Society
Now what? - Lauren Booth laughs when she shouldn't
Published 03 June 2002
After a certain age, say 20, only men find farting funny reports Lauren Booth
Despite being too busy to smoke dope, for the past ten days I've found myself giggling at nonsense, puerility and random words about as funny as a Chaucerian pun. Take the "lumpy bumpy" incident, for example. At dinner in a rather nice hotel restaurant in Betws-y-coed, north Wales, I pleaded in a childish voice until a fellow diner agreed to order the "toffee lumpy bumpy" from the a la carte menu. The restaurant was half-full on the rainy Saturday night and talk had been very light: namely, who would win the Eurovision Song Contest, then blaring from the chef's radio.
"Do I have to?" he asked, a little taken aback. Yes, I insisted. Even though he doesn't like desserts, he must order the pudding with the silly name, and he must do so using the voice of Inspector Clouseau.
Finally, the waitress returned and asked the deadly question: "Any desserts?" I could hardly breathe while restraining my hysteria. It was worse than the time I had to see the deputy head, Mrs Hillson, in her office after calling her a "loud-mouthed old cow" in front of the entire second year. It really wasn't funny, and I didn't want to laugh, mustn't laugh in front of everyone, but the urge to do so was more painful than the need to pee after a day on the cider at Glastonbury Festival.
Suddenly, the gentleman cleared his throat and, loudly and clearly, said: "Yes, I would like a toffee lurmpee, burmpee, please." She had barely turned away when I started screaming with mirth. "Oh my God," I gasped "That was brilliant. Toffee lurmpee burmpee. Hahhahhahaha."
Then there's the fart thing. You see, after a certain age, say 20, only men find farting funny. There are the ones who carry on trumping like students, even when married with kids. One dad still insists that his wife and kids find it "great" to spend Sunday morning being grabbed, shoved under the duvet and given a "Dutch oven". To me, that sort of "fun" spells expensive lawsuits and a lifetime of therapy - but haha, says he. Then, there are the poor women with immature partners who do "squeaky spiders" or the "finger pull" joke when drunk. Ugh, yuk, what pigs, I've always thought.
I was so grown-up before this month that I didn't even laugh when my yoga teacher had a bit of an accident. She was helping me into a handstand. This meant spreading her legs wide, with me lying headfirst between them, looking at the ceiling. Then I clumsily kicked my legs upwards and, as she leant forwards to steady me, I felt (and heard) a hard and firm "prrooaf" on the crown of my head. I concentrated very hard on my technique.
"Sorry," she said maturely. "Trapped wind." I resisted the urge to say: "Not any bloody more", and looked at my toes.
Yet this week I have hooted and commented on every fart venturing from the baggy trousers of an elderly relative. I assure you, this is not laughing at the afflicted or the infirm. This man, whom I love very dearly, has always been excessively windy, and used to call his machine-gun reports "pumping". He'd climb up the stairs and start to chuckle: "Ooh, I'm pumping." He expected us to ignore it. Now, suddenly, I can't.
Yesterday evening, after his first curry since serving in India in the forties, he was a brass band of noise - and I was laughing until tears ran down my cheeks. As I write this, I am planning my revenge. I have a can of air-freshener at the ready, and, when he gets back from his jet-propelled walk, I fully intend to spray the seat of his trousers at every opportunity. Why? I don't know.
I'm a bit young to be having a mid-lifer, and I'm certainly too old for teen rebellion, but as long as I carry on having this much fun, I'm not sure I care to know the psychological buzzword to sum up my behaviour. I don't want to be mature and sensible again - not just yet.
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