Do I wash this guy's underpants, or not?

Do I wash this guy's underpants, or not?

Yesterday, I went to the post office to buy some stamps. It’s my mother’s birthday on Friday, and I wanted to send her a box of chocolates back home to Norway. After waiting in the queue for about ten minutes, I was served by a middle-aged male cashier called Martin. I explained what I wanted to do, and, after checking to see no-one was watching, he offered to give me the stamps for free, in exchange for doing his washing this week. I was slightly taken aback at first, but he just laughed, and told me it was only a small load, and he didn’t expect me to iron his things as well. I asked him if it was customary for post office workers to swap stamps for washing in England. He didn’t laugh this time, and simply said ‘No.’
I left soon after, carrying a sackful of his dirty laundry, but with my package posted back home for free. I considered ditching the sack in a skip just outside the post office, but decided against it. He had upheld his part of the bargain, so I was to do the same.
I got home, headed for the kitchen, and tentatively opened Martin’s bag.
Inside I found seven pairs of tatty old Y-fronts, each with brown and yellow stains around the crotch area. I gagged, but managed to keep my composure and put the washing machine on.
The next day, I returned to the post office, clean laundry in hand, and waited my turn in the queue. When I got to the front, I asked for Martin.
‘Martin?’ said the young lady, ‘We’ve no-one here called Martin.
‘There must be a mistake,’ I replied, ‘I washed his Y-fronts for him. Look.’
I opened the bag and she peered inside.
‘Like I said- there’s no-one here called Martin’.
I was confused by the whole situation. I stood for a few seconds, gazing into the bag, as if the answer would lie amongst the underpants.
‘I’ll have a copy of Playboy and a pack of Condoms, then,’ I said eventually.
The rest of the conversation didn’t go well, and I was escorted from the premises by a burly old security guard who had coffee breath.
As he fondled my testes, I couldn’t help but think: if this is England, then long live Norway.