I applied to The Plumbing Council for funding for a Plumber’s Wank.

A couple of days later I got a note back saying they were very interested, but they wanted me to come in and talk about it, and would I bring along a sample?

She was very polite, hospitable, thorough, clear, rational, efficient, consoling and evasive. She wasn’t a plumber though, so she didn’t know a thing about plumbing, even though she said she was a great admirer of our latest set of advanced water features. I told her she could check out my advanced water features anytime.

I hate people, and talking. They disturb me when I all I want is to be left alone at my plumbing. Anyway, what could any of us possibly have left to talk about? We’re going down, and that’s it. No discussion needed.

I certainly haven’t got enough time left to talk about anything besides my plumbing.

We cast sighs and glances over and back at each other from across the species barrier. We were both sad because there could be no language that would suit the two of us.

After ten minutes she flopped forward onto her desk, head first. She had fallen asleep, a sign of great ambition in her line of work. Or she’d had an aneurysm. Even better. Definite promotion. Anyways, I put the sample jar down on the desk and left without a sound.

The sample wasn’t mine.

The next note arrived by courier that afternoon. My request for funding had been granted by emergency session of The Plumbing Council, on strict condition that my Plumber’s Wank be presented to The Plumbing Council assembly only, on a once-off basis, in secret session, immediately.

On the whole, the general public wasn’t ready for Plumbers’ Wanking, they felt.

That was fine by me. I don’t care who’s watching. Or what they do with it after I’m finished. As long as I get the pay-off.

To make it across to The Plumbing Council as soon as possible I shot the courier dead and stole his Harley Davidson. I revved it up and rode it down footpaths and cycling lanes and across the bowling lawns of old folk homes. Some of the bowling oldies thought I was a mosquito and tried to swat me with their crutches. They threw gramophones and monocles and magic lanterns at me.

The greatest thrill was the electron-heat of the courier’s bottom seeping up into my rectum from the red leather seat. The last of his life being absorbed into mine.

We were in The Plumbing Council’s secret underground dungchamber. I was on stage in the dark. The spotlight was on the audience. They had arranged themselves into an Organogram. The chief plumber was on top of the Organogram in full regalia. The chief plumber was lean, but he was weighed down hugely by all his brass and copper medallions. The two beneath were grimacing with the effort of carrying him, the three beneath them even more so, and so on.

At the bottom of the Organogram there were about two hundred Emerging Plumbers. Some of them were under such strain their eyes had popped and their brain sponge was spilling out of their eye sockets. They had morphine needles hanging out of their necks to help them deal with the inconvenience. No way were they going to lose their places.

I explained to the audience that they, not I, would be doing the wanking. They were delighted. I said the only rule was no funny business, nothing mutual.

Everyone began rhythmically manipulating their troublesome regions as soon as I set the projector reeling. The screen showed a small silent waterfall near Cappoquin in Co Tipperary.

It worked. After a few minutes a seismic orgasm shuddered up and down The Plumbing Council Organogram.

Afterwards we took time out for some audience feedback.

‘Here’, they chorused, ‘is a plumbing with feeling in it, a plumbing that makes its audience feel something too. At last.’