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.

Both, without a doubt. Went in one once, in Norway, and there was a table, set ready for dinner, with rotten food still on the plates. Weird Mary Celeste stuff, but less exotic. Or famous. Or impressive. The family probably just went shopping and the Council boarded their house up. It happens. Especially when it's £10 a pint over there.