Terry Mulligan, recently crowned the UK’s newest lottery millionaire, stood knee-deep in muck, holding a drain rod in one hand and a soggy pair of boxer shorts in the other. The irony wasn’t lost on him. His mate Dave leaned against the van, scrolling his phone, the company logo "Drain Kings: No Block Too Tough!" peeling slightly on the side.

“Oi, Terry,” Dave called, grinning. “The Sun’s runnin’ a piece on you again. ‘Millionaire Terry still clearing drains – what a lad!’ You’re famous, mate!”

Terry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, fame doesn’t unblock pipes, does it? Hand me the jetter.”

It had been two weeks since his £12 million jackpot win. The newspapers couldn’t get enough of him. “Salt of the Earth,” they called him. “Man of the People.” Every morning, reporters camped outside his flat, desperate to catch him on his way to work in his beat-up van, lunchbox in tow.

But Terry liked his job. He didn’t mind the stink, the grime, or the occasional rat surprise. Clearing drains was honest work. Besides, he had no idea what to do with £12 million. A new flat? Sure. A holiday in Tenerife? Maybe. But giving up the satisfaction of watching a blocked pipe gush free? Not a chance.

Today’s call was from Mrs. Baxter, the local terror. She greeted him at the door with a face like thunder, clutching her Yorkshire terrier, Tinkerbell.

“It’s backing up again,” she barked, pointing to the manhole in her garden. “Sort it, Mulligan. And don’t charge me extra just ’cause you’re loaded now.”

“Yes, Mrs. Baxter,” Terry said, suppressing a smirk. He knelt by the manhole and lifted the cover, revealing a rancid cocktail of grease, wipes, and… was that a miniature action figure?

“Oi, Dave!” Terry shouted. “Someone’s flushed Spider-Man!”

Mrs. Baxter huffed. “Don’t be cheeky. Just fix it!”

As Terry worked, Mrs. Baxter’s nosy neighbor leaned over the fence. “Why’re you still doin’ this, Terry? You’re a millionaire!”

Terry shrugged. “What else am I gonna do? Sit around drinkin’ posh coffee all day? Nah. This… this is satisfying.”

Just then, the pipe roared to life, blasting a geyser of foul water straight into the air. Tinkerbell yelped as Mrs. Baxter screamed, “Not on my begonias!” Terry and Dave burst into laughter, the smell be damned.

By the end of the day, Terry was back in the van, splattered in muck but grinning ear to ear. “What d’you reckon, Dave?” he said, tossing a damp tenner at his mate. “Fish and chips? My treat.”

Dave chuckled. “Mate, you’re richer than the Queen and still nickin’ ketchup sachets from the chippy.”

“Some things money can’t buy,” Terry replied with a wink, driving off into the sunset—drain rods rattling in the back, a millionaire still happily knee-deep in life’s mess.