Trashed elbow

Went to a party in #702 last night. It's amazing how little it's changed; when I saw the kettle it was like seeing an old friend.

Alcohol was consumed and insipid gossip circulated. I knocked down a few beers and entertained myself by mortifying workmates and similar vermin.

Eventually, one of the hostesses decided that it was time to bring out the twister board. I won one game by default when a Northern rose collapsed rather heavily on top of the other two competitors.

Under the "winner stays on rule" I found myself pitched into a three-way deathmatch with two fairly spry guys. The fatigue of football and painful contortions was beginning to get to me and I decided it was time to take the gloves off and fight dirty. I waited until there was a suitable lull in the cat-calling and commentary from the assembled party-goers, then I let rip with a high-calibre fart.

It was magnificent: it came out as dry as a bone, with a noise like a young boy running a stick along a wooden fence at high speed. There were screams of horror from all present, while I accused the guy who was wobbling precariously next to me.

Best of all, it fucking well stank.

Amazingly, I managed not to get myself tarred and feathered, although I'll be pretty surprised if I'm invited back.