What's this...?

[paddytt]

Yes, I did wonder... That might explain the lack of mortar between the bricks. There's currently no sign of damp in the inside at that point, so maybe it worked brilliantly!

Or have we discovered the original Black Hole, where all life and the Universe started?

 

[Penners]

I've just checked and a hole does not form part of the curtilage of a property, so it's for sale.

Damn! If only I'd known. I bought one on ebay only last week.

Come to think of it, it hasn't arrived yet... and I haven't seen the postman this week. :?

 

[LadyArowana]

I've just checked and a hole does not form part of the curtilage of a property, so it's for sale.

Damn! If only I'd known. I bought one on ebay only last week.

Come to think of it, it hasn't arrived yet... and I haven't seen the postman this week. :?

I'm not sure the two events are related, they don't normally deliver them by post, usually they come "flat packed" in a pressurised cylinder.

 

[paddytt]

I'm just waiting for someone to say "Well, Well, Well.'

(three holes in the ground)


Anyway, It's sold now. The local Vicar bought it for his church.

 

[Keith Bowman]

Going back to the original query - have you poked around at the bottom? We have a hole just like that and at about half an arm's depth there is a stopcock. If so it will be one of the so-called 'high end' holes. I believe that some of the cheap holes sold on fleabay do not contain any stopcocks at all.

 

[LadyArowana]

If so it will be one of the so-called 'high end' holes. I believe that some of the cheap holes sold on fleabay do not contain any stopcocks at all.

Some of the "self assembly" hole kits on there are quite good value though, and very useful if you are not quite sure what exact size you need.

 

[Lime]

I believe that some of the cheap holes sold on fleabay do not contain any stopcocks at all.

You need to be particularly careful when buying a hole without first seeing it.
Some have been found to have no bottoms and are therefore very dangerous.

 

[paddytt]

The Council have found out that we are selling the hole.

Apparently they're sending someone out to look into it.

:shock:

 

[LadyArowana]

The Council have found out that we are selling the hole.

Apparently they're sending someone out to look into it.

:shock:

I wouldn't worry, they are not likely to make too much fuss even if your buyer collects before they can inspect it, at worst they might ask you to reinstate or seek retrospective permission.

 

[FamilyWiggs]

Could you please have a look inside the hole - is it the one where all my socks (well, half of them), Biros and chuck keys go?

 

[LadyArowana]

Could you please have a look inside the hole - is it the one where all my socks (well, half of them), Biros and chuck keys go?

They don't go into anything as ordinary as a hole. They travel through a portal in space time and emerge in an alternate reality. The inhabitants of that universe worship them as mystic objects sent by the great and almighty sky fairy. Even now a rather threadbare M and S footcovering is being paraded through their streets in a golden palenquin, symbolically re-enacting the sacred journey of their first one legged saint.

 

[Feltwell]

For the Sci-Fi geeks amongst us:-

One of these (the one Arthur now came across) supposedly relates the experiences of one Veet Voojagig, a quiet young student at the University of Maximegalon, who pursued a brilliant academic career studying ancient philology, transformational ethics and the wave harmonic theory of historical perception, and then, after a night of drinking Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters with Zapbod Beeblebrox, became increasingly obsessed with the problem of what had happened to all the ballpoints he'd bought over the past few years.

There followed a long period of painstaking research during which he visited all the major centers of ballpoint loss throughout the Galaxy and eventually came up with a quaint little theory which quite caught the public imagination at the time. Somewhere in the cosmos, he said, along with all the planets inhabited by humanoids, reptiloids, fishoids, walking treeoids and superintelligent shades of the color blue, there was also a planet entirely given over to ballpoint life forms. And it was to this planet that unattended ballpoints would make their way, slipping away quietly through wormholes in space to a world where they knew they could enjoy a uniquely ballpointoid lifestyle, responding to highly ballpoint-oriented stimuli, and generally leading the ballpoint equivalent of the good life.

And as theories go this was all very fine and pleasant until Veet Voojagig suddenly claimed to have found this planet, and to have worked there for a while driving a limousine for a family of cheap green retractables, whereupon he was aken away, locked up, wrote a book and was finally sent into tax exile, which is the usual fate reserved for those who are determined to make fools of themselves in public.

When one day an expedition was sent to the spatial coordinates that Voojagig had claimed for this planet they discovered only a small asteroid inhabited by a solitary old man who claimed repeatedly that nothing was true, though he was later discovered to be lying.

There did, however, remain the question of both the mysterious sixty thousand Altairian dollars paid yearly into his Brantisvogan bank account, and of course Zaphod Beeblebrox's highly profitable secondhand ballpoint business.

 

[Penners]

Aaah - thanks Feltwell. I could never grow weary of reading Adams' deliciously witty inanity.

 

[paddytt]

Never before in the history of mankind, has so much been written about nothing.

 

[Feltwell]

You've obviously never read a Conservative manifesto then. :wink:

Or a Lib Dem one. Or a Labour one. Just in the interest of balance and impartiality.

 

[Penners]

Never before in the history of mankind, has so much been written about nothing.

I could break that record.

I would simply transcribe one of the phone conversations between Mrs P and her friend, Rita.

 

[Feltwell]

That's one of the great differences in the sexes that will never be deduced I reckon Penners. Mrs F could easily ring her mum every night and chat for an hour, regardless of how much or how little has happened that day. I manage about 20 minutes every few weeks. I quite clearly remember my father occasionally referring to my mother as "the patron saint of British Telecom" when I was a child!

Vive la différence!

 

[Maddie-Rose]

a hole in the ground ... a toilet perhaps