My Proudest Moment

I love smelling my own farts. I always have done. I hope my dying breath is spent exhaling my last trump.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve seen it as a major treat. As one of four brothers, farting prowess was a short cut to acceptance and admiration. Even though I was the youngest of the quartet, they knew not to fcuk with me. On a good night, my eldest brother Johns diet of Party Sevens and Pot Noodles couldn’t hope to compete with my Kia Ora and beefburger melting pot of stench. I could constantly be found with my head buried under the duvet savouring my latest output and mentally judging it for quality. In all my school photos my skin is the colour of rotten potato.

As I grew up and joined the army, I met and mixed with fellow connoisseurs of the art, but I always preferred my own malodorous company. As long as I had my farting strings, the army could never subject me to treatment I couldn’t take. Regardless of how p*ss wet through I was, as soon as I was inside that maggot and bivvi bag I could have my own private paradise. The lack of oxygen in a completely zipped up system almost led to asphyxiation from time to time. I’d just get the top of the bag open as I started to pass out. The pea and ham coloured smog would whoosh past me and start to mingle with the cold air of the woods. Foxes everywhere would be poking their noses out of their hidey holes and saying “what the fcuk was that?”

I met the girl I later married, at 24. I kept my farting abilities from her to begin with. I didn’t want to blow my chances. The first night back at hers, after a meal and a few beers, I nearly killed myself trying not to fart on the job. As soon as she was asleep, I went to the bog and let out enough marsh gas to get Branson across the Atlantic. Careful not to make any noise, I had to pull my cheeks to full splay, so there was no ricker friction.

A couple of weeks later on the way back from another meal, I let out an inadvertent one cheek sneak. I was a bit embarrassed and said sorry, but she just laughed and said don’t worry about it. I do remember thinking at the time ‘You have no fcuking idea of the floodgate you’ve just opened’ Our relationship has continued over the years, with me occasionally presenting her with the amusing bouquet of last nights curry in aerosol form. But tonight beat all other nights.

After having the day off work sick yesterday, todays diet has been a bit chop and change. I ended consuming 5 chicken wings, a bowl of broccoli soup, a scotch egg, and an onion bhaji. To drink I had a couple of cans of Websters. A fairly innocuous mix I thought. But coupled with the fact that I’d been sick, a right old Molotov cocktail had been prepared. It’s still rumbling round my gut now.
I went to bed early, feeling a bit ropey and my wife said, ‘I’ll follow you up in a bit, I’m just going to finish reading this’

Half an hour later she came up. I’d spent all that time, pumping up my own bouncy castle with persistent turd agent. While I was reading, I kept allowing myself the occasional tantalising sniff. Conditions were becoming close to perfect. I knew that she’d put her book on the shelf next to my side of the bed and that she’d have to bend down to mattress level to do so. As she came into the room, I got my body into the abdominal injury casualty W shape, whilst keeping the duvets air tight seal. As she moved into position, I dropped both knees sharpish and lifted the portion of the duvet closest to her napper, simultaneously. The bellows effect sent a zeppelin full, right into her mush at 40 mph. She gagged, and then gasped for breath, only to get another lungful. I really thought she was going to faint. She managed to fall out of ground zero and clamber round to the other side of the bed, taking a full 30 seconds to get her first strangled words out.

“You dirty, dirty b*stard”

I was oblivious. I was far too busy saluting myself in the mirror. I will never beat that one, and felt that I had to share it with you.

Nothing more rewarding than watching the reaction of another person in utter disgust without even touching them.

I found myself questioning my parenting skills earlier when my seven month old nipper looked lovingly into her daddies arms.... I couldn't help it, the devil in me reared its head and told me to turn about and lower my trousered bottom on to her head and treat her to an air biscuit.

Her indoors was watching, I wasn't aware and she quite literally went absolutley fu@king radio at me and was still calling me fit to burn an hour ago when she went to bed, telling me I wasn't welcome.

She is in for a good session in a dutch oven as soon as she falls asleep.

Was I wrong to fart on her head or was she over reacting... I would understand if I was bollocky and had blown mud or fired a lump of fizzy gravy on her but it was a fully trouser smothered clean non-odorous gaseous pocket delivered with a gentlemanly and loving manner.

The way she reacted you'd think i'd cracked her with a Pique handle :D
my girlfriend suffers quite badly with reflux , and sometimes just coughing will be enough to make her start retching ....... so you can imagine what happened sunday morning after a week of eating egg mayonnaise and bacon sarnies , i was a bit backed up , and this coupled with a skinfull and a curry meant that my arse was close to meltdown , i felt a fart approaching and thought of everything it was having to "filter" through , just to get out , well it was seriously a tiny little tommy squeak , but i think it had the density of plutonium , not to mention some of the radioactive effects.
i managed to keep the air seal for quite a few minutes , giving it further opportunity to manifest itself in all it's horror , then as she rolled over she got a nostril full ....... but that ladies and gentlemen was more than enough,
and she had to dive out of bed and blow chunks into the bin... a first for me and i have to say i had a tear of pride in my eye.
After a night of kraut, brauts and alot of dark German beer, I was in rare form at work. I popped off a near nuclear air buscuit in the middle of a hall, right in front of a co-worker office, one with whom I did not get along. He came out of his office, hit the fallout cloud, dropped the papers he was carrying and started to swear in a manner that would make a Sailor blush.

It was the only time I have ever had a complaint lodged against me at work. I'd do it again in a heartbeat! :D
Any fart that leads to people in immediate vicinity moving away and looking uncomfortable is to be applauded. My self I find 12 pints of Guinness and a kamikaze hot chicken vinderloo leads to a smell that comes right from the devils armpit but for the true connoisseur any fart that dose not lead to the grand slam of following through was only a half measure. As a true professional in the Her Majesty Armed Forces I would be ashamed of ever failing to be all I can be as a result my Y fronts are heavily stained and my mates few and far between
Much satisfaction can be had from silently delivering an extravagantly offensive effluvious contribution during a VIP visit, and watching as the entourage pretends not to have noticed, just in case the contributor is the starred one himslef.
When on post tour leave many moons ago my diet consisted mainly of beer curries and more beer.........and beer. This had the desired effect of producing heart stopping grunts which would kill a lesser being, anyhoo my sister worked at the DHSS at the time and she innocently suggested we met up over her lunchtime for a beer and scoff. So I'm there at opening time and tops up the previous nights gutfull of guinness and madras, in she walks with half a dozen of her 'co-workers' all either limp wristed left wing whankers or pig ugly mingers (sister excluded incase she reads this :lol: )

So I'm sitting with these noshers listening to their woes when I get 'that' feeling, you know when a goodun is coming and I wanted to get the maximum effect so I get up to buy a round (shock in itself) walk to the bar and aim my chocolate starfish at the table not 6 feet away.

The fart started with a bang and lasted maybe 5-6 seconds it was quite audible across the other side of the pub as several locals looked up from their papers and chuckled, there was the obligatory cheek shuffle to squeeze out the remaining gases and that self satisfied smug expression on my face.

What I wasn't expecting was the effect on my sister and her mates, first they went quite then the smell reached bint legged it out the door to the beer garden followed very quickly by the others all coughing and spluttering........ :lol: my sister called me a t osser and followed them. :D

The bonus was the barmaids face when she came to give me my change, she went from a smile to gag reaction in one pace.

...........and yes there was that satisfying bribble of wet poo between the cheeks :lol:
I found that farts can aslo become playthings to be thrown, stored or simply left lurking for the unsuspecting victims. When I was a kid I used to torment my brother with rancid farts which I would catch in my hand, clench a fist and literally throw it at his face in one swift movement.

Dropping a true beef monstermunch and cheese sarnie with a hint of pickled onion/sprout air biscuit cocktail into an empty jam jar and rapidly replacing the lid I found my mother was curious to know what was in the empty jar in the fridge and she would get her nasal passages wrecked by my anal vapours and my brother was always the obviuos culprit for a good belting :twisted: .

I discovered that throwing a fart onto cereals such as sugar puffs and rice krispies would mean that a concentrated odour could sink into the very fibres of the breakfast cereal and exit through slow pungent release just as my brother lifted a spoonful to his gob unaware of the contamination

When I joined the army I too found many partners in crime and we would fart in peoples thermos flasks in the field to confuse the owner into believing that it was full of beef stock drink not coffee. Dropping lurkers around CVs when top brass were around was a favourite trech and if we were bored on radion stag you and the radio op could brew up and blow off with the assistance of compo, pot noodles and coffee to such a foul extent that your relief would be reaching for his resi as he opened the back door and had his retinas burnt out by the acrid stench that would hit him like a camembert punch in the face as he opened up.

Things deteriorated to such an extent that we would have "asses of fire" competitions to see who could set light to the said natural gases and imitate the burning of the kuwaiti oilfields............blow back was a definite hazard to be avoided though as there is no smell more likely to make you wretch than singed sphincter 8O

With the help of therapy i'm off it now but I have been known to squeeze cheese under the duvet and dutch oven some unsuspecting girlfriends :wink: :twisted:
in my job , i estmate cars in a crash repair centre , which obviously involves getting in and out of them once they've arrived on site , and i take a certain satisfaction especially on a close and sultry day like today , when the old dung hampers are stuck firmly into the cleft , of gurgling out a "near miss" then locking it in the hot car to brew like an oriental infusion , permeating the very chassis of the vehicle and retreating to a safe distance to watch the fitter/victim arrive to pull the car in to the workshop only to collapse in a heap , you would be amazed how long they can happily stink out the motor before dissipating , especially the heavier "persistent" type farts that sit in the footwells.


Crowded tube train in rush hour. Standing by the doors. Train pulling into station. Let one go (silent but DEADLY) perfectly judged to allow dispersal of vapour before......Doors open. Step out. Doors close. About turn to watch the effect........
Chimera reminds me of some splendid times on the Piccadilly Line. During the rush hour the trains are packed, and very noisy in the tunnels. It is actually possible to let fly with proper noisy farts completely undetected. The trick is to wait until the awfulness of the stench starts to sink in (i.e. it overtakes the smell of the female Aussie backpacker's armpits), and then look accusingly at the nearest foreigner heading for Heathrow. If you stare hard enough the gaze of others will follow until the victim lowers their eyes in shame. Happy days!
On Monday I had to pick three colleagues up from the airport
It was raining like it would never stop as we came out of the terminal and I had a rumbling in my guts like a well oiled Espresso coffee machine. Being a all round good egg I volunteered to run to the car and bring it round so they would not get piss wet through. The short dash through the rain just did the trick to allow the rumble to ease its way down into the load position and I held it there until they piled in. With the heater going full tit I aimed the face vents down to the desired level, hit the electric-window lock button, eased my arse off the seat and let rip a snorter that sounded like the end of the 1812 Overture. Giggling uncontrollably I managed to keep the car moving, the prisoners to my stench gagged, spat, and dribbled whilst trying to get to a fresh air supply and called me all kind of cnut.
I have not got a clue as to why they all jostled to sit as far away from me as possible during the days boring seminar on how to be grown up and professional at work.
She had to take the day off yesterday. I reckon she just got my cold but she's adamant that my vapourous hosing down tipped her over the edge.

The ongoing fallout from my stinkblast has left her with no appetite whatsoever and an inablity to detect all but the strongest smells.

I've also enjoyed giving a hand delivery in the past, also known as a cup-a-fart. A simple hands down the kecks procedure it was a great way of delivering a good fistful of corpse-oxygen straight to the nose and mouth of the victim. The only drawback was that for the next 24 hours your hand smelt like you'd been holding old coins.

The easiest way to catch someone was to walk round with an empty jerrycan and a quizzical expression. As soon as the victim approached, the cup-a-fart was prepped. Using subterfuge to get access within arms reach of the subject, the question was asked, whilst holding ones hand out.

"Is that Benz or Kero?"

As soon as he went to sniff, the hand splayed and sent it up both nostrils, resulting in a faint-with-leg-twitch.
I personally think that you can't beat a packed lift. Obviously they are not very noisy so you have to rely on the 'silent but deadly' payload. Very tall buildings are the best so everyone has time to savour the stench before they propel themselves out through the doors on the 30th floor!! Ha ha.

Note of warning to all farters!

I used to enjoy getting up first thing in the morning during phase 2 training in the 80s and forcing out the biggest thunderclap that I could muster. Most evenings I would eat a complete packet of Rivita along with a whole tube of Primula cheese with shrimp. The resultant sulphurous odour resembled something most dogs would be hard pressed to beat. Anyway, one day I got up out of my pit in the 10 man room and squeezed as hard as I could. Instead of the expected booming fart, there was the unmistakable sound of water rushing through a split hosepipe as I filled my trolleys with rancid, bisto gravy consistency, rusty water.
that's not a warning , that's motivation , any true "squeezer" has strained his dinner through his trollies on at least one occasion , and as other threads will testify this can be a matter of some pride.
the problem arises when you're left with no option other than to ditch your ruined undergarments , as the next one could result in your jeans looking like you left a mars bar in your back pocket , as anyone who's drunk tusker beer will tell you.


ViroBono said:
Chimera reminds me of some splendid times on the Piccadilly Line. During the rush hour the trains are packed, and very noisy in the tunnels. It is actually possible to let fly with proper noisy farts completely undetected. The trick is to wait until the awfulness of the stench starts to sink in (i.e. it overtakes the smell of the female Aussie backpacker's armpits), and then look accusingly at the nearest foreigner heading for Heathrow. If you stare hard enough the gaze of others will follow until the victim lowers their eyes in shame. Happy days!
And you a member of the medical profession - you should be ashamed of yourself! Good drills staying with the smell though - I must admit watching those helpless faces as the train pulls away does it for me.
Bunch of girls.

I bet none of you have had an arrse so bad that you've been banned from the mess for six hours.

It all came down to the classic mix of Guinness and curry. The first one popped out in the showers, at around 0730. It stunk like 5 buckets of dead turtles, had a wet edge, and was loud enough to induce resonance in my arrse cheeks, giving it a peculiarly delicate and sustained pitch. It also emtptied the compartment of all personnel, as they fought to escape the pyrroclastic flow of Biryani marsh gas sweeping out of the shower cubicle. After that, I was constantly seeping noxious vapours for the next 8 hours, and at morning standeasy I was banned from the mess until I had stopped stinking like a freshly disinterred mass-grave. By early evening, the flow had abated enough to allow me back among civilised (relatively) company.

But the entity that was haunting my lower bowels was possessed of a certain low-cunning. At around 2200, long after I thought the last Rhino-Killer had popped free, it played it's last hand. It was film night, so everyone was packed into the mess, which was rather small. I was in the furthest corner from the door, and had to walk over all the people sitting on the floor to get out. Anyway, without any further warning, I felt one building up, and started struggling to the door. No luck. This f*cker came barreling out like a well-greased sack of week-old chicken gibblets, at nose level of the blokes sitting on the deck. It slunk around the compartment giving everyone a virtual-skiffing, before slithering up the vents and rocketting into the stratosphere to punch a 5 km wide hole in the ozone layer.
Once again I was banished to the forward switchboard, until the last of the foul vapours had dispersed. :D

Now that was a man's fart :D
Im usually proud of the old bottom burps , but i dropped one in a mini taking the postie to palace Bks . This was after a night on nukie brown and pickled eggs. We both had to de bus while said mini was still rolling i swear you could actualy taste it , i got the giggles and the postie was violently sick, and if the bushes hadnt stopped the moter it would have gone straight into the pol point, now that would have been some FMT 3 :twisted:
Ah the beer .

I was always clearing rooms back in Catterick.

After a night on Old Theakstons and a few in stickies. God my arrse was a WMD.

Also who knows of a lift that only has one stop?.

Me! went to New York...first night went to a few Irish pubs (Guinness and lots of) then onto Chinatown with a few pickled eggs, chickens feet and Chinese curry.

Next day out sight seeing. Decide to go into the Empire State building.

been there?

The lifts are the fastest/biggest/spammist in the world but there is no stop . Once your in you are in, your there for the ride.

As I was lining up for the ticket me arrse was giving the warning spasms, little ring flutters and knowing what I had consumed , I started to get worried.

What if... or when I let one off what would happen...

At the end it was WTF it won't happen.

So after about 3 seconds into the lift, sorry elevator ride the guts were turning, I honestly tried to hold it in but it was no use , like a firework with the blue paper lit..I had no chance and nobody else did.

They pack those lifts, standing room only... After I dropped the 'Big" one the fuc*ers were climbing the walls trying to claw their way out . I had a personnal comfort zone in a 6 foot square lift of 5 foot.

The poor buggers were crying . The smell was sweet and sickly that stuck to the back of the throat and the eyes were watering like I had let off a CS grenade. Well thats what mine felt like anyway.

The others by now were in a heap on the floor , some old bint was crying in a pool of her own vomit. A couple of New Zealander back-packer were dry heaving and the Japanese had dropped their cameras and were crying. The lift attendent's fingers were hovering over the "panic" button but the fumes overcame her.

After arriving and the smell had gone (well after the stench filtered down through the lift shaft) I was fine but was asked to leave as soon as I arrived at the viewing platform.

Best thing was , back down in the front lobby on ground floor I could just make out my aroma filtering down through the lift shaft.

Great start to my holiday.


AubreyGerrard said:
And you f*ckers call us septic? :evil: :wink:
Yeah, but at least we have beer on this side of the Atlantic capable of brewing up a decent fart. I've just spent three weeks on your side of the pond, drinking your atrocious pseudo-beer: my alimentary canal thought I'd turned gay. Fortunately when I got back, I was able to re-educate it with a night on the Fuller's ESB and Guinness. Next morning, even my bull terrier was gagging on the stench coming from my guts.
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