Bricking It (14 page)

‘Well! This is curious!’ Gerard says, placing the bundle on the floor in front of him so Pete can get a good close up. ‘Any ideas what’s in here?’ he asks us.

‘None,’ I say, hesitantly.

‘Okay, shall we take a look then?’ Gerard suggests, his eyes gleaming with interest.

‘Um . . . I suppose so?’ I reply, not sure whether this is actually a good idea or not. Still, I’m guessing Gerard has decided this makes great TV, so I don’t really think I have much of a choice in the matter.

Gerard looks at the camera. ‘Okay then, everyone. This is totally unscripted and unrehearsed, I assure you. We don’t know what’s in here any more than you do!’ He then pulls the curtain bundle apart, revealing . . .

Handcuffs. Four pairs. Rusty and broken.

Also, a brown leather riding crop, in surprisingly good shape, it has to be said.

There’s a couple of face masks in there too, but both are so faded and rotten from age, it’s hard to tell what they once depicted. I think they must have been like those Italian theatre masks I once saw on a trip to Venice.

‘Well, well, well,’ Gerard says breathlessly. He also now sounds pretty damn apprehensive. Not surprising, considering he’s just uncovered what looks like a stash of bondage gear on live TV before midday.

‘What’s that thing?’ Danny asks, pointing at the last object in the bottom of the bundle. It’s still wrapped up in a fold of the rotten curtain, but looks pretty bulky.

‘Let’s have a look shall we?’ Gerard intones, unsure of himself. I get the impression he’s wishing he never embarked on this journey of chimney-based discovery, but has now committed himself, and must unveil the last item for the world to see.

It takes him a few moments of pulling and yanking to get the thing out, given that it’s wrapped up very well in the curtain folds, but with one last strong tug, it comes free. This leaves Gerard O’Keefe, celebrated BBC TV presenter and all-round expert on all things property based, holding up a large metal butt plug for his audience to feast their eyes on.

Yep. A butt plug.

A tarnished, golden, metal butt plug. And not a small one, either. From the looks of things, Pat The Cow might just be able to manage it, but the thought of a human being inserting that thing anywhere brings tears to the eyes. It’s a good eight inches wide at the bulbous bit in the middle.

‘That’s a butt plug,’ Danny helpfully points out in astonishment, just in case everyone at home has led a sheltered life.

Gerard, finally realising what he’s actually holding, yelps in terror and drops it like it’s a hand grenade with the pin pulled. He instantly covers it up again with the tatty old curtain, along with all the other newly unearthed sex toys.

With a look of fleeting panic on his face, Gerard stands back up and looks at me. There’s a question forming on his lips. If it’s the one I think it is, my appreciation of Mr O’Keefe is about to take a downhill slide.

‘So, Hayley,’ he says. ‘Do you have any idea where those things may have come from? Are they yours?’

Yes, indeed. That’s the bloody question, alright.

I put my hands on my hips. ‘No, Gerard,’ I reply emphatically. ‘I do
not
know where those things have come from, and they most certainly
are not mine
!’

But it doesn’t matter how emphatic I sound, does it? Because now Gerard’s put the idea in the heads of all those people watching at home that I am a sex pervert who likes to stash her butt plugs up the chimney. It doesn’t matter how hard I protest, they’re not going to believe a word I say. I am now Hayley Daley, queen of awkward insertions.

Danny jumps in to try and deflect the situation. He only manages to make it worse. ‘Perhaps they belonged to Grandma?’ he suggests.

I give him an enraged look. Now everyone out there will be picturing our poor deceased grandmother about to do something very unpleasant with a butt plug. This is supposed to be a TV show about property renovation, for crying out loud. It should not evoke images of pensioners indulging in pornographic activity!

I choose not to answer Danny’s question, and look back at Gerard, who now looks every bit as terrified as Fred and his crew did a few minutes ago. I have to get us out of here.

‘Shall we go and have a look at the bathroom?’ I propose to him in a strong tone.

It has the desired effect. ‘That’s an excellent idea, Hayley!’ he replies, shooting a meaningful look at Pete the cameraman, who starts to move rapidly backwards out of the bedroom. Gerard immediately follows, walking away from the bundle of sex aids in the same manner you’d move away from a lit firework.

‘Where the hell did that shit come from?’ Danny whispers to me as we follow Gerard out, keeping his voice down so as not to be picked up by the second cameraman.

‘I have no idea,’ I whisper-snap back at him. ‘But I’m pretty bloody sure they didn’t belong to our sodding grandmother, you idiot!’

‘I panicked!’

‘Yes, apparently so!’

Now we are in a situation where the audience is likely to remember nothing else about this live tour of our farmhouse other than the sex toys. It doesn’t matter how impressive a job you’ve made of the skirting boards and pointing, nothing is going to override the image of a middle-aged TV presenter holding aloft a golden butt plug. We could have discovered the last resting place of the Holy Grail in the bloody loft and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference.

Nope, we’re just going to have to accept that the viewing public will only remember one thing about today’s show.

But then, I’ve forgotten about Mitchell Hollingsbrooke, haven’t I? Can a slightly unstable architect dressed like a clown detract from an enormous bottom plug? Let’s see, shall we?

Gerard enters the main bathroom to find Mitchell stood by the brand-new roll-top bath with an expectant look on his face. Before the show started he had requested that he be interviewed in the new bathroom, for reasons I am afraid we are about to discover.

Gerard stands next to him and looks back into the camera. ‘Now, everyone, I’d like you to meet Mitchell Hollingsbrooke, the architect who has designed the renovation for the Daleys. Good morning, Mitchell.’

‘Hello, Gerard,’ Mitchell replies, and then stares down the camera lens like he’s trying to set it on fire. ‘Good morning, people at home.’

It’s funny how different people react to a camera, isn’t it? Fred Babidge turns into a small girl, Spider becomes a town crier – and Mitchell Hollingsbrooke unveils his very best impression of a serial killer.

‘Have you enjoyed working on the house, Mitchell?’ Gerard asks, attempting to draw the architect’s gaze away from the lens.

Mitchell is having none of it, though. He continues to stare intently straight down the barrel. ‘Yes, thank you, Gerard. It has been a fascinating and fulfilling job.’ His voice has become robotic and monotone. I’m reminded of The Terminator, only with more brightly coloured clothing. ‘I look forward to seeing my concepts and designs realised in this bucolic setting,’ he adds in the same dead voice.

If there are any children watching at home who haven’t as yet developed a fear of clowns, this will tip them over the edge.

‘Well, that’s lovely,’ Gerard responds despondently. He knows this whole thing has gone south faster than a nuclear-powered duck.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ Mitchell says sharply.

‘Really?’ Gerard sounds genuinely scared for his life now.

‘Yes. A lovely surprise for the Daleys.’

Oh god, he’s about to murder us right here on national TV.

Instead of whipping out a bread knife and going at us hammer and tongs, Mitchell bends over a cardboard box just to one side, opens it, and searches around in the polystyrene balls inside.

‘Isn’t this exciting, everyone?’ Gerard says to the audience, who by now are probably on the edge of their seats, I would imagine. After all, they expected a rather dreary live broadcast from a house halfway through a renovation, and what they’ve had so far is swearing, sex aids and a maniac in a bowler hat.

‘What is it you’re looking for?’ I ask Mitchell, attempting to parrot the light, breezy tone Gerard is adopting.

‘Taps!’ he bellows without turning round.

‘Taps?’ I ask.

‘Yes, taps!’ Mitchell replies.

‘That’s wonderful!’ Gerard exclaims. ‘It’ll be fantastic to see some of the final elements of the bathroom’s design before they actually go in. Gives us a good chance to get up close and personal with them, doesn’t it?’

‘I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised!’ Mitchell says. ‘I found these in a catalogue from Italy. Very exclusive design. They will work wonderfully with the aesthetic I’m trying to create in here!’

And with that, Mitchell pulls two taps from the box, holding them up for the camera to get a good look at.

They are . . . very
interesting
.

For starters, they’re mixer taps. One for the bath, one for the sink. Big ones too. In a lovely chromed finish, the long, thick shaft of the tap curves gently upwards and over, before culminating at the business end in a graceful flared metal bulb.

Yes, I am pretty much describing a penis here, aren’t I?

Mitchell is holding two large chrome – and no doubt hideously expensive – cock taps. Whoever ends up buying Daley Farmhouse will have the joy of bathing themselves in water ejaculated from taps that would look perfectly at home sat on a shelf next to the golden butt plug we’ve already inflicted on the great British public this morning.

Or is it just me?

I haven’t had sex in longer that I care to think about, so maybe the taps aren’t all that phallic after all. Maybe it’s just my supressed libido trying its hardest to get noticed again.

I look at Danny and Gerard’s expressions.

Nope, the taps definitely look like dicks. There can be no other explanation for the strangled look on Gerard’s face, and the smirking schoolboy look on Danny’s.

‘What do you think?’ Mitchell asks, still sounding rather like The Terminator. The effect is now ruined somewhat by his hilariously shaped bathroom fittings. He waves both in our general direction. I feel like I’m being sexually assaulted.

‘They’re very large,’ Gerard says.

‘Indeed!’ Mitchell replies. ‘I wanted to make a statement with them.’

‘Oh, they’re definitely making a statement,’ I say, giving Gerard a sideways look.

‘A very interesting design,’ he ploughs on, with a degree of bravery I have to admire.

‘Bulbous,’ Danny points out, trying hard not to snigger.

Mitchell’s face clouds. ‘Do you think so? I think the shape is more graceful than that.’ He puts one of the taps back in the box and concentrates on the other. ‘I was fascinated with the curve and tone of the shaft. The smoothness of its arch recalls the form of a rolling wave at its zenith, or the back of a leaping dolphin.’ To demonstrate how much he appreciates the curve of the tap, Mitchell gently takes hold of it and runs his hand from the bottom of the tap to the top.

‘I see what you mean!’ Danny says, shoulders starting to shake with mirth. ‘Could you just repeat that motion a few times so I really understand?’

Mitchell duly obliges.

And now, for the delight and edification of the BBC audience, we have a man in a clown costume wanking off a tap at five to twelve on a Wednesday morning. It doesn’t help that Mitchell has returned to looking down the camera with that intense stare.

‘Thank you so much, Mitchell!’ Gerard cries, grabbing the architect’s arm and pulling the tap out of shot. ‘Why don’t we all make our way back outside and take one last look at the farmhouse as a whole before the show finishes?’

This particular show might not be the only thing finishing here today, I reflect as we troop back down the stairs. Poor old Gerard’s ratings hit
Great Locations
might well be finishing here for good if enough complaints roll in over the next few days. I’m not sure Mitchell has done his architectural practice many favours either.

In fact, what with Spider’s swearing, and Fred’s lost little girl impression, there’s every chance that Danny and I are the only ones who have come out of this thing relatively unscathed.

Time to wrap things up.

Gerard strides back up the garden path, still talking to his audience, this time about how they can find out more on how to renovate their own properties. He doesn’t give them any advice on where to buy the best butt plugs or cock taps though, which I feel is something of an oversight on his part, as I’m sure at least a few of them will be interested.

The others peel away out of shot, leaving just Gerard, Danny and myself at the gate to the front garden.

‘So, how long do you think the rest of the project will take to complete?’ Gerard asks us.

I rock a hand back and forth. ‘We’ll have it done by the end of November with any luck.’

Gerard’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘November, eh?’

‘You don’t think that’s likely?’ I enquire doubtfully.

Gerard laughs abruptly. ‘I’ve seen enough of these projects to know that timescales can go out of the window before you know it. Problems and issues can arise from where you least suspect them. You can never be prepared for all eventualities. You might find yourselves having to make changes and alterations when you didn’t expect to.’ His tone has taken on a somewhat patronising quality I’m not enjoying one little bit. Gerard O’Keefe the friendly TV presenter has become Gerard O’Keefe the pretentious construction expert in three seconds flat.

I bat my eyelashes at him in a winsome fashion. ‘Do you think so, Mr O’Keefe? Do you think we might have to make changes?’

‘Yes. Probably.’

I now effect a shocked expression. ‘It’s the taps, isn’t it? The taps need changing.’ I look around. ‘Let’s get Mitchell back over here. Perhaps the audience can help us decide whether we should use them or not!’

Gerard’s face crumbles in panic. The last thing he needs is more tap wanking. I know it. He knows it. His rapt audience knows it.

‘No no no! I’m sure they will be fine. They looked lovely!’ Gerard says.

‘And bulbous. Don’t forget bulbous,’ Danny remarks, stirring the pot again.