There is a point in any relationship when farting instead of being an embarrassment becomes a bond. Something to share, laugh over and tease about. Yesterday I reached that point of intimacy with Rita the dashing radiographer who not only was fiddling around with my buttocks but at one point asked me if I could release some gas. Apparently the mighty Wurlitzer cannot work if a cloud of the smellies lurks around the bowel.
You mean fart. Of course, and I let one go. One a 1 to 10 about a mere four. Well done,said Rita. I replied coyly well that’s the first time I have I have farted on demand since my prep school. Of course then it was highly competitive.
I bet you won ,said Rita, always wanting to please.
And then it all came back, it was Blanchard who was the Pharaoh of Farts back at Charlton Marshall. Not only could he fart on demand but he could cut them to size. Absolutely brilliant, we could only breath in in wonder. But as with the Latin we also learnt maybe not such a great help in later life. Aged 13 ,a useful second row forward,he didn’t come onto the big school but went to Chard . But a with a name like that he could have come from Huguenot stock.
As does my child bride, who along with the rest of her clan are champions de pet. Her father too was an absolute brilliant exponent of this increasingly lost art. It was he that taught us the eternal couplet “Where ayre you be; Let your wind go free”.We of course often discuss whether her silent and deadlies are better or worse than my more robust honest explosions. I feel somehow mine have a decent above board English flavour, whereas hers have a certain oily underhand Continental dimension.
But who am I to go on about this very human pastime. There is in fact a web site devoted to farts in literature. And for those who realise that we are all flesh and blood I highly recommend a visit. Who hasn’t smelt their own with pleasure? Meanwhile what level of intimacy will Rita and I explore today?