Right, you lot flushing the fucking tampons:
I SPENT AN HOUR THIS EVENING ANKLE-DEEP IN RUNNY SHITE BECAUSE OF ONE OF YOU IGNORANT MARES.
Chap with a basement flat in a block with, apparently, one of you in it. The sewer has blocked, the soil stack backed up, and the resulting surge tide of stench, foul water, and actual identifiable Richards* got as high as his bathroom sink. The overflow got as far as his kitchen. Fortunately, I had wellies, disposable hazmat overall, and stout rubber gloves to wade through and help rescue his personal possessions. The mask to keep the aerosolised HUMAN FUCKING DUNG from entering my personal lungs didn't do anything about the BASTARDING SMELL.
Dyno-rod have been out once and been defeated. They're coming back in the morning with the HEAVY equipment.
This isn't the first time I've seen this happen, either. And if you think I sound testy on the subject, speak to a dynorod franchisee. Or, better, a sewage guy from your friendly local water company.
And never mind what it says on the fucking packet. The bellend that writes the packet copy almost certainly never had to deal with a backed up drain, but thinks if he puts 'don't flush it' some too-precious-to-admit-she's-a-functioning-female flower is going to stop buying the product in favour of a competitor who leaves 'flushable' on there.
The toilet is for shit, piss and toilet paper. Nothing else. Next time it could be YOUR hallway that it floods out over. Except that since There Ain't No Justice, it probably won't be, karma never seems to hit where it ought to.
*Richard III. Rhyming slang.