Category Archives: Sounds

Entry contains sound file. These are ideal for non-deaf readers to listen to.

I Laughed At A Lady's Bum

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.


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.

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

The Secret Of Monkey Irene

Rosy Rockets is a bucket of inspiration.
Raz is a pixel genius.
I had an argument with an old woman who claimed my dad was fucking my sister in law.
I never thought these things would come together, but they have.
First, read the post about Irene, because it sets up the whole story. It’s also one of those good posts that makes me wonder where my writing mojo may have fucked off to. Make sure you listen to the sound file, for optimum “getting it”.
Then, click play on what Raz and Rosy did, below. It’s fucking brilliant. Absolutely requires sound.

The Secret Of Monkey Irene

Whoever You Are, There's No Reason For That

Since they locked the students out, it’s rare for the toilets at work to have anyone in them.
I’m working in administration, which means an office full of women and one fat gay bloke. While this means I do have to put up with the monstrous Brenda, it does give me free reign to express myself in the shitter. When I notice too late that there’s no toilet roll on the spindle, no worries! I can do a greasy waddle to the next cubicle, and wipe as much as I like with the door open. I have made unworried attempts to piss in all three urinals and all three cubicles with one bladderload. I could even use the sinks as a bidet, and swing my little legs cheerfully as I do so. It’s my playground. Even my toilet at home doesn’t feel so uniquely mine.
So this morning, when two of the three cubicle doors were locked, I felt a touch deflated. There would be no singing, no laughing at my own hungover sputtering, and certainly no rinsing my armpits in the sink because I’d forgotten to shower again.
I sat down and sulkily started to shit, and was vaguely pleased when one of the other people left. The third gentleman, upon hearing the door slam to, seemed even more pleased. From the noises that started to come from his cubicle, he also seemed to think that he was alone. The large toilet roll spindle rumbled far too fast and loud, and far too regularly. He even started to make little whimpers. You’ll understand that my every fibre was begging me to make an early crimp and lie on the floor, to see what was happening.
The only possible sense of the noises I heard were;

  1. He was wrapping the paper around his fist and speedily rubbing his anus with a vigourous to-and-fro motion, whilst preparing the other hand with more paper. I’d never considered a double-handed club-fist attack, so if this is what he was doing, kudos.
  2. He was simply pulling ten sheets off, screwing it up, and wiping at high speeds with a paper rose. The time between rumbles didn’t allow him time to inspect the muddy flower; he simply kept wiping regardless. Truly, this is a wiping madness.

By this time, I’d found the sound recorder on my phone, and can share the experience. Although I missed the best of the whimpers and rumbling, I’m certain you will enjoy the moment when he gasps “OH, SHIT”.

So, I had to check the toilet, and I’m pleased to report that my phone has a camera function, too.


Note that the man was so panicked that he didn’t even use the last pull on the toilet roll, or flush; so keen was he to escape what had just visited him. There’s only one solution – I’m going to have to use the chinese student’s computer to send an everyone email, asking who it was.
The only thing that haunts me about this story is… that could have been me. He didn’t do anything worse that what I do when I think I’m alone. I wonder if someone’s got video footage of me cleaning out last night’s wank in the sink?