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.