Forty minutes later, a white van with a faded Drain Avenger decal pulled up. Kev was in his fifties, with a high-vis vest stretched over a gut that suggested a lifelong love of pork pies. He carried an inspection camera like a TV host holding a microphone. “Right, lad. Let’s see what’s festering down there.”
That night, Marlon knocked on his upstairs neighbor’s door. A student named Chloe appeared, clutching a bottle of white wine. “Hey! Sorry about the noise earlier—our sink was slow, so we poured some of that gel stuff down. Hope that’s okay?” blocked drains coventry
Kev packed his gear. “Better than new. But here’s the thing, pal. You call me again in six months? I’ll bring a camera for the other reason.” He tapped his nose. “Blocked drains don’t happen by accident. Somewhere up there, someone’s pouring fat down the sink like they’re trying to grease a lorry.” Forty minutes later, a white van with a
“No.”
Kev unspooled a high-pressure water jet, and the hose shuddered like a living thing. He fed it into the drain. The sound was a deep, pressurized roar, followed by a wet schlurp that made the ground vibrate. Then a cascade of foul water and debris erupted from the outside gully, washing across the concrete. Kev stepped back just in time. “There she goes. The Coventry Mudslide.” “Right, lad
“That’s a drain baby,” Kev said, chewing gum. “Been growing for months. You got kids?”
