I just found out that Bette Davis and Joan Crawford didn’t like each other very much. Although this is sad, I suppose there’re a number of good reasons for the two to have their differences. For starters, Bette Davis had big wet eyes, and Joan Crawford had a fat top lip. These are both laudable traits when taken individually, but put yourself in Bette’s shoes; if you’re going around with huge soggy eyes, the last thing you want is a massive lip bouncing around the set.

At best, the canoe-like slug of a lip would distract movie-goers from the pints of liquid coating Bette’s slowly rotating, wide-open eyeballs. At worst, Joan’s tongue might have curled, unseen, from the vast shadow of her upper lip and drank from Miss Davis’s basketball-sized tear ducts during a moving monologue. In the combative atmosphere of 1930s Hollywood, this would have been unforgiveable.

That’s just my speculation, though. There are many more official rumours about Bette and Joan’s mutual hatred. Some say that they were great friends until Greta Garbo pinched Joan’s bottom in a bus queue and blamed it on Miss Davis. Others insist that Bette went bass fishing with Jayne Mansfield, and during a more theatrical cast, her hook got snagged in Joan’s bra-strap, severely twanging it.

Fighting your way throught these rumours, it’s a relief to find out what really happened, in my visual dramatization of the book “Bette & Joan: This Hollwood Feud Is On, Starting From… NOW“.

(Click for more legible)

Couple years ago… I’m sorry, I’ll start again.

A couple of years ago, I farted seven times in two minutes in a toilet cubicle, and had to spend many more minutes trying to meditate myself out of a frankly childish giggle fit. I’ve never done anything like that since. It’s not for lack of trying. For a good while after that, I took my dictaphone with me everywhere, convinced that it could only be hours or days until my next musical bumphony.

Two years later, no such lyrical toot has been delivered to me. Tomorrow is the year’s shortest day, and that’s something of a metaphor for this penury, this dearth, this void. This Dearth Voiders’ Penus. Incidentally, if Darth Vader had a penis, and that penis could talk, and if that penis was granted an audience on Michael Parkinson’s final show, I’m fairly certain it would secrete a tactile brown putty that would provide a second metaphor for my emptiness by rolling onto the floor and being ignored for the whole show.

It wasn’t always like this. Let me tell you a story I forgot to mention when it happened, because I was too busy stealing picnic hampers and having my photo taken playing Swingball for Athena.

I listen occasionally to a podcast called Distorted View. A large percentage of the show’s content is the audio from porn clips; either bloopers, anal fisting, incest or screaming Asian girls falling off a table whilst getting DVDA. Farts are definitely a staple. Here’s a tiny clip of a messy-sounding plop attack. It’s not safe for work, but it’s a sound clip, so what the fuck are you worrying about.

[audio:http://www.disappointment.com/wordpress/audio/yourassholeisbroken.mp3]

And here’s a yipping chick giving flatulent and fruity birth. This isn’t safe for work because it’s just fucking annoying. However, it does show exactly what a relief a good fart can be, especially when coupled with the removal of an aubergine from the anus.

[audio:http://www.disappointment.com/wordpress/audio/Eggplant.mp3]

So, the scene is set. I’m on the train, and I’m listening to Distorted View.

STEP ONE: QUEEF CAN HAVE LOTS OF FUN

That day’s show centred around Queefing. I capitalise Queef because I refuse to believe it isn’t a contraction of Queen Latifah, who done the first fanny trump on the Eiffel Tower. It’s a long section, about two minutes of vaginal farts interspersed with Tim Henson laughing and saying things like “Madam, get your cunt laced shut”.

STEP TWO: IT’S JUST ME AND YOU (THE ENTIRE CARRIAGE)

Because I’m on the train, and I’m tediously polite, I take my earphones out to see if they’re too loud. I am horrified and overjoyed when I hold them in front of me, and hear a waspish, but unmistakably loud series of farts coming out of my hands. This is brilliant. It’s like I’m nursing a little trump with a broken wing back to health, in my loving hands. Needless to say, I laugh out loud.

STEP THREE: HEE HEE WHEE

Having laughed out loud, I try to disappear. Being a massive prick who won’t stop eating, this calls for special measures. So, I lean forwards and look down a bit, giving myself a chance to replace my earphones and turn the volume down a bit. It doesn’t stop me laughing, because there are still fanny farts going off in my ears and I can’t stop knowing that everyone around me knows I’m listening to trumps on my iPod.

I’ve got a friend who has filled her iPod with birdsong. She’s a birder. She’s also beautiful, funny, and if any TV company is thinking about pulling birding back from the hairy ex-Goodie demographic, she’s your girl. But for now, the fact she exists is a curse, because I can’t stop thinking about myself walking around, studiously listening to trumps as part of some… hobby.

I am shuddering.

STEP FOUR: I AM SPIRITUALLY POOR

Having regained my composure, the train pulls into Great Portland Street. The train has been getting busier, and the newcomers are forced to fill the gap between the chairs. I’m hiding, but sensing something close, I look up. Just in time to be eclipsed by a massive woman’s midriff. The profile of one buttock switches into a staggering full arse as she turns away from me. Because I’m leaning forward as part of my stealth costume, this new arrival is alarmingly close to my face. Bearing in mind that I’m already primed for puerility, a big bum is absolutely the last thing I need to see. I make a little whimpering sound, and bite my lip.

Sadly, that cunt on Distorted View chooses this moment to play the largest queef of the segment. A ripsnorting slurper, that sounds like hot Plasticene being sluiced through a didgeridoo. There’s no point hiding it anymore. The laugh that comes out is a yelp, the snigger that follows is stifled into a mucus-producing rasp, and when I get out at Baker Street I look like a man who’s won the lottery and been punched in the nuts.

Two things come from this story; a renewed tolerance of people who look like retarded cunts on trains, and an opportunity to recommend Distorted View. If you, you know, like that sort of thing.

There’s nothing more satisfying than forming a relationship with a salesman. It’s like rubbing yourself off against a human transaction. Because I’ve done most things that are thrilling and sexually enticing, I spend nine days in advertising, during which I came up with most of the slogans you’ll have heard in your life, such as “Kiss the Tandy” and “NOT PANDA PLOPS, PANDA POPS”. Here’s just a few of my incredible slogans that have made shareholders across the world instant billionaires.

MY TOP 6 ADVERTISING SLOGANS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD

WALNUT WHIP : “It’s got a nut on - and so will you, after you finger this fucker into your mush”

GANESH : “I know you don’t be steppin’ on this bad mother’s trunk, stone cold”

HOUSES : “No there isn’t a scullery, what are you, Edwardian or something”

THE POPULAR NINTENDO WII MACHINE : “Mine organs have beheld the wyrd illusion factorie ycleped thee Nintendo Wii, and my mum loves the Tennis like billy-o”

COFFEE : “Buy six coffees, and we’ll pamper a spastic”

BRITISH GAS : “British Gas puts the Gas Board into Smorgasboard.”

It was only a matter of time before the advertising department in the company I work for saw my incredible talent and <del>stole</del> incorporated one of my slogans into an item of hooded clotheswear. Check this out, fuckbuddies!

Behold, my addition to the world of PC gaming merchandise - “In The Absence Of Sexier Hobbies Or Bands I Like, I Wear PC Games Clothing”.

I am the advertiser. I just sold you.