There is a lot of hot air around at the moment, what with elections imminent and royal baby non-stop non-coverage underway. But then there is nothing more entertaining than a bit of wind, I’ve found. There seems to be something in the British, or maybe the human pysche, that finds a spot of flatulance both of the figurativeand literal variety, rib-tickling.
It is not something, I am am well aware, that we are born with. Being related to four five-and unders who quite happily trump to full volume and effect in public, confirms that acute embarassment about wind-related issues is learned behaviour. It is only over that age-bracket that a spot of what the Americans call gas is both equally humiliating and hilarious. This, I have observed, is something that does not wear off until a very great age, particularly in the male side of the species for whom puerile acts of bottom-burping are the greatest source of humour every known to man-kind. Fart jokes rule.
Of course it is worse for women. Where men positively relish slightly stinky episodes and are able to giggle away the unpleasant odours with the undisguised mirthof children and under the protection of the man-cave, us delicate females are discouraged from even acknowledging such smelly human acts are even possible in polite society. Women fart flowers, probably in a shade of pink, I’ve heard.... Though I’m sure women are more digestively delicate (they eat less kebabs) I hate to break it but I’m not sure that is true.Women bottom burp with the best of them, they just don’t admit it.
But reactions to accidental wind are pretty funny. We’ve all been there, in the car, where somebody emits a delicate omission and nobody even acknowledges it, despite the fact you are retching and gagging for breath. Such a very British behaviour..
My mum once told me that if it is natural it is beautiful.. an adage that applied to wind as well as brussel sprouts. But sometimes mums can be wrong .. and in this case the information stinks.