A bottle jack, a hammer, a stepladder and a sweeping brush
By Primal Sneeze ~ January 13th, 2009. Filed under: Builders, Crappenings, Travellers.
- Incredulous Internments
- Banking Buddies
- Small humans and their keepers
- A Blue Moon
- The day the Wall came down
- Meeting Mary Mac
- Constantin Opel
- I’m a bit sheepish
- Movie making magic #1
- Movie making magic #2
- Making Movie Magic Suspended
- Making Movie Magic #3
- Making Movie Magic #4
- Making Movie Magic #5
- Making Movie Magic #6
- Spare ribs anyone?
- Two big size nines
- Baby bomb
- That was it then
- The absolutely brilliant employee – part 1
- The absolutely brilliant employee – part 2
- The absolutely brilliant employee – part 3
- The good old days
- The Grandmother of all Weekends
- Strange days and holidays
- An accidental Irish picnic
- This is cat altogether!
- Colouring in – an epic tale in 3½ parts
- Voting on Lisbon wasn’t easy
- The Leaving Cert – A Crash Course
- The pre-party
- The pre-party – part 2
- The pre-party – part 3
- Crappenings
- A bottle jack, a hammer, a stepladder and a sweeping brush
- The Surprise Party
I see that portacabin the builder had in your garden’s gone, Sneezy. Take it back to the yard did he?
No. Sold it. Sort of.
Fair play to him. Say he got a few quid for it – it was a monster.
Dead right it was. 11 by 4½ metres. And high too.
So what did he get for it?
Not sure if he got anything.
How did they get it out? A crane?
No. A bottle jack, a hammer, a stepladder and a sweeping brush.
What?
And a truck. Not that it helped much.
Weeks ago the builder rang to let me know he’d sold it. To a Mr. Ward. Mr. Ward would call me a few days before he would be collecting it to make arrangements.
He did. I have a lad with a lorry lined up to take that away, Boss. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. Half 3. If ye’d just leave the gates open we’ll work away. No need to be getting up or anything, Boss.
Damn sure I’d be getting up. I didn’t want the gates, car, fence, dog kennel, even the dog himself being taken away as well.
Mr. Ward arrived bang on 3. He was accompanied by his cousin, Mr. Ward, and a friend, Mr. Ward.
The truck arrived shortly after. Driven by a Mr. Ward.
It was like being in a hospital.
I had expected a crane, but no, the Wards didn’t see the need. A flatbed would do nicely. And how, I asked, are you going to get it down off the blocks it’s resting on without a crane?
A bottlejack, boss. We have a bottlejack.
And so began the process of raising each corner, pulling the blocks out and lowering again. One corner at a time. And how, I asked, are you going to get it up on the truck without a crane?
Drag it, boss. Drag it with a winch.
And so began the painfully slow process of inching the portacabin along the ground and up on the truck. It was like watching the spaceshuttle being transported from its hangar to the launchpad at minus-miles an hour.
The monotony was broken when Mr. Ward noticed an empty gas cylinder being dragged along behind. It was chained to the portacabin. Another Mr. Ward remembered he’d been given a key. But the padlock was seized. Mr. Ward (not the same one, eh, kind of obviously) had an idea. He took a hammer to it and with a couple of well placed strikes it popped off. Never fails, boss. The hammer never fails.
By now it was 6 and the traffic had begun to build. Mr. Ward waited for a break and edged the truck out the gate.
Disaster!
The flue from the gas boiler snagged the telephone wires. Worse, one wire had somehow flicked over and was caught behind. The truck could neither go forward not back. The road was blocked. The queues began to build.
We may just bull her on, boss. Break the wires.
You will in your brown, I said. I’ll end up paying for it. I won’t get away with it with all these witnesses.
Standing atop a stepladder I lifted the wires with a sweeping brush. The truck edged forward. The tail swing caught the ladder and I came crashing down. I tried again. Came tumbling down again.
By now a group of motorists had left their cars and were standing around offering advice. I thanked them as politely as I could: Would yez all just fuck off!
I’m late for work. Very late. I’m calling the Guards to get this road cleared, declared a cantankerous-looking middle-aged woman with her nurse’s uniform straining over her potbelly.
Ah don’t let her call the Guards, boss. Sure we’re supposed to have a permit for moving that, it’s so wide.
Now you tell me!
I convinced her she’d be better employed holding the ladder and she forgot about the men in blue (and yellow).
With the help of Florence Nighting-Grump, the lady with the lump, I got the wires freed, the truck rolled off, the traffic moved once more, and all was well with the world.
Or at least I thought it was.
The builder rang later. Yeah, it’s gone, I told him. A bit of a struggle, but it’s gone.
Good stuff. I’ll drop over in bit to get the money.
Eh, what money? I thought you’d been paid already …
Great stuff boss.Great stuff.
“Like being in a hospital” a gem.
That was probably unconsciously triggered by the cranky nurse’s presence.
Brilliant.
The builder was a bit innocent if he didn’t get the money up front though…
His innocence lay in telling me to get the cash before letting them in the gate and expecting me to remember. Not my money so not on my radar. Now if he’s said keep €50 for yourself I would have remembered.
Tell us, was it the Ward Wards, or the Ward Ward Wards, or the Wards from The Ward?
I think you’re confusing them with the Wards.
‘Florence Nighting-Grump’ I think I knew her!
You are good for my eyes! Tears of laughter are rolling down my cheeks.
This one was scary. Like your one out of the Carry On films.
Iontach
Does this make you an offical ward boss, like Berties mates in Drumcondra?
A “Ward boss”. I like it. Ha ha!
talk about a rolling con…
A rolling con! Nice one. You’ve outdone yourself there.
You should never believe a ward of what builders tell you! Still giggling away at the hospital bit…
Ha! Boom boom! May I use this and all the above again?
Stupid me! I’ve only just got the hospital bit!
A very funny story indeed!
I was being subtle. Like a chainsaw wrapped in cotton wool.
Ná bac le Mac a’ Bhaird
agus ní bacfaidh mac a’ Bhaird leat
How did you ward off the builder, by the way?
That saying is very true. See the reply to FMC below.
You’ll be happy to know I nominated this post yesterday for a Ward Award.
“A Ward award”. Lovely. Now I have to update an old post.
Heh! Excellent story, I wonder did the builder every track them down and get his money.
He did. Actually they went to him with it. When it comes to money the Wards are straight up.
A gem to be sure! – there must’ve been cups of tea involved or it didn’t happen?
No tea. There wasn’t time. Anyway, I wasn’t going to leave them alone while I went off making it.
Too funny Boss.
It wasn’t at the time. It was fekin freezing.
Your stewardship and forward-looking management warded off disaster and saved the wayward Wards from becoming wards of court and possibly ending up in the froward hands of the Warden and his warders. You’ve proved you are no coward. You’ll get your reward on the grassy swards of Heaven provided nothing untoward occurs in the meantime. Look proudly to windward, my friend.
Could you fit all those in one caravan?
@Primal Sneeze – Of course. In the wardrobe.
Boom! Cha!