Blame the Fuckin’ Tilers for My Fuckin’ Swearing!

A week ago, we cleaned the bathroom. None of that fannying about with a duster for five minutes, either. I mean a proper clean. Rubber gloves, sprays, buckets of soapy water, the whole nine yards.

The gleam from the porcelain and chrome was bouncing off the ceiling by the time we’d finished. Neighbours thought the aurora borealis was back in town.

Next morning, a plumbing team arrived and tore the bathroom apart.

FAQs: Why clean a bathroom that’s about to be demolished? Were you born stupid or did it develop with age?

I’m blaming my wife’s Theory of Workforce Motivation.

“You want the plumbers to think we have high standards,” she said, handing me a bottle of bleach and a cloth. “That way they’ll do a better job.”

I said it was a theory. I didn’t say it was a good one.

The Plumbers

We’re in the middle of a bathroom refit. The house is a mess. There’s plastic sheeting down the hall, up the stairs and across the landing. It’s covered in dirt and bits of rubble. There’s dust in every crack and crevice.

That’s just my own cracks and crevices. I can’t speak for anyone else’s.

The plumbers are led by a serious young man whose name escapes me, but his team call him El Capitan.

“The job’ll take seven days,” El Capitan told us. He talked like he was describing the D-Day landings rather than the replacement of our WC and sink. “Two days to take out the old bathroom, three days to tile, two days to fit the new stuff. Wee buns.”

‘Wee buns’ is how Belfast people describe something that’s easy.

The first bit went as planned. El Capitan runs a tight ship.

His guys wear polo shirts with the company name emblazoned on the front. They work hard and take few breaks. They refuse all offers of coffee and biscuits. They’re polite and articulate.

I’d be comfortable leaving them alone in the house.

I suspect if I did, they’d have cooked me something nice when I got back.

The Tilers

Bathroom removed, the plumbers stood down to allow the tilers to do their thing.

The tilers’ boss is a thickset, heavily tattooed fella called Joe. Unlike El Capitan, Joe runs a loose ship, or whatever the opposite of a tight ship is.

Joe didn’t turn up on the first day.

When he arrived on the second day, he blamed a logistical problem for the no-show.

Nothing I could do, he said. Balls up with the grouting, he said. That fuckin’ dipstick in the showroom.

Joe and his boys aren’t as polite and articulate as the plumbers. They speak in short sentences. The words fuck, fuckin’ or fucked figure prominently in most of them.

So, our new bathroom tiles are big fuckers. Rubbish gets fucked into the bin. Team members are regularly told to fuck off, fuck up or get da fuck outta the way.

The tilers start work later than the plumbers and knock off earlier. They take long, frequent breaks. They accept every offer of coffee or tea and eat every biscuit put in front of them.

I wouldn’t leave them alone in the house unless it was on fire.

Concerned

El Capitan is concerned about his sub-contractors. He pops in at different times to check how they’re getting on. He assures me constantly that they are excellent tilers, but his face tells me he’s worried about his D-Day plans.

Especially yesterday when the tilers didn’t show up for a second time.

El Capitan phoned me sounding embarrassed. Joe had been floored by a stomach bug, he said. Couldn’t get out of bed, he said. Definitely there tomorrow.

Stomach bug, my ass. Joe has the name of his favourite football team tattooed on his forearm. His team had a big game the night before his no-show.

Joe watched the game in a pub, got drunk and couldn’t get out of bed next morning. That’s what I’m blaming.

Today

Joe and the boys turned up today. Either he hadn’t coordinated his story with El Capitan or he fluffed his lines. Instead of a stomach bug, he said his van had been playing up.

Nothing I could do, he explained. Engine wouldn’t start, he said. Fuckin’ piece of junk.

My wife was so delighted to see them she took out a Madeira cake and threw more chocolate biscuits on a plate.

Coffee and biscuits just for showing up? I’m not sure how that fits with her Theory of Workforce Motivation.

Joe is still optimistic he’ll get the job done in the scheduled three days. He’s not counting the two days he’s gone AWOL, obviously.

Work until six tonight, he said. Back early tomorrow morning, he said. Wee fuckin’ buns.

El Capitan stood beside him as he said this. He was nodding vigorously in agreement, but he looked like a man who knows his plans are fucked.

I hope they finish soon.

I’m swearing more than I usually do, and I think my cracks and crevices are inflamed.

I’m blaming the tilers.