As this is the Naafi it seems fair to assume that most people with partners have partners of the opposite sex. As this is the Naafi it seems fair to assume that most opposite others are women. As this is the Naafi and anyone fails to share my assumptions it seems fair to say **** off. As this is the Naafi it seems fair to assume that most men will make some similar assumptions to me, namely that in a relationship some areas are a male preserve. For instance, the nonchalant twist of the well-wnaked wrist to open the jar of pickled onions under the proud and awe-struck eyes of our other halves. Man's job...oh yes! One of those areas of male expertise I had before now assumed to be farting. On embarking on a new relationship perhaps a significant milestone is the first full-bodied emission each makes before the other. Personally, as a gallant sort of cove, I sought to prolong the journey to this particular milestone with the memsahib. In this had I initially partial success. I got one mild reference to 'Lifting your leg up in bed and letting one out and laughing to yourself because you think I'm asleep'. Now little ones are all very well but there comes a time when we have to let rip one that sounds like King Kong tearing in two a giant wet cardboard box. Still the gentleman, on reaching this point I went into the next room but still the sound reverberated and brought from the memsahib protestations of disgust. I sheepishly retorted with 'Better out than in'. The balance of fart-guilt was hers: I had the farts; I had the guilt. In conversation with a friend of hers she slyly brought up the topic of 'At what stage in a relationship is it appropriate to fart in front of your partner?'. Her friend was of the six month persuasion. Now, as we were at that point I felt smugly justified in my recent ricker rocket. Little did I know I had been out-smarted....and was about to be out-farted! The last two months have seen issue forth from the slim, shapely form of the memsahib round after round of noisy swamp gas. Love her to bits though I do, she farts like the proverbial belt-fed bazooka. Night after night, day after day it goes on. I have the best part of a socket set placed about our shared abode as paper weights to hold down any loose papers, magazines, encyclopedias that would otherwise be blown around in the eddies and gusts that follow in her wake. Initially I laughed out loud in surprise. Then, assuming a temporary fart-fuelled interlude, I felt smug in anticipating my recrimination free revenge. Realising after a while though that this was to be permanent I ventured a few mild complaints. The retort? You guessed it...'Better out than in'! Ah, my misplaced tact. Ah, my misplaced guilt! It turns out my companion in life is nothing less than a farting champion, trained in the hard-school of a house with two brothers she has an unbeaten record in childhood competitions. Whenever remotely tested in contest, she stormed through to win (literally!) with what she coyly describes as a 'front bum trump'! Has anyone else in the Brigade of Aarse suffered similar indignity, being beaten in a traditionally male pastime? Arm-wrestling? Darts? PLEASE someone else save me from emasculation by telling me that they too have been out-farted by a woman (...or suggest a champioship diet that will enable me to reclaim my honour and some blance in the battle of the sexes).