I can’t think of a single way of insulting someone with a name like Pete Crapper, that the local registry office hasn’t already far surpassed. He and his sons were the subject of the text printed on the workie van that tried to run me off the road this morning. The driver, who may well himself have been a real Crapper, overtook me on a blind corner only to find—who’d have thought it?—there was oncoming traffic that he hadn’t seen when starting the manoeuver.
If I were you and I was looking for a plumber then, rather than be swayed by hilariously appropriate references to sewage, I’d find one that wasn’t a demonstrable idiot. Deed-polling’s too good for them, I say.