Smellecules – A Fart Story

October 30, 2006 at 10:51 pm | Posted in nonsense, tales of youth | 24 Comments

I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that other post occupy the top of t’blag for too long. It was bringing me down, and there’s enough of that shite going on. Thanks though, for your kind words and sniping. It warms the heart.

A word of caution: if you are of a particularly sensitive disposition, I request, nay, compel, you to stop reading this post right now. Go and visit Kieran instead – he’s a thoroughly amiable minstrel with a far greater wit and intellect than I. You won’t be disappointed.

You’ve been warned. I make no apologies if you keep reading, though you’ll likely think less of me.

After a really shit few days, I got to thinking (yes, I was exhausted afterwards, hoho): what better antidote for being down in the dumps than a fart story? Inspired by steph and duckie, I spent the train journey home this evening recalling a horrendous incident from a wedding I attended earlier in the year.


Last April, when this blog was nowt but a twinkle in my Jap’s eye, one of Linzi’s best mates got married in a beautiful old castle near Perth. That’s Perth, Scotland, not Perth, Far Away. A beautiful day, all told. The sun split the rocks, the bride looked absolutely ravishing, and copious amounts of booze flowed; no sooner had they sealed their future together as husband and wife, than hipflasks were produced from sporrans, and nips of whisky were sucked greedily with that strange species of Celtic hunger that no amount of food can satisfy. Thirst, I think we call it.

Unfortunately for the bride, the groom, the entire wedding party and all sundry guest types, I had partaken of a particularly delicious chicken biryani in a local Indian establishment the night before the wedding. Occasional readers may know of my love/hate relationship with Indian food – suffice to say I enjoy the taste, but my body doesn’t deal with it too well. Yes, unfortunate, on such a special day, to be riddled with the foulest, most toxic emissions released since Westlife’s last album, but there I was.

These were silent creeping death, untainted by any saving graces: possessing both potency and longevity the likes of which I haven’t rivalled before or since, my noxious releases were bound to get me into trouble before the end of the night.

And of course, they did. Wouldn’t be much of a story otherwise, eh? Now I shall switch to the present tense, thereby immersing you in the thick of the action with me, your stinky protagonist.

Through the course of the day, I manage to take myself outside whenever the need to release these horrifically smelly molecules (smellecules, if you will) comes upon me. This is often, as you can imagine, but I seem to be managing to avoid attention every time.

Then I get drunk.

As the beers flow, alcohol-fuelled complacency gets the better of me. I gently squeeze one out at the male-dominated bar, to test for reactions. You know, high-fives, cheers, things of that nature.

No reaction. Excellent. I surmise that they are either missing key olfactory nerves (unlikely) or they are just too polite to mention the stench (possible), OR I am simply nowhere near as stinky as I initially presume myself to be (definitely Kav, that HAS to be it). My test complete to my satisfaction, I take this as my cue to fart as and when I desire.

Did I mention Linzi is here? I thought you’d take that as a given, since it’s her close friend’s wedding, but just in case, I’m telling you.

More beers. Champagne. Beer. Vodka. Beer.

Pffffffffffttt. I am the stealth beast.

Suddenly, my nostrils flare and begin to crease inward, my body’s instinctive sense of self-preservation kicking in even before my alcohol-addled mind processes the smell and begins to comprehend the damage I have done. Linzi turns to me, her complexion pale except for two spots of colour high on her cheeks (from holding her breath). She knows me too well.

Fuck. Rumbled.

“Was that you?” she glowers.

“What?” I can’t look her in the eye, mainly because my eyes are watering from the smell.

“Kav, oh my God! What have you done? Go. Go! Quick!” she hisses.

She pushes me, but I am drunk, feigning ignorance as to the source of her anger even this late in the game. I make some rudimentary attempts at dispersing the smell. I put my hands in my pockets and try to flap my trousers and jacket; as I mentioned above, these discharges are pungent and insidious – think pulling the covers back the morning after a 12-pint session and a vindaloo, and you’re close to the odour I am shaking out with each flap of my lapels.

Futile. Plan B.

If dispersal won’t work, internalisation of as many smellecules as possible is the only option. Stands to reason, the more of the smell that I inhale, the less there will be for others to smell. Same principle as a vacuum cleaner, you understand.

I cock my nose like a bloodhound, sniffing as quickly as possible, hoovering up the air. Linzi, several yards away, continues her self-righteous glowering, and I know that my chances of a ride tonight are well fucked.

Being drunk, I only now notice that there is a rough circle around me, its circumference marked out by my fellow wedding guests. They’re all looking at me, and I’m wondering if I’m supposed to do a speech or something. I think: cool, I am the centre point of this circle. I consider calling out to Linzi that pi times the distance from me to her squared equals the area of this circle I now stand in, but then I remember why I stand alone, and I go a bit red, and make my way towards the toilets to try to exorcise these demons once and for all.

Update: Incidentally, the words in the pic above are from the Prodigy song Firestarter. I thought this would be well-known, but apparently not. So there you go.



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  1. Good story!

    I feel your pain. I had an evening like that a few years ago, at a company Christmas party. The culprit? The fish sandwich I had for lunch, the tartar sauce must have been off.

    I polluted not only the function room of the restaurant where the party took place, but the entire billiard area of the bar we went to afterwards.

    Good times.

  2. andraste: The tartar sauce must have been off. Oh, sure.

    Well, cheers, I’m glad someone liked the story. Most people seem to be clicking away like their life depended on it. Oh well. Would it make you folks feel any better if I say the story has been slighly enhanced for comic effect?

  3. No no no. It’s not a good story til you poo yourself. Try harder next time.

  4. Same principle as a vacuum cleaner

    You my lad are a genius, I’m sure with your charm and brain power you did get your hole, you farted all the way through it but hey you got a happy ending, am I right?

  5. Enlightening!

    Thanks for that, you rough mutt!

  6. Kav, I laughed so hard I cried. Although if I was your wife, I probably would have killed you.

  7. That picture is fucking hysterical.

    Oh dear, were people smoking? I’m surprised there wasn’t a fire.

  8. You didn’t shart though, nothing worse than when it’s a wet bubble! SL’s right! Good man, better luck next time!
    Sorry you’d a shite weekend… bank hol here so I vanished off to the perineum of Ireland for a bit of quietudinous peace.

    ps You may have your water heater problem (an immersion?) sorted… if not then try replacing all the wiring, they often corrode at the contact points, especially if the temperature is set quite high.

  9. I love the picture! hehe

    I also love Prodigy. I can’t believe they never took off.

  10. Ooooh! I thought the lyrics were: “Bake sale! Bake sale! You are the baker!”

    I never did understand that song.

    Disgusting story, btw. Love it.

  11. ps re the picture… I thought it was Robbie Williams tryin to hit the high the high notes in ‘Angel’. Are you, in fact, Robbie Williams? Own up….

  12. Well SOMETHING about that sandwich didn’t like where it ended up. Because I don’t usually release toxins like that, believe me.

  13. kav, this is infinately amusing. wedding stories evoke everyone elses memories, though mine has nothing to do with gas (girls dont fart, we may overbalance and fall off our pedestal) As i remember it, though thats not well, it was a brit wedding and boasted an open bar, i was 15 and over the course of the night, i seduced the very cute but 35 year old best man in front of my entire family and indeed, the entire assembly. i was a bit precocious.

  14. I can usually get away with a silent fart. My most embarrassing fart was in junior high during study hall, because it made a noise and everyone knew it was me. Jr. High was tough. People seem to get nicer and more accepting as they age.

  15. I was in the middle of a Thai red curry while I read this.Now I’m laughing so hard I’ve wet myself.
    You are in fact the “Danger illustrated”.Nice one.

  16. Sweary: I’ve written about pooing myself already. Jeez. That is so September 2006.

    old knudsen: Thank you good sir, to be honest I passed out, but I’m sure Linzi took full advantage of my lad as I lay in my catatonic state.

    boudica: At least you commented. I’m a bit shocked by the number of people who actually ARE going to visit kieran.

    FS: She nearly did, I swear. In the story, I failed to point out the remorse I felt, but I did feel awful for what happened.

    debbie: Merci beaucoup. And smoking is banned in all public places in Scotland as of 31st March 2006…

    conan: The perineum? Fairly close to the arse end then, art thou?

    I disconnected and reconnected all the wiring, and I’m pretty sure I’ve traced the fault back to the digital programmer for the heating/water.

    summer: Never took off over yonder, no? They were huge here for most of the 90’s.

    howard: I’ve discovered that the horrible stories are the ones I’m best at.

    conan: Are you seriously comparing me to that handsome cunt? I am flattered and enraged in equal parts.

    andraste: Ah sure I was only coddin ya. I still have difficulty believing girls fart at all.

    taihae: Nice work. I heard about that guy – he just got out of jail last year, right?

    desirea: Most people do. I know I have. You know that scene in The Simpsons where Marge says “Kids can be so cruel…” and Bart walks past and says “We can? Thanks Mom!” and proceeds to beat the crap out of Lisa? Yeah, well where am I going with this….oh yeah, stay out of my food.

    devin: I’d love a curry right now. I had a god-awful tinned chilli con carne yoke a while ago. You know the type. 4% beef. Ugh.

  17. Yup Kav, the piece of the perineum where I took my weekend ease was regionally close to the arseend! Wet and windy it was, wet and windy!

  18. We go to the same places. I read what you write and I pay attention. I present to you:

    -Go to eBay
    -Type in ‘Bad Mother Wallet’ on search
    -Voila! Your wallet : )

    I know, I’m the shit. You can thank me later.

  19. conan: Did you expect anything less?

    summer: Thank you, my friend. I never even thought of the electronic Bay.

  20. Haaaaaahaha! Great story.
    You crack me up. In all your smelly glory.

    I particularly like the flapping of the trousers.

  21. I can picture the scene and I’ll bet it was a good one. cheers.

  22. Hey.

    How did I miss this? Well thanks anyway. Although you are the genius, and I admire your many talents, especially the fart power.

  23. Kav, just read this yesterday for the first time and I was laughing to hard, I had tears pouring down my face and I was gasping for breath and my son couldn’t figure out if I was maniacally laughing or maniacally crying. Great story, absolutely hilarious. My bf is great, if we are out and I toot by mistake he always lays claim to it, while I am holding back the giggles. Keep ’em comin’, the stories, not the farts! LOL.

  24. Yesterday i spent 300 $ for platinium roulette system , i hope that i will
    earn my first cash online

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