Have you ever entered a pub or a bar for simply a cold beer to quench your thirst and down the other end of the bar is a small group of people, all huddled around one man who is telling a story? The words he used were mesmerising even though all there knew there wasnít a truthful word being spoken. It is the rhythm and narration technique being used, which drew you in. He'd swear on his honour, that every word he utters is true, may God strike him down if they aren't.
The following story, I swear on my honour, is true, may God strike me down if it isn't.
I was just reading the latest chapter of my mate, Old Man with a Pen, I commented to him on his fart joke then remarked whether he'd like to hear one which I knew for a fact, he'd never heard before. So he says, why don't you make it into story? Why not? Only because I hadn't thought of it of course.
This is totally true and factual, without even a hint of sex so if you don't like that description, piss off!
If you want to read about the end of that first marriage two years later read my, A Nice Girl is Jenny. Except for a little embellishment, okay a lot of embellishment, the young bloke named Russell Lightfoot comes in here.
Russell and his parents originated from Manchester, England, and this place is the why of this tale of flatulence. Mrs Lightfoot, Russ's mum, was a lovely lady, a true mother, homemaker figure, and most of all a hell of a cook in the English tradition of bland is best. One day purely out of friendship, she sent the missus and me a pie that was a dish originating in her home city, called, cheese and onion pie. Total ingredients ... pastry, cheese and onions. We'd never heard of it before and it was so good that we scarfed a high percentage of that pie, with a salad beside, that very night. As a hint, the recipe is on Google but we are now talking about the mid 1970's and Mrs Lightfoot didn't want to divulge the recipe.
Anyhow, next morning the wife and I went to work where I worked about twenty minutes further from home than she did away. My stomach began rumbling around twenty minutes from work and ten minutes from work, still driving, I lifted one cheek and let one God awful, wet and noxious fart. It was so bad I opened all the cars windows which didn't help in the slightest so I pulled out of the line of traffic and off the road, turned the car off and opened both doors of my two-door 4 cylinder Corolla to aerate the inside. Standing as far from the car as I could, I dropped another and damned near tore a hole in my pants.
Eventually to cut this couth story short I arrived at work twenty minutes late and left my car in the company carpark with the windows open, still ventilating. I was tempted to leave the motor running and a ten dollar note on the seat but even I realised that no one would approach the thing even though the car park was near the local main road which was known for car thefts.
I reported into the company nurse, she laughed, but accepted I would be missing a bit of work that day and why I was late.