Smellecules – A Fart StoryOctober 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.
“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.