the mains.

James has seen it all — horrible dogs, escaped tarantulas (one of which ‘wedged itself behind the hot water tank’) and randy workmates. Stock image used

I hated hearing how rats emerge from the sewers. James describes one jumping out from ‘behind the toilet and brushing past my legs as it ran down the stairs’.

That’s as bad as people’s generally terrible taste. All over London there are pink marble-effect lavatories, waterbeds and Jacuzzis with gold taps. Walls painted with pentagrams and satanic worship symbols are not uncommon. He also refurbished the shower in a secret hospital suite for women who’d had plastic surgery and didn’t wish to be seen until the swelling had gone down.

When fitting a new stopcock, a plumber freezes the pipe with an ice-plug. Everything needs to be in place before it melts, or else there’s the prospect of a Biblical flood.

As if averting these catastrophes isn’t enough, James is often expected by clients — as he’s there with his bag of tools and as he’s obviously handy — to replace windows, assemble wardrobes, stick mirrors on walls and install decking, all without an additional fee. He also has to look after and feed people’s pets, and once lost a cat under the floorboards: ‘I quickly unscrewed the ply and the cat shot out like its tail was on fire.’

This is a genial book, James coming across as good-natured and conscientious. The same can’t be said for many of his customers.

When I read that the cellars and basements of many older properties are situated a few inches above the London Underground, I half-hoped James’s excavations, in search of pipes and rusted stoptaps, would make the whole house, including its occupants, crash through and vanish in a cloud of dust.