Silly Arse

The prospect of a family Christmas party in St Albans, a sort of Abigail's Party with tinsel on your Lamborghini, was not exactly appealing. However I was surprised how far my body would go to resist. I really was prepared to do it, to put the Gringe suit to one side, but this turned out to be a futile and deluded effort.

The phrase 'to the pit of your stomach' has little meaning until you lie there in the early hours suddenly shivering, shaking and boiling at the same time, with all your joints feeling they have locked solid, and (this is it) farting the most abominable acetic putrid smells under the covers every five minutes for uncounted hours. Since the house we were staying in was built over a Roman graveyard, I tried to take hold of myself and account for the situation. I could only assume I'd been possessed by a literal spirit, having the time of their deaths.

Luckily Julie is a heavy sleeper, she was for several hours unaware of this putrid smell and my horrible situation, but when she finally rose to bring me some cure-all Lemsip (for I could hardly move by this time, the demon having taken hold) she arrived back in the room to accuse me of trying to kill her by gas, and stating that I was clearly 'rotting'.

At sunrise of course, the demon had to leave, and I slowly recovered, to remember the event as 'fart night' and fearing other 'fart attacks' to follow. This does not bade well regarding my participation in future Christmas events.

However it does rather strengthen one's belief, not so much in demons, but in the power of the sub-conscious. Mine definitely displays an alarming belligerence.

PS. While Kingsley Amis writes about shitting, and John Fante about bottoms, there is a strange lack of farting literature.