Poundstretcher

A few years back I moved into a flat that hadn’t yet had a shower fitted, and since I tend to view a bath as effectively sitting in your own lukewarm, putrid filth for half an hour, a challenging dilemma arose. Either go back to my mum’s every day for a scrub, or grow steadily more revolting and tramplike each day until our pot-​smoking cowboy of a plumber decided to finally turn up for his fucking shift.
Thankfully, Poundstretcher had the solution, for the princely sum of 3 notes. A shower head that plugged into the bath faucet. «More powerful than an electric shower» it said on the box, and dreams of a cleansing like never before drifted into my thoughts. Maybe I wouldn’t even need that drug raved plumber, it all seemed to good to be true.
And it was. On the very rare occasion that the connector didn’t immediatelty pop out from the tap, the pressure of the water was roughly equivalent to the trickle down Grandad’s leg after his third sherry at Christmas. I was, quite literally trying to wash myself with a leaky tap.
Just for those few days of excitement, when I thought a few quid had solved all my life’s ills, I will always love Poundie’s. The kings of worthless tat.