My great uncle Fred is a plumber and a great one. A real life full size typical plumber who wears his pants slung so low they create that much talked effect from the rear when he’s crouched over the toilet seat or under the sink. He’s a simple man, not one who has ever had to, or wanted to, broker a deal or negotiate a peace treaty. He probably used to think that brokers was another word for what you did a bloke’s face when he flirted with your wife at the local pub on a Saturday night. Because he’s such a great plumber though he gets called out to a lot of really posh houses in the country where he meets the kind of people who like to think that they treat their plumbers and other servant type folk as equals and offer them tea and biscuits and such like.

Uncle Fred has lot of far-fetched stories to tell that are usually true, but the story of the day last winter when he was summoned, and I do mean summoned, to the estate of Lord Snotley Something or Other, one of London’s top brokers, is one of those stories that reminds me that I’d rather have a plumber than a broker for an uncle any day. He got into his beat Fait, which dates back to 1967 but Uncle Fred is a sentimental man and he fixed his first toilet after driving forty miles in that car and nothing will convince him to replace it, and headed for the estate in weather that should really have been a national emergency. There hadn’t been snow like it in over twenty years they said and the roads were a virtual death trap, but Uncle Fred was unconcerned and his normal unhurried self, trusting the Fiat to get him to the broker safely. He always had a false sense of security did Uncle Fred.

Miraculously he arrived safely, no doubt praising the Virgin Mary and, after imbibing several of the offered sherries and stuffing a few pork pies into his back pocket for later he went in search of the brokers up the ridiculously winding staircase as directed by the downstairs maid. Chuckling to himself, he always laughed at his own jokes did Uncle Fred, he shouted down the utterly silent passage, “Lord, I believe you want me to broker your toilet!” Hearing my Uncle the Lord shouted back in a rather thin voice that he was a broker first and a lord second and there was no need to use his title but could my uncle please hurry into the bathroom.

Upstairs Uncle Fred chortled inwardly as he found the water closet and the Lord. The bereft broker was certainly in a rather unfortunate situation having somehow dropped his cellphone into the toilet bowl. He said he had been trying to broker a dreadfully important deal and had, without thinking literally dived into the bowl, which is why he was now up to his elbows in it and quite stuck. Uncle Fred patiently began unpacking his tools but the Lord was frantic and begged him to please use his cellphone first. Uncle Fred understood immediately, he would have to be the broker now and proceeded to sell five million Lloyds shares just before the market collapsed.

Having saved the broker a small fortune and his reputation, Uncle Fred then freed the Lord and went home for egg and chips in front of the fore. Along with his cheque from the Lord there was a short note. Uncle Fred passed it to me with a smile and said “Here’s yer birthday present lass.” The note read: Buy Barclays NOW.