Quite simply, the act of firmly cupping one hand in the bumcleft in synchronitity with a boff, and then rapidly arcing the arm around in an economical sideways/forward/upward motion in order to give direction and purpose to the otherwise diffuse fart-gas. Best directed towards a classmate's face.
With reference to prog-rockers Curved Air who stank and got in your face, or something.
With reference to prog-rockers Curved Air who stank and got in your face, or something.
The sixth category of skills on our Career form was headed F. Artistic.
This was the section where we could get the low-down on jobs such as 'trombone imitator', 'baked bean tester', and 'flatulence critic'.
This was the section where we could get the low-down on jobs such as 'trombone imitator', 'baked bean tester', and 'flatulence critic'.
This is true of all ages. In younger years, a finely rounded fart in assembly is absolutely hilarious. No-one can deny this. In later years, when applying for a late licence in the magistrates' court, a similar enhancement occurs. I can promise you.
Holding in a fart can yield great rewards if you release after a key phrase. For instance, after a scene in Star Wars where someone asked someone else to put a trace on a spaceship, I dropped cargo and declared "put a trace on that". Bravo, me.
You won't have to wait long. It's quite easy.
How do you do?
*parp*
Much better now, thanks.
What time is it?
*parp*
Too farty.
Hello!
*parp*
Calm down Jeffrey, he wasn't talking to you.
This last one works best if you're known for having an anus called Jeffrey
You won't have to wait long. It's quite easy.
How do you do?
*parp*
Much better now, thanks.
What time is it?
*parp*
Too farty.
Hello!
*parp*
Calm down Jeffrey, he wasn't talking to you.
This last one works best if you're known for having an anus called Jeffrey
The monicker of a child in our year who, ironically, was really boring.
We also made up a character called manij (pronounced manooj) who was entirely fictional and unrelated but just happened to be identical to manoj. Manij died.
We also made up a character called manij (pronounced manooj) who was entirely fictional and unrelated but just happened to be identical to manoj. Manij died.
Rupert was in the year below, and was quite simply the fattest child aged 15 that anyone in the area had ever seen in their lives. He may as well have had his inhaler strapped to his face while a drip kept the fluids coming.
There are several, but by far the best Rupert story is on a day when everyone in the 5th year had Science in the classrooms that overlooked the school playing fields. The 4th years were doing 100m on an outrageously bumpy stretch of grass, and so as to emphasise their inferiority and fatness in proportion to slender sporty-ish types, the crap fat asthmatic kids were bundled together in the last race.
At that moment the science teacher could have stopped class on the spot and put a porn video on, and everyone in the entire wing would still have been focussed on the sight of Rupert trying to get into the "set" position with the blood from his arse rapidly draining into his head.
As soon as the gun went, the slightly better crap kids shuffled away at relatively laughable speed, but Rupert took an age to even leave the ground. By the time he was upright, it looked like he was beginning to lose his balance.
Incredibly, he started to fall at about the 10m point, and was still falling about 50m further on. Eventually the inevitable happened, and he sprawled in suicidal parachutist fashion onto the grass. Minutes later, as the laughter started to die down, it was noticeable that he wasn't getting up.
15 motionless minutes later, a fucking ambulance arrived to tend to the crumpled mass of boy, and if that wasn't funny enough to everyone, the sight of the ambulance crew not being able to lift him off the floor was enough to convince even our Physics teacher that it genuinely was far more interesting than the fact that water will not fall out of a bucket if you swing it fast enough.
A second ambulance crew arrived, big Rupe was practically given a leg and a wing into the ambulance, and three weeks later everyone in the 5th year stopped laughing.
There are several, but by far the best Rupert story is on a day when everyone in the 5th year had Science in the classrooms that overlooked the school playing fields. The 4th years were doing 100m on an outrageously bumpy stretch of grass, and so as to emphasise their inferiority and fatness in proportion to slender sporty-ish types, the crap fat asthmatic kids were bundled together in the last race.
At that moment the science teacher could have stopped class on the spot and put a porn video on, and everyone in the entire wing would still have been focussed on the sight of Rupert trying to get into the "set" position with the blood from his arse rapidly draining into his head.
As soon as the gun went, the slightly better crap kids shuffled away at relatively laughable speed, but Rupert took an age to even leave the ground. By the time he was upright, it looked like he was beginning to lose his balance.
Incredibly, he started to fall at about the 10m point, and was still falling about 50m further on. Eventually the inevitable happened, and he sprawled in suicidal parachutist fashion onto the grass. Minutes later, as the laughter started to die down, it was noticeable that he wasn't getting up.
15 motionless minutes later, a fucking ambulance arrived to tend to the crumpled mass of boy, and if that wasn't funny enough to everyone, the sight of the ambulance crew not being able to lift him off the floor was enough to convince even our Physics teacher that it genuinely was far more interesting than the fact that water will not fall out of a bucket if you swing it fast enough.
A second ambulance crew arrived, big Rupe was practically given a leg and a wing into the ambulance, and three weeks later everyone in the 5th year stopped laughing.
This consisted of my friend and I linking arms and doing a sort of chorus-line kick while endlessly chanting "We're the Fat Brothers". I don't know why.
I was fat myself, but luckily I was tall and looked stronger than I was. I mostly escaped taunting on the grounds of my weight - these people didn't.
The funniest fat boy in school's surname was pronounced Weight-Man. It took me a good while to realise that this wasn't a nickname. For his PE option, Weight-Man chose trampolining classes because they involved, potentially, no movement. Sadly, they didn't spare him from mockery, for three good reasons. He had incredibly hairy legs, the sight of him climbing onto the trampoline was a Mr Bean-style masterpiece, and during his turns on the trampoline, his feet never left the elastic. He would just use the initial tension of his climbing onto the trampoline to bob up and down until the teacher (increasingly angrily) told him to get off. This was probably a good thing, as none of us had any intention of trying to catch him if he tried to jump and fell off.
Then there was the ginger, huge one, cursed with the belief that no-one would take the piss out of him if he tried to be the jolly fat man. Trouble was, his jokes created an angry confusion, and a "who does he think he is?" ill-feeling. Went on to get a BSc and MSc, I'm told by an angry reader, although presumably not in Mirth and Merriment.
Finally, we had our year's only proper black girl, so it was a relief to our developing brains that she didn't break the Tom & Jerry Big-Momma stereotype. She always bought in a big pack of sweets. As far as I can recall, I was the only person she ever shared her sweets with, which led to some ridicule on my part, as a potential suitor. At the time, though, I was so careful not to seem racist, and more importantly, not to shy away from girls in case people correctly assumed that I was a fat gay, that I accepted her sweets and sat next to her in a class. Once.
The funniest fat boy in school's surname was pronounced Weight-Man. It took me a good while to realise that this wasn't a nickname. For his PE option, Weight-Man chose trampolining classes because they involved, potentially, no movement. Sadly, they didn't spare him from mockery, for three good reasons. He had incredibly hairy legs, the sight of him climbing onto the trampoline was a Mr Bean-style masterpiece, and during his turns on the trampoline, his feet never left the elastic. He would just use the initial tension of his climbing onto the trampoline to bob up and down until the teacher (increasingly angrily) told him to get off. This was probably a good thing, as none of us had any intention of trying to catch him if he tried to jump and fell off.
Then there was the ginger, huge one, cursed with the belief that no-one would take the piss out of him if he tried to be the jolly fat man. Trouble was, his jokes created an angry confusion, and a "who does he think he is?" ill-feeling. Went on to get a BSc and MSc, I'm told by an angry reader, although presumably not in Mirth and Merriment.
Finally, we had our year's only proper black girl, so it was a relief to our developing brains that she didn't break the Tom & Jerry Big-Momma stereotype. She always bought in a big pack of sweets. As far as I can recall, I was the only person she ever shared her sweets with, which led to some ridicule on my part, as a potential suitor. At the time, though, I was so careful not to seem racist, and more importantly, not to shy away from girls in case people correctly assumed that I was a fat gay, that I accepted her sweets and sat next to her in a class. Once.
This was a woman of monolithic proportions. Probably around 30 stone, I would guess, even with hindsight. She would waddle around the town with shopping bags full of tucker with which to stuff her ludicrously fat face. The popular legend became unnervingly real, however, when she appeared in our boarding house canteen and started squeezing between the tables. The poor woman had a child of indeterminate sex and age (best guess, female, 12) who was about thirteen stone and could also be seen shuffling up gentle hills.
Fat Momma had her own song.
Fat Momma's coming
She's coming to fuck you
She's so fucking fat
She's coming to fuck you
She's coming up the stairs
She's coming to fuck you
She's got dead sheep coming out of her cunt
She's coming to fuck you
She's coming into the room
She smells soooo bad
And she's pulling the dead sheep out of her cunt
And the tramps and the children (continue, adding awful things, ad infinitum)
out of her cunt
(shouted) She's fucking you!
She's fucking you!
She's fucking you!
She's fucking you!
Fat Momma had her own song.
Fat Momma's coming
She's coming to fuck you
She's so fucking fat
She's coming to fuck you
She's coming up the stairs
She's coming to fuck you
She's got dead sheep coming out of her cunt
She's coming to fuck you
She's coming into the room
She smells soooo bad
And she's pulling the dead sheep out of her cunt
And the tramps and the children (continue, adding awful things, ad infinitum)
out of her cunt
(shouted) She's fucking you!
She's fucking you!
She's fucking you!
She's fucking you!
There was a small Buddhist monastery across the road from my school, and at lunchtime we'd often see groups of monks walking down the street. Most of the monks were lean and lithe, but there was one monk who was, to put it mildly, a right fat bastard.
The monks made sculptures from butter, and it was generally accepted among the students at our school that the other monks only kept Fat Monk around because he would eat the sculptures they fucked up. A friend of mine wrote a haiku about him for English class:
Big fat Buddhist monk
Eats the bad butter sculptures
Human rubbish bin.
The monks made sculptures from butter, and it was generally accepted among the students at our school that the other monks only kept Fat Monk around because he would eat the sculptures they fucked up. A friend of mine wrote a haiku about him for English class:
Big fat Buddhist monk
Eats the bad butter sculptures
Human rubbish bin.
The inevitable nickname of short, rotund, gurning English teacher Miss Fitzpatrick.
We had a teacher in our school so fat that when she walked down the corridor, it was difficult to get past her. To ease the stress of one particularly bad episode of fat-teacher induced gridlock, a kid stood behind her, spread his arms out to the size of her arse (in a "I caught a fish and it was this big" manner) and triumphantly held the arse-sized arm stretch high in the air above her head for all to see.
Kids! Did you have a fat teacher? A purulent pedagogue? Tell us all about it - if they didn't want to be laughed at, they shouldn't have eaten all the pies.
Kids! Did you have a fat teacher? A purulent pedagogue? Tell us all about it - if they didn't want to be laughed at, they shouldn't have eaten all the pies.
Mrs. Fenton (openly nicknamed "Jabba the Slut") was emboldened by the optimism that a bright sunny day can bring. Her mind full of possibilities, she walked out of a two-hour lesson around half-way through, and never returned.
[examples] Two subjects of a perpetually expanding song. The pattern of comedy would follow the Little and Large model, wherein Fatty would fart or do something amusing, and Thinny would either suffer, or not be involved. Thinny never got the laughs, and probably fantasised about Fatty's death in many different ways - if my understanding of murder motives is correct.
When Mark Roberts, a fat child with an extrememly large slaphead, lost his claim to a decent childhood when he was punched in the back in a science lab, and everyone heard the booming noise his hollow bloat made.
Attempts to recreate this biological marvel meant that it would be a rare day which didn't result in Mark acquiring at least half a dozen new bruises.
Attempts to recreate this biological marvel meant that it would be a rare day which didn't result in Mark acquiring at least half a dozen new bruises.
Nearing pensioning age, Mr. Faulkner's erratic behaviour was excused and explained by other teachers with a roll of their eyes and a long-since-stopped-caring 'It's his last year'. He taught metalwork.
Whereas once we would have to provoke him into sharing his war-time heroics as a parachutist / frogman / desert fox / commando / codebreaker / astro-soldier to avoid working, it eventually dawned on us that he wouldn't give a toss if we just sat there and did our own things for an hour.
After a whole year of learning no metalwork skills at all, and practical assessments looming, a more attentive pupil recalled that we had, at some point, been told to make a trowel. Another child had actually bothered to make one, so those of us who cared about getting a mark dutifully presented this one trowel, in turn, to Mr. Faulkner. He returned the compliment by dutifully giving us all a completely different mark for it.
He also set a written exam which we had no hope of passing but during which I did discover that, apparently, there is a kind of file called a 'bastard' - the only piece of hard metalwork information that I picked up in the whole year. And he probably made that up to take the piss.
Whereas once we would have to provoke him into sharing his war-time heroics as a parachutist / frogman / desert fox / commando / codebreaker / astro-soldier to avoid working, it eventually dawned on us that he wouldn't give a toss if we just sat there and did our own things for an hour.
After a whole year of learning no metalwork skills at all, and practical assessments looming, a more attentive pupil recalled that we had, at some point, been told to make a trowel. Another child had actually bothered to make one, so those of us who cared about getting a mark dutifully presented this one trowel, in turn, to Mr. Faulkner. He returned the compliment by dutifully giving us all a completely different mark for it.
He also set a written exam which we had no hope of passing but during which I did discover that, apparently, there is a kind of file called a 'bastard' - the only piece of hard metalwork information that I picked up in the whole year. And he probably made that up to take the piss.
Used in Wellington's south-eastern suburbs to describe all aspects of theft. A person who steals something is a feefola, equally when something has been stolen it has been feefola'd. For example "Oh shit, Rangi. My fuckin' pencil case has been feefola'd!" Or "Give that back you Feefola!" For readers not in tune with New Zealand working class speech patterns, feefola is a 'fresh' way of saying 'Thief'.
(Feef and Teef (a contraction of the rhyming slang "tea-leaf" were in common use in Nottingham, as was the more political "tax". Yeah, 'cos tax is just legal theft, yeah? Right, brothers? - Log)
(Feef and Teef (a contraction of the rhyming slang "tea-leaf" were in common use in Nottingham, as was the more political "tax". Yeah, 'cos tax is just legal theft, yeah? Right, brothers? - Log)
Corruption. The German phrase for "Cheers then" at the end of a formal letter is "Viel Spass". Pronounced Feel Spaz. Ha ha.
By crossing your fingers and yelling Feighknights (sp?) at the top of your voice, you were rendered untouchable in any form of playground mirth. Double feighnights were twice as effective. Rumour has it, soldiers in the second World War used to say it to Nazis when their own shoelace was undone, so they could halt momentarily, tie up their shoes and continue having a war.
If someone wants to fill me in with where this came from or why, feel free to do so, unless it's deathly boring, in which case I don't care.
If someone wants to fill me in with where this came from or why, feel free to do so, unless it's deathly boring, in which case I don't care.
Sucking your own spunk out of your partner's arse. A mythology grew around this word, thanks mainly to The Mary Whitehouse Experience, and the unwillingness of people who didn't know what it meant to admit it, and making something up. I'm still not entirely sure about it, as in some versions you are allowed to use a straw.
An Irish Republican. To a certain kind of Belfast Protestant there was no worse insult.
Once, a guy who'd just fucked up on a Space Invaders machine was seen thumping it petulantly and shouting "Fenian!" at it.
Once, a guy who'd just fucked up on a Space Invaders machine was seen thumping it petulantly and shouting "Fenian!" at it.
Mysterious chemical additive included in food to induce postconsumption belching. Fernandron does not appear on any list of ingredients because, of course, the manufacturers are "too scared to admit it".
How to treat women. Find them. Feel them. Finger them. Fuck them. Forget them.
Carrying this idealistic theory into practice may lead to you being disliked by some grumpier women.
Carrying this idealistic theory into practice may lead to you being disliked by some grumpier women.
As close as one can get to a wank without actually wanking, and therefore becoming a wanker. Wherease being a wanker is a bad thing (unless you boast about doing it over ten times a day, or you can produce over a pint in a single splot), having a fiddle is perfectly acceptable.