In over a quarter of a century of pub bothering and general ale fuelled hijinks, there’s one stand out incident that caused mayhem for all those concerned, with the after effects being felt some forty-eight hours later.
I give you “The Night of the Bombay Mix”.
The landlord at our local pub decided to put these bowls of Bombay Mix out on the tables, one Saturday night in 1996. A few of my drinking buddies tucked in with gusto, washing the marinated lentils and biscuitty stuff down with pints of Guinness. Another friend turned up with a black Labrador dog, who seemed to be somewhat miffed at missing out on the food, so he was duly indulged with the remnants of the bowls plus the Guinness dregs.
Last orders came, so we all shuffled out of the pub feeling inebriated and uncomfortable. Several members of the entourage were complaining of guts ache.
Waking the next morning with a vicious hangover, my friend announced he had to pick up something from town for his car later that afternoon. A cleansing fry up was had, along with several cups of coffee before we ventured out in the brand new Ford.
Ten minutes later, a sound akin to a flock of starlings taking flight was heard, closely followed by stinging eyes and gagging. My so called friend in the driver’s seat had let loose a fart so evil it defied description. There were overtones of burning plastic, sewerage farm, sulphur and what can only be summed up as “ill”.
Retching, I reached for the electric window switch and forced my head out into the slipstream. It was November and drizzly, but the cold, damp air and gritty road spray was preferable to taking another lungful of evil.
Once recovered, I withdrew my head back into the car and wound up the window. Ten seconds later *pfft!* and the cycle started over again.
I endured this for fifteen hateful, indescribable miles. In the years since, some of those present have asked me what it was actually like, my reply was reminiscent of a traumatised Vietnam vet – “You don’t know man, you weren’t there!”
We duly parked in the car park, whereupon my mate let fly another bowel bothering bum blast, which nearly tore his colon. Coughing, spluttering and choking on the evil fumes, we shut the car door on it and headed into town.
My pal spent the next two hours guffing horror at ten minute intervals as we walked around the town. Children cried, passing cats fled for their lives.
With bowels finally restored to normal working pressures, my pal decided to return to the car. As we approached, he thumbed the key fob and reached to open the door…whereupon we choked once more as the two hour old fart hadn’t dissipated, but had simply matured in the car, no doubt turning the plastic brittle and rotting the stitching.
It doesn’t end there.
Unbeknown to us at that time, our friend’s Labrador dog was also suffering from Guinness and Bombay Mix farts to the point that the poor creature had turned delirious on his own fumes. Said dog was quickly ejected into the back garden, where he was banished for a full two days until the intensity died down to regular dog-fart levels.
Epilogue: I’m now forty two and I swear that since the infamous Night of the Bombay Mix, my sense of smell has been irrevocably damaged. I can barely smell the sweetness of a freshly opened rose, nor can I fully appreciate the olfactory carnival that is Spring.
So if you want to cause Petomaineesque mayhem, then all you need is a bag of Bombay Mix and six pints of Guinness…but I take no responsibility for any loss of life or damage to property.
Posted 8 years ago
