Mike we had a 'cannon pot' on our house in Gloster England in the seventies. It was a 5 footer, perched atop a massive 12-foot stack to get some 'drawer', as the house proper overshadowed it.
Mrs B wanted it down. Mr B was, quite frankly, terrified half to death of the idea of going up a ladder and looking at it, let alone lifting it off.
I met an amiable cogenital lunatic one evening in the pub. He said he "could get her down, old butty, no sweat", and the next day he turned up with a rickety old ladder, climbed up, pulled the bloody thing onto his shoulder and climbed down again all in about 10 seconds flat! When praised to high heaven by Mrs B for his courage, he winked and admitted that he'd sunk eight pints of Jummy's best bitter beforehand, and promptly collapsed in a giggling stupor. Those were the days!
I sold the pot for a fiver to some herbert who grew strawberries in it.
