Our body's effluent is given a bad wrap. Farts are not accepted with grace and glee when imparted at a business meeting, indeed quite the opposite even though they offer the imparter a great deal of relief. Wee hardly gets a mention and if my own visits to the 'Ladies' is anything to go by, the toilet rolls are always chubby in the morning and annoerexic by the afternoon. The signs of a healthy human body usually abhore or entertain. In equal measures I suspect, and yes, girls do fart and poo... and dare I say it... no I won't.
When we eject a bowel bomb it is not observed with the reverance it deserves, the exception to this rule being babies and toddlers. In fact, we applaud the poo of the tiny and abhore the mention in the adult world. Unless perhaps with dear close friends when poo stories can be swapped, admired and size and weight gauged. Of course noone wishes to test the accuracy of the story-teller.
It's something we all do, we just don't need to think about, hear about it or smell it.
In the seventies sometime... or it may have been earlier... I remember sitting in the darkened Pt Chevalier theatre. The lights were down and the curtains were about to be opened to reveal the screen. It was all hush and icecream. (I think the theatre was called the Ambassador and although it is no longer a cinema, the building still stands its silver screen no longer lit.)
Then... I'm not sure if it was before the shorts... an orchestra would fill the screen and everybody would stand... gold and red flashed and shimmered. God Save the Queen filled the room and filled our hearts. I was always keen to jump up, hand solemnly on my heart.
But not if Mum was there.
She'd pull us down, 'She's not here... she wouldn't know if you were standing or riding a rhinoceros.' And we'd sit down. But if Mum and Dad were there, we were torn whether to stand or sit. It was a veritable tug of war. Dad's dad was British and spoke the Queen's English and I remember singing Rule Brittannia with noisy abandon at Nana's house. Dad's parents were born during Victoria's reign.
I suspect this was my first experience with the rumblings of Republicism. But as I can't even spell it I suspect it hasn't disturbed my intestinal tract in the intervening years.
But the stand-sit war, which went on for quite a few movies, was nothing compared to the shock when Mum informed me, 'The Queen poos.'
'Like brown poo?'
'Like your poo or my poo.' Mum was an authority.
'Have you seen it?'
'No. But it will be brown and it will get flushed down the toilet just like your poo.'
'Does it smell?'
'Does poo smell?'
'Maybe it's golden poo, like that goose's eggs.'
'Maybe,' said Mum, tiring of the conversation, 'Maybe not.'
Interestingly the first movie I saw at the Ambassador was Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang... how appropriate. I strongly suspect nobody would give a movie that name today.
Sadly, I could never look at the Queen in the same way again.
And with the night yawning ahead, and two boys fast asleep, I will have a brief sit on the porcelain throne in my small surburban principality.
When we eject a bowel bomb it is not observed with the reverance it deserves, the exception to this rule being babies and toddlers. In fact, we applaud the poo of the tiny and abhore the mention in the adult world. Unless perhaps with dear close friends when poo stories can be swapped, admired and size and weight gauged. Of course noone wishes to test the accuracy of the story-teller.
It's something we all do, we just don't need to think about, hear about it or smell it.
In the seventies sometime... or it may have been earlier... I remember sitting in the darkened Pt Chevalier theatre. The lights were down and the curtains were about to be opened to reveal the screen. It was all hush and icecream. (I think the theatre was called the Ambassador and although it is no longer a cinema, the building still stands its silver screen no longer lit.)
Then... I'm not sure if it was before the shorts... an orchestra would fill the screen and everybody would stand... gold and red flashed and shimmered. God Save the Queen filled the room and filled our hearts. I was always keen to jump up, hand solemnly on my heart.
But not if Mum was there.
She'd pull us down, 'She's not here... she wouldn't know if you were standing or riding a rhinoceros.' And we'd sit down. But if Mum and Dad were there, we were torn whether to stand or sit. It was a veritable tug of war. Dad's dad was British and spoke the Queen's English and I remember singing Rule Brittannia with noisy abandon at Nana's house. Dad's parents were born during Victoria's reign.
I suspect this was my first experience with the rumblings of Republicism. But as I can't even spell it I suspect it hasn't disturbed my intestinal tract in the intervening years.
But the stand-sit war, which went on for quite a few movies, was nothing compared to the shock when Mum informed me, 'The Queen poos.'
'Like brown poo?'
'Like your poo or my poo.' Mum was an authority.
'Have you seen it?'
'No. But it will be brown and it will get flushed down the toilet just like your poo.'
'Does it smell?'
'Does poo smell?'
'Maybe it's golden poo, like that goose's eggs.'
'Maybe,' said Mum, tiring of the conversation, 'Maybe not.'
Interestingly the first movie I saw at the Ambassador was Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang... how appropriate. I strongly suspect nobody would give a movie that name today.
Sadly, I could never look at the Queen in the same way again.
And with the night yawning ahead, and two boys fast asleep, I will have a brief sit on the porcelain throne in my small surburban principality.
