Not even skeletal remains...

And BOY she INFLATED me. She INFLATED my brains out. BIG time.I don’t know if any of you have been inflated.

I mean fully inflated.

To about 120psi inflated.My belly was the size of a family dome tent.So, I lay there, an anaconda slithering off up trap 2, gradually expanding, watching my bowels live on TV gently rocking on the bed, as you do on a Wednesday off work.The remainder of the procedure was (by the exciting standards of recent days) just a mundane question of HMS Endoscope lazering away a few “squatters” from my exhaust pipe and generally giving a spit & polish valetting to me giblets.Job done.Erm no.You see the sphincter muscle of the human anus is generally a pretty effective non-return valve. Mainly in the direction of out.

Being fully inflated in the presence of 4 female nurses avails the non-return valve an opportunity to display it’s true vocation.

EXPULSION.

Rapid, Voluminous and Gaseous (a small blessing I suppose).

FARTS MEASURED ON THE HIGH END OF THE RICHTER SCALE

The human bum (to give it it’s correct term) is capable of an astounding array of sounds, a whole orchestra of noises, both musical and percussive. But mainly a badly played trombone.

Not Over, because having successfully engaged and defeated the enemy HMS Endoscope was withdrawing from active service.

And at the very instant it was decomissioned (accompanied by facial expression suggesting you have suddenly achieved X-Ray vision) the commencement of it’s passing out parade was signalled with a 20 bum salute from the “tail guns” of the badly holed HMS Blu-tone.

Later followed by a selection of marching tunes keeping strict tempo with the defeated ships company as I retreated to the recovery room. Each step triggered off a postern blast heard across the free world.
Imagine a creaky bottom bracket, which issues forth each revolution, now substitute the creak for the sound of your best ever fart, multiply by 10. Now we’re getting close.

Upon reaching the recovery room I noted with great interest that someone had already had the presence of mind to open the windows, all of ’em. Like the thinking young feller me monkey, like the cut o’ yer jib.

After a suitable recovery period, I was judged best giant marrow in show. And free to leave. I was still the size of some prehistoric land mammal in the later stages of multiple pregnancy. But free nevertheless.

I made my way to the lifts. Each step now a masterpiece in self control as I hold back a mighty tempest desperate to play his new baritone sax.

Lifts. What is it about lifts and flatulation ?

Just like fish and chips, just go together no question.

Exerting enough pressure to snap an iron bar with my “unseeing brown eye” I struggle the 20 metres from ward to lift. Displaying a walking style that would allow me to pass over landmines without detonation and with just one minor (reasonably) quiet escape party.

e-v-e-r s-o g-e-n-t-l-y… I press the call lift button.

After an age it arrives.

or the first time in days Lady Luck manages a tiny wink in my direction. Not only is the corridor empty, but, so is the lift. BONUS!

I leap in, like a jet propelled panther. (OK Jet propelled walrus).

I’m in, and my figer has hit Ground floor before I have settled back to earth. Please close, please close. Finally the doors are closed. Success, a lift all to my self.

BOOM, a sonic boom, think Cape Canaveral. I’m farting for the Solar System.

The blooody relief is ecstatic I can see my body actually shrinking. Eyes closed and I’m loving it. My arrrse (still heavily lubricated) is singing out high praise to “The Mayor of TRUMPton”. This is borderline as good as a cold beer in afrosted glass on a scorching day (abroad obviously, unless it’s April UK).