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This is a question Filth!

Enzyme says: Tell us your tales of grot, grime, dirt, detritus and mess

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:04)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Filth, I can't say, it was very dark
But for sheer menacing physical stink factor, I can highly recommend the khasi in an Indian restaurant I went to in Lagos, Nigeria.

I suspect had the floor been visible, the origin of the stink would have been obvious, but there was no lamp, and I was holding my breath and more or less pissing though the open door, hoping I might be hitting something designed to capture bodily effluents.

On reflection, I don't think it would have mattered.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:04, 9 replies)
Suits, beer and cack encrusted tramps.
A few of years ago the sweary one and I were in town, doing some shopping. I’m after a black suit for my graduation, and she’s after a nice new dress for said occasion. As often happens in these situations, we both find what we want pretty quickly and are faced with the familiar, age old dilemma – back home, or pub?

Pub wins. Every time.

So, we are firmly ensconced in the Strawberry, enjoying a foamy pint of Old Cuntbuster (or some similarly ludicrously-named real ale), and having a smoke, when this bloke rolls up. I use the term ‘bloke’ loosely – he was barely recognisable as human. “Hev ye gorra tab I can borra mate”? slurs the man-thing, to us (I never understood that particular phrase – if I give you my name and address are you going to return said fag in the post to me)?

At this point we both become aware of an almighty foul stench that has just assaulted our olfactory senses, and realise it’s coming from this random cigarette-bumming missing link. Desperate to be rid of him the sweary one replies, “Yeah, here” and thrusts a cancer stick in his general direction. It was on doing this that we noticed a bit more about him.

The guy had a beard that was obviously the result of several years’ growth. Within that beard was a carefully-cultivated mat of the most offensive looking vomit I have ever seen. I could feel the bile rising slowly and the colour draining from my cheeks as the smell he had brought with him became overpowering, and as he turned to stumble back towards the bar, we noticed what was an absolute tour-de-force of shit plastering the back of his jeans. From the inside. The guy had heroically shat himself in what can only be described as a voluminous manner, probably more than once, but was obviously too pissed to notice and had ground this horrific life-form into his jeans through the simple act of sitting on a bar stool (‘scuse pun) and shifting his weight around occasionally in order to get comfy.

Gagging, we stayed and continued our pints, lighting up again several times to combat the smell. How the barman continued to do his job without retching is a mystery I still ponder to this day.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:03, 6 replies)
She woke up in bed next to a guy she didn't know, with a hangover from hell and a mouth like the Sahara desert.
Needing liquid badly, she took the only apparent source available - a half-full can of lager, and swigged, giving herself a mouthful of warm, flat lager, mixed with cigarette butts and the cum she'd spat into it a few hours before.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:02, 6 replies)
Welcome Break
Everytime i visit a motorway service station, i always find upon entering a cubicle, that some filthy fucker has taken a massive shit and decided not to pull the flush. This happens to me on almost every occasion regardless of where i am. I can only assume therefore,that i have been secretly stalking a phantom shitter and didn't even know it.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:02, 3 replies)
Decent Homes
The company I work for had a contract a couple of years ago to renew several hundred kitchens and bathrooms to council properties in a particular London Borough, all as part of a nationwide modernisation 'Decent Homes' scheme. These are the photos of one of the properties that I went into to survey beforehand. You could say a lick of paint was a little overdue. This was about 3 years ago now and I bet it’s back to how it was already.

Photos in reply (enjoy).
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 14:50, 18 replies)
Oh, I remember one.
We went on holiday for 2 weeks, during the height of summer.

Not sure how, but we managed to leave a microwave lasagna, in the microwave.

Welcomed home by the most unearthly stink.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 14:35, Reply)
A filthy pearoast
'I'm not waiting in that...'

Some years ago, I was standing in the queue for the toilets during the Edinburgh Festival. It was nearly sunset and the line to get in to the Portakabin-style temporary toilets in George Square Gardens was quite long, but it was moving fast. A bloke from the back of the queue shouted, 'I'm not waiting in that', and he strode purposefully off towards the back of the Portakabin - no doubt with the intention of relieving himself there. Unfortunately, in the dimming light and in his slightly inebriated state, he didn't see the tautly-pulled, shin-height guy-rope and he went straight down. He didn't even have time to put his hands out to break his fall - it was vertical to horizontal in the blink of an eye.

Now, it was immediately obvious that many other festival-goers had decided to relieve themselves at the back of the Portakabin earlier that night, although most had probably seen the guy-rope in the better light. What had formed over the course of the evening truly was a bog - a toxic mixture of earth, cigarette butts and gallons of lagery pish. And he was covered in it, head to toe in a foul, black slime. He got up and just stood there with his hands by his sides.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 14:31, 1 reply)
Liquid lasagane
Over time the amount of free space under my desk at work gets less and less as more and more stuff accumulates there. A few years ago I decided to clear it all out and came across a carrier bag containing a tupperwear box. I thought that it was rather strange that there was a sloshing sound coming from it as it appeared to be full of liquid. 'How odd' I though that someone would fill a box like this with liquid. I then did something that still makes me feel queasy about now. I opened it. The foul stench that came from it still haunts me to the day. I'm sure you could actually see the evil vapours rising with demons and spirits escaping like when Walter Peck shut down the containment unit in Ghostbusters. Everyone in the office immediately gagged with shouts of 'what the fuck is that'.

I immediately snapped the lid shut and ran to the loos with the offending box in hand, held my breath, opened it, poured the contents down the loo and flushed. By this point I had a choice of passing out or taking a breath. I chose the latter which was probably a mistake as the most unimaginable stench seared the insides of my nostrils and I immediately threw up into the same loo.

A few minutes later I emerged pale-faced and still retching every now and again.

After a lot of thinking, I finally realised what it was. Turns out that 1-year old left-over lasagne does not keep very well in a plastic box sat under an office desk
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 14:22, Reply)
depression in a bedsit can make you a lazy cunt
i spent 7 months surviving in that bedsit. i won't say living, because that's not what i was doing. it was the most godawful depressing hovel, but it was all i had. depression led to apathy, which led to me buying paper plates so that i didn't have to wash up. dirty dishes and clothes were shoved into cupboards and forgotten about. it really was horrible.
what turned it around was when i dropped a tub of ice cream on the floor. looking about me, i tried to find something to clean it up. all i could see was a large brown envelope. that would have to do.
i suashed the envelope onto the ice cream, in the vain hope that it would soak it up. it didn't, but that didn't stop me from leaving it there for 3 days, until it pretty much solidified.
eventually, my sister came to visit me.
"what's that envelope doing on the floor?" she asked.
"i put it there to soak up the ice cream i spilled," i replied.
the look she gave me was withering, to say the least. that was when i realised i really couldn't justify how much of a lazy cunt i was being. i knew i had to do something.
within a week, i was out of that shithole and well on my way to a nice new flat. i wasn't depressed any more and, i'm happy to say, i've NEVER let my home get into that kind of state again.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 14:04, 22 replies)
pea-tinged portaloo avoidance trauma
One year, at download festival, we foolishly camped at the furthest point from any portaloos. anticipating smell, i think. anyhow, i should have paid more attention to the incipient mammoth richard.

anywhoo. day two. as a regular, 3 shits a day kinda guy, this was dangerous territory. i woke at noon in a blind panic, the sun was beating down through the tent, i was hungover in the most exceptional, two days of drinking nothing but alcohol and sweltering in a tent, dehydrated and still pished kind of way, and like it or not, the kraken had been summoned.
there was nothing i could do, the walk was too far, too many people awake, and even chuck norris couldn't have held the beast now bludgeoning against my poor beleaguered trapdoor with it's knotted, thorny brow.
there was nothing for it. i leapt up, grabbed a plastic bag, and headed for the 'spare' tent, where, in a crab pose an olympic gymnast would be proud of, i filled a carrier bag, knotted it, stumbled into the light gagging and traumatised, and slunk to the bin to dispose of the evidence.

this remained a secret until one fateful night, while drunk, i retold the tale to a couple of friends.

the following year, spurred on by my escapades and finding himself in a similar position (except we were a mere 20 yards from the damn toilets) my friend also shat in a bag in his tent.
here the story diverges though, as he left it sweltering in the sun all day in a knotted bag, then, when the coast was clear, selected a nearby tent at random, and tossed it in.
the dirty cnut.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:53, 6 replies)
Club toilets are bad, mm-kay?
I'm lurking in the cubicle in a seedy club, trying not to look too closely at the brown streaks decorating what was last describable as porcelain some time in the early Edwardian era. I'm attempting to extract a pill from its bag, with what appear to be anaesthetised sausages where my fingers should be. The smell from the pools of unidentifyable bodily fluids on the floor, and the suspiciously multi-coloured streaks on the walls (which almost obscure the anatomically unlikely porn daubed in what appears to be blood) is making my eyes water, which also isn't helping.

Eventually I get the pill out, but inevitably fumble it, and it drops into the pan and through the scummy sheen covering what I'm going to call water with a oleaginous plop. I swear at length and in several languages.

My mate, partner in crime and fellow fluoronaut, pokes his head around the door and immediately grasps the situation. "Dropped it, have you? Never mind, I'll have it!"

And before I can react, he's plunged his hand into the murky depths of the bowl, rummaged around in the suspicious detritus that has refused to flush away in living memory, and then triumphantly held up the wayward Vitamin Wibbly. With a mischievous grin, and something worrying slithering down his sleeve, he pops the pill into his mouth and swallows.

It's now at least 10 years later, but I can still get a reaction by reminding him of that moment, the very pinnacle of his existence.

(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:53, 2 replies)
At a party
Took a gulp from my can of lager. The cigarette butt hit my top lip before I even realised that the beer tasted a bit ash-y. I had my head in the toilet for a good few minutes after that one.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:49, Reply)
Beardy Weirdy
I spent over a decade working in the games industry and rapidly learned that the single smelliest profession on the planet is "games programmer". By far.

But there was one individual who just took the piss on the "filthy, smelly bastard" front.

Many moons ago, I got a job working for a developer based in Oxfordshire. On the day I started, a coder also started. While we were sitting in reception, I tried engaging him in conversation, which fell down when it emerged he was unable to talk to actual people.

He ended up working one office along and clearly stopped bathing as soon as he started working there. Fairly rapidly, he started to smell bad, he never changed the clothes he wore and never shaved. Which is where the nickname of "Beardy Weirdy" came from. Pretty soon he smelled so bad that the other memebers of his team started complaining to management as it was making them feel physically sick. You could smell if he was in the building as soon as you walked through the door, even though he was behind a couple of closed fire doors.

Now, given that this particular dev was in a one-horse shithole of a town, accomodation was hard to come by. So when people were due to start working there, an email would go round to see if anyone had a spare room for people to live in while they found something permanent.

One poor artist ended up being offered Beardy Weirdy's spare room and took him up on it, not knowing what he was in for. When he moved into the flat, he discovered it was a total shit-tip. There were clothes all over the place, takeaway boxes adorned every surface and the sink was full of dishes that had been there so long that they had evolved their own ecosystems. Also, the light didn't work in the bathroom, which was in the middle of the building, so was pitch black. Once the artist managed to get Beardy Weirdy to talk, he was informed that it had never worked in the 6 months or so that he had lived there.

The artist did the logical thing and went the shop to buy a light-bulb. Upon putting said light bulb in the light fitting and turning it on, a scene of horror greeted him. The least awful thing about the bathroom was the complete lack of toileteries - no soap, no toothpaste, no shampoo, nothing. The next worst thing was the layer of dust in the bath and sink, which pointed neither of which having been ever used by the occupant.

The absolute worst thing about the bathroom was the corner where the bog sat. So much piss had been splashed around the place that it had actually eaten away at the carpet. The toilet itself was white in places, but the inside of the bowl was full covered in crusted shit. And it turned out the Beardy Weirdy wasn't too carefull when he wiped his arse, as there was used, shit-stained bog-roll scattered about the place.


The artist in question slept on my couch while he found himslef somewhere else to live.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:40, 1 reply)
Have a pea
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:27, 1 reply)
Student house,
blah blah, nowhere near as bad as many already described on here. It got cleaned, sometimes, and the washing up pile never got too high. But, the grill. Oh, the grill was never cleaned, just covered with another sheet of foil.
So, the inevitable happened, and it caught fire. Whilst my perma-stoned housemate was using it.
What would you do, in this situation? Dump it in the sink? Cover it with a wet towel? No, he picked it up by the handle, and bought it into the lounge.
Bless him, he did look confused.

Oh, and his room (right next to mine) stank. Once he'd moved out, I ventured in, curious as to the source. He'd been sick, down the back of the radiator. Lovely.

The lounge was pretty ripe, too, but that'd be the smoke-infused curtains.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:26, 1 reply)
Filthy Chinese Bastards
Before I moved to China, I laboured under the misconception that they were polite, self-effacing, decorous and orderly - in other words, I thought they were Japanese. Wrong! Chinese people are in fact disorderly, queue-jumping, noisy, phlegm-dredging, open-mouthed-chewing, nose-picking un-selfconscious mobs of endless friction. It can be fantastically vital, or it can be depressingly chaotic, but it's never boring.

Anyhoo, Chinese toilets are surely amongst the foulest known to mankind. You tend to find that hygiene and decorum are better in the larger, more developed cities (this is partly why I now live in Beijing), but when I first arrived I was in a small city of "only" a million or so people. (And maybe about 10 foreigners in total).

The city was home to about three nightclubs, and I have never forgotten the sheer horror of my first visit to one. It was a Saturday night, so the place was absolutely packed with guys smoking, guys playing dice, guys, drinking red wine and Sprite (yes, together) or green tea and whisky (ditto), guys standing nervously looking around, guys playfighting with each other, and girls dancing. After a few overpriced warm beers, I weaved my way through the throng to the toilets.

The putrescent stench from the gents clutched me from the end of the corridor and tore the skin off my throat. Entering, immediately in front of me were three squat toilets, with no partitions - just like three holes in the floor next to each other. One guy was on one, talking on his mobile phone and spasmodically sputtering out a liquidy gush of shite. The other two were free, with unflushed turds adorning them like thick brown cables.

To my right were the urinals. Obviously hitting the porcelain was too big a task for these guys, so the staff had thoughtfully placed flattened cardboard boxes on the floor to absorb the stray piss. However, as the boxes got wet, the guys pissing would stand further and further back, thus missing the urinal by ever larger margins, thus getting the cardboard even wetter... and so on. By the time I got there, the cardboard was afloat on an ocean of sugary pish, looking ready to give up the ghost and fall apart.

I REALLY REALLY didn't want to go in there - apart from anything else, the ammonia-heavy stench was overpowering - but I was dying for a piss. I'd been reluctant to try and find the bogs in the first place, given how busy it was, and left it until my bladder was getting really persuasive.

Worst thing was, because it was so hot outside, I was wearing sandals.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:22, 1 reply)
PEAROAST: Bob the Chef.
Back when I were a student...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Wavy Lines~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bob the Chef was barking mad.
He worked in the kitchen I worked in, in a rural pub in West Wales.
It was quite a good little pub-restaurant, so the kitchen was large. Bob was deputy head chef, and he had love/hate relationship with the head waitress, a young woman cruelly nicknamed Shrek.
And when I say love/hate relationship, I mean drunken-bonking/totally-despise-each-other-until-the-next-round-of-drunken-bonking relationship.

On the day our story unfolds, they were very firmly in the 'totally despising each other' stage.
It was pre-service, so Bob was preparing fish. Beheading, gutting, deboning, scaling, etc. Shrek, as head waitress, was not involved in such menial tasks, and so was outside having a fag.

Shrek finished her fag and walked into the kitchen.
Up sauntered Bob with his mouth full, looking a little green.

SHREK: What?
BOB: Mmm-mmm-mmmm
SHREK: What?
BOB: Mmmm-mmmmm-mmmmm-mmmmmmm!
SHREK: What? I can't hear you.
BOB: *Beckons*

An inch away from Shrek's face, Bob opened his mouth a little to show her what was in there.

Shrek recoils in horror as Bob spits a whole fish-head into her apron pocket. Then he smiles winningly and goes back to the prep table as she has a complete and total breakdown.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:16, Reply)
I'm a little bit ashamed of this one
I once shat myself on my way home following quite a heavy after-work drinking session. After crossing my legs on the train for almost the entire journey, I'd managed to dash across the street and into the nearest pub, getting as far as the toilet cubicle before falling at the final faecal fence. Still being a short bus journey from home, I could only see one way out of this situation. Taking off my shoes and then my jeans, I then pulled my pants off as swiftly as possible, lifted the lid of the toilet cistern and dropped them straight in. Half a roll of toilet paper later and I was decent enough to put my remaining clothes back on and make the journey home. The perfect crime.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:15, 2 replies)
For every action
Pint of milk,
Pint of mouldy milk,

Pint of sick
Pint of mouldy sick
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:07, 1 reply)
this QOTW will be a productive one for me i feel.
~~~waveylines~~~ many moons ago, i lived in what can best be described as a non-free squat. no heating, coin meter ineach room, no double glazing, gap under the back door, no ceiling in the shower, slugs and snails etc.
the downstairs kitchen made squalid feel better about itself. one day, coming home with a headache and finding it impossible to access even ONE of the three areas required for teamaking, i was whipped into a frenzy, and hate-fucked the kitchen back ito a usable state. i won't bore you with the minutae, however the crowning glory deserves a mention.
upon reaching the bottom of the bin, having first cleared the scale replica of the north face of the eiger, lovingly recreated in teabags, beer cans, food waste and pizza boxes, i started back, with a cry.
'fuck me!' i announced to no-one in particular 'some dirty bastard has chucked a risotto in the bin UNDER the binbag!'

at which point, i realised that though size-wise, and even in colour, there was a match, in general terms, discounting the use of powerful hallucinogenics, RICE DOES NOT WRIGGLE BY ITSELF.

i paused, nearly boked, then bleach-boiled the MASSIVE sea of maggots.
worst thing ever, and i've seen your mum.
length? joined together, they'd go round john prescott. twice.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 13:05, 2 replies)
did you know that a mini babybel...
...can go through maybe 10% of a digestive cycle, and a hot wash cycle nearly totally unscathed?
neither did i until an ex girldfriend decided to neck a bottle of cheap sangria and a WHOLE SODDING NET of mini babybels on the way back from a club, get in the house, and proceed to launch a linda blair-esque arc of vomit onto the bed before passing out into an angry coma.

thought i'd shaken off the worst of the chunks into the garden (what? pile of dirt and weeds, don't let's shit ourselves)
alas i was mistaken.i think i got MOST of the bigger chunks out of the drum..
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 12:57, Reply)
My poor old man was/is a bit accident prone when it comes to generally making his way through life.

As a carpenter, my mother would get the phone call every now and then saying that he need picking up from hospital (finger tip sawn off, staple shot through thumb, fallen off ladder etc…).

Now my father is also what you could call ‘Dumpty-esque’. Years of deftly-crafted ale quaffing have given him an ovoid gunt. Because of this, his belly button started to pop out more then a vicar’s candelabra during choir practice.

In fact, he had developed a hernia in his stomach muscles, the sheer force of his gunt rupturing his once-svelte muscles.

This is when our friends in the medical profession managed to fuck up worse than Harry Redknapp’s accountant. After a routine operation to fix the hernia, my old man started to feel progressively worse over the course of a week.

His appetite dropped and he couldn’t shit for trying. He then began vomiting profusely and was feeling sicker than Fred West’s porn stash. Things got even worse though when he started puking up rancid black liquid.

It was at this point that my mother called the ambulance and he was rushed to hospital.

It turns out that the surgeon had managed to twist his bowel when operating, halting the digestive system firmly in its tracks. My dad had in fact been puking up his own shit.

I felt so sorry for the old bugger and he was close to death apparently.

Still – this is nowhere near as bad as the time my senile grandmother asked me to change her colostomy bag…
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 12:40, 1 reply)
The 'friendship pie'
Same flat, same slobbish attitude towards cleanliness and/or hygiene.

Three males sat around a television set watching the football one Saturday. It was an FA Cup game, Manchester United were hosting West Ham. I follow West Ham, my flat mates supported Arsenal and Tottenham. Even those of you with only a rudimentary sense of football will understand the level of banter/verbal abuse/psychological torture/physical beatings that this mix could cause.
None of that mattered that day though, we all wanted the London club to win. And they did- everyone's favourite insane fascist turned Swindon Town manager Paolo Di Canio scoring the only goal.
When the goal went in, such was the joy in one of my flatmates that he stood bolt upright, yelled, grabbed the nearest thing to him and hurled it at the wall (he was just THAT kind of person).
It was a half eaten meat pie of some discription and the fact that it stayed- unmoving and unflinching on the wall it hit is a testiment to the structural integrity and viscousity of its gravy. It was still there the following day and we decided to put a frame around it, using it as a monument towards the unity and friendship that was forged that day in our fair city.
We had to reframe it a couple of times over the next month as gravity slowly took its hold. I think it was there for about 5 weeks in all until someone removed it due to their parents coming round. It had left a faint, yet shiny, greeny-brown trail of about 7 inches- as if a particularly slimy snail had popped in for a chat before deciding that this was far too a disgusting place to relax and fucked off again.
all attempts to remove this mark failed. It had actually changed the colour of the wallpaper.

We never did get our deposit back.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 12:12, 5 replies)
Many moons ago I had a house warming party. One chap (Dave) did however seem to monopolise the upstars bathroom throughout the evening.

When pressed for a reason, it appears a friend had asked him to help unblock their sink earlier in the day. He'd undone the trap, and blown into the pipe to try and shift the blockage. As he took another glup of air to blow again... Well, from the title I think you can guess the rest.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 12:12, 4 replies)
Download/Donnington festival 2006
Toilet blocks....Not portaloos, No portaloos would have been luxury, But large green tin sheds over open trenches.
Now that particular weekend was one of the hottest on Download record, So after 4 or 5 days of sunlignt on the toilet blocks and the average festival goers diet of cheap larger and camping food. They were rank. I pitied those camping downwind of them.
Using them required the use of another t-shirt or bandana wrapped tightly across the nostils and a exersise in hovering that really tones up the thigh muscles.
Experienced festival goers take their own toilet paper. Really experienced festival goers take their own plastic bags to shit into.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 11:11, 9 replies)
Soilage etiquette
A friend of mine shat himself and then thought it perfectly reasonable to put his soiled underpants and jeans straight into the laundry basket without so much as running a tap over them first. His girlfiend wasn't very impressed when she came in out of the shower and nearly threw up.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 11:00, 3 replies)
I once drank a pint of London Pride...

(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 10:32, 1 reply)
I love the breasts!
I was once in Soho and asked a gorgeous young lady for some breasts....she asked if I wanted some thigh as well.....I was like hell yeah and handed over a tenner

Well....what else do you expect from KFC......
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 10:30, 4 replies)
We had a deck put down, over our patio.
To cut costs/save time, we didn't bother to put in a hatch to access the now covered drains.
Surprise, surprise, the water stops draining from the kitchen sink. "No problem," thinks I, and pours drain cleaner down the plug hole. No effect. Stronger cleaner goes down the hole. Still, no effect.
Somewhat disappointed, I decided to remove the trap under the sink, assuming it's just a blockage in the u-bend. So, with bowl under the trap (I've made that mistake before), I unscrew the u-bend. Bad move. What feels like gallons of freezing, rancid water comes gushing out of the now exposed pipe, soaking me, and spreading over the kitchen floor. Awful, awful smell.
The kitchen is cleaned as best we can, and I dry myself off, and decide that the blockage is further down the pipe.
The following morning, a large pipe-cleaner is borrowed from the plumber next door, which succeeds in removing a lot of black, greasy, stinking, build up from the pipe, but finds no blockage. I reluctantly accept that the blockage is outside, and so head out into the snow to pull up the deck. Plunging my (gloved) hand into the pool of grey water that represents the drain, I pull up handfull after handfull of congealed fat. Thanks to our Sunday dinner, it smelled predominantly of lamb, but not in a good way. I tried not to think about the hard, gritty bits that were mixed in with it.

And that (not very exciting story) is how I learned not to pour fat down the drains. If this happens to anyone else, once you've got the worst of it out, switch to pouring boiling water down the drain, as that should liquefy the blockage and flush it out.

I should have known better, really. Used to work in an office with a KFC out the back, so suffered a regular nasal assault when they cleaned out their grease traps.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 10:04, 11 replies)

This question is now closed.

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