Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
It seems to me that crop control must have improved greatly since my youth because we still get the forceful winds that seemed to be the genesis of the frightful dust storms we used to get when I attended Sunalta school in the thirties. Usually some day- dreaming student gazing out the window of a north-facing classroom would raise the alarm with his teacher. The student would point out a low-lying black cloud on the northwest horizon and then, in most cases, the teacher would communicate with the principal. The dithering about whether to declare an emergency and shut the school down would then begin. Half an hour later the storm would arrive in all of its fury and the dithering would suddenly stop and a brilliant instantaneous decision made to close the school.
The girls who lived south of the school were able to flee with a minimum of hazard because when the slates began departing from the school roof they ordinarily sailed in an easterly direction. The fleeing girls could keep on heading directly south and have the additional shelter of the school building for the first fifty yards of their flight. It was a different matter on the BOYS side of the building; fine dust and pebbles were hurled in the faces of the boys as they departed the building directly into the force of the storm. With both hands clutching our tweed caps to hold them on our heads we ran at top speed for home. We were not out of danger, however, when we reached as far as the east end of the schoolyard. The black slates on the roof of the school were about four square feet in size (2'x2') and I was astonished when one struck the ground a few feet beyond me when I had reached as far as the boys' baseball backstop which I think was about one hundred yards east of the school. I speculated for days on the potential gory details (including decapitation) which would have resulted if a flying slate had struck a child. Nope! school attendance just ain't as much fun as it used to be!
The fact that there was a BOYS entrance on the north side of the school and a GIRLS entrance on the south side is an indication of the degree to which fraternization of the sexes was approved in those days. Although there was no sexual segregation in the classrooms themselves, the system automatically kept the girls playing together on the south side of the school and the boys indulging in games or whatever they indulged in at recess time. As a result we tended to hold girls apart as a separate life form and felt that any departure from their normally aloof behaviour was worthy of our close attention.
I guess when I'm speaking of 'wind' I might as well cover the complete scale, as it were. Farting in class was always a prime factor on the amusement scale and was practised regularly by some of the lower classes of would-be comedians. When a girl was identified as the perpetrator, however, the reaction was more sensational. Lloyd came home at noon one day literally bursting to tell his story of classroom mirth that morning.
Apparently a well-bred young lady with exceptional training in fine manners had inadvertently let fly with one in his class that morning. It would have seemed sensible to have left everyone guessing but she fell victim to her impeccable training and to the amazement of the class she stepped out into the aisle and, standing militarily erect, said in a loud clear tone bordering on the falsetto--'Excuse me, please!' This was obviously more than the low comedians of the class could bear.
As the prim young lady sat down again, her face flaming, there was a chorus of snorts by the boys trying to restrain themselved from outright laughter, but it proved to be in vain as one after the other of them leaned forward onto their desktops with their heads on their arms and literally shook with uncontrolled laughter. The girls, by and large, remained stone-faced and disapproving.
Farting became just as mirth-provoking in our youth as it was reputed to be in Austria. We entered a phase of 'fart lighting' that lasted for several weeks. Anyone who felt the onset of flatulence would volunteer to be the 'source' and immediately drop his pants and underwear and lie down on the floor while others present would hasten to turn off the lights and draw the drapes. Lloyd became moderately famous for his wind-passing capabilities and could be counted on almost invariably to emit a strong blue flame up to twelve inches in length when ignited. Points were not awarded at that time but one and all applauded exceptional performances.
Lloyd came home one night from the McInnes house and told me that they had experienced a fart-burning accident. Murray had apparently come to the scientific conclusion that if he held a cup over his bum while passing wind he could concentrate the gases and achieve a spectacular effect at the time of the ultimate ignition. There's little doubt that he did indeed achieve a spectacular effect. When he judged that he was 'farted out' so to speak, he alerted Gord, who was acting as 'torch', to stand by with a lighted match. When the match was alight he removed the cup; the gases ignited but instead of being forcibly ejected perpendicularly to his bum crevice they seeped up along his spine, burning en route.
'Ow!' was his only comment. There was a strong odour of singed hair present in the room.
'Well, it was worth a try!' Gord had apparently said, hoping to lighten the mood.
'Bugger that brilliant idea!' Murray said, still wincing from the pain.
If there had been an award for 'stylish farting' there is little doubt that Lloyd would have won it going away. He and I were sitting at the peak of our cedar-shingled garage one day, presumably carrying on a conversation with Jack Erickson who was standing in the garden across the fence from the garage. Apparently Jack had something he wanted to show to Lloyd so Lloyd decided to slide down to the bottom edge of the roof for a closer inspection. Coincidentally he was overcome by the urge to fart but apparently decided not to let that interfere with his plans. He did have the wit, however, to lean gradually onto one cheek as he slid down the roof. The result was marvellously melodious. What started out as a high-pitched falsetto, almost a squeak, gradually deepened, shingle by shingle, into a low, flatulent rumble and concluded as though on command just as he arrived at the lower edge of the roof. Both Jack and I clapped our hands together in sincere appreciation. A standing 'O' was in order.
'That was quite good, wasn't it?' Lloyd said, albeit modestly.
-o-
I have no recollection of anyone effecting an accidental 'plotch' in those early days, bearing in mind that such an error would result in immediate elimination in these days of more sophisticated International Crepitation Contest rules. I assume that Paul Boomer of Australia who dined exclusively on Melbourne cabbage for a month prior to his legendary World Cup Crepitation Contest with Lord Windersmere of Wapping Foghole in Kent would forever after be sensitive to a potential mishap. Even though the genial Australian was disqualified in the closing minutes of the contest by an inadvertent 'plotch' one will never know for sure whether the particular design of his 'fenetre de breeze' or 'zephyr window' may have had an effect on the final outcome.
Of course, one must bear in mind that the youthful anal sphincters with which we were equipped in those early days afforded much greater performance control than was achieved in later years when weary, flaccid 'arsenals' contributed to the disastrous and near-disastrous 'plotches' of crepitation-weary bungholes. Apropos of this comment, readers will, of course, become familiar in due course with the tribulations of my friend John Manderly who, when in Hamburg, inadvertently plotched on his bedsheets in a moment of attempted frivolity.
Anyone who has travelled widely and enjoys drinking the local brews must surely have experienced the mental agony of being remote from the sanitary facilities and wondering if the old sphincter has the needed resilience to hold out until relief is at hand. I was headed in a limousine once to Makati, which I recall is the industrial subdivision near Manila in the Philippines. We had a full car and I was sandwiched between a couple of Dutchmen in the rear seat. Traffic was agonizingly slow but perspiration flowed freely down my brow as I tried desperately to think of inconsequential matters like the little Philippine boys running amongst the cars at the stop lights selling plastic tubes full of boiled quails' eggs. I survived that near-disaster and when I related my near-mishap at dinner that evening one of the guests responded in a positive way.
'Here,' he said, handing me half a dozen small white pills, 'This is what you need! Anyone who travels in these parts can't do without 'em!' What, in fact, he had given me were Lomotil pills which had virtually an instantaneous costive effect on the lower bowel. Available at that time in Canada only by prescription, an effective substitute called Imodium is now available across the counter. Travellers pay attention!
Since I have referred to the aging of the anal sphincter and its disobedient nature I might as well divulge the story of my most potentially embarrassing incident respecting the inadvertent 'plotch'. In February of 1996 I was stopping at the Avenida Hotel on the Avenida de Mayo in Buenos Aires; I had planned a two week visit but the heat and humidity had made me consider shortening my visit. I had adopted a habit of walking in the shade of convenient buildings a block and a half to the nearest air conditioned bar where I could get a glass of cold draught beer. I hadn't done a great deal of the customary wide ranging travel favoured by tourists because of the oppressive heat and humidity. As a result I had become a familiar face to Julio, the waiter.
'Un balon!' he would say to the bartender as soon as I entered. 'Balon' was actually the Spanish word for 'ball' and although the glasses were known to us as 'balloon' glasses in North America I'll admit that they were shaped more like a ball but I have decided not to get involved in a semantic discusssion. After I'd cooled off and had a couple of glasses of beer I'd usually have a sandwich, pay my bill and return to the hotel. Some days I would do what little shopping, phoning, or browsing I had to do then wander back for my nap. It was an exhausting routine.
On the day in question, I followed my usual routine but returned directly to the hotel. I chatted briefly with the man at the desk, retrieved my key from him, watched as he flicked the switch to turn on the air conditioning in my room, then walked up the few stairs to the elevator. The door opened immediately and as I pressed the button for the third floor my stomach gurgled quietly. I never gave it a second thought! The elevator doors opened at the third floor and I went into the hallway feeling sleepy and contented.
Halfway down the hallway my stomach gave another gurgle, this time substantially louder and more significant.
What the hell's going on? I thought, quickening my pace. Moments later I felt a strong build up of pressure in my lower bowel. I had by this time recalled that the first beer I had drunk that day had a slightly 'off' taste about it. For the last thirty feet to the door of my room I had increased my pace but reduced the length of each stride as I tightened the cheeks of my buttocks and began to mutter to my anus.
'Bung don't fail me now!' I muttered desperately as I fumbled with the key in the lock. The door flew open and I headed straight for the bathroom with my ultimate destination within reach. My tired old sphincter did its loyal best but it could hold out no longer and, like an exhausted Olympic marathoner, succumbed completely. Regrettably the jockey shorts I had chosen to wear that day were not perfectly snug and I could feel the warm torrent flowing down my leg and into my shoes. Remarkably, I later found only one brown spot about the size of a dime on the rug in the main room and cleaned it up easily.
Meanwhile, I never broke step once the dark comedy was under way but marched directly into the bathtub, removed my wallet, which had remained dry and unsullied and dropped it on the floor then sat down in the tub and turned on both taps. I removed my boots, rinsed them off both inside and out and tossed them onto the bathmat on the floor. Then I systematically rinsed and scrubbed my shorts and socks and shirt tail, thinking all the while of what a chuckle John would have when he heard the story. If he heard the story!
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