I put my fist up to my head in classic contemplation,
Trying hard to work out how to mark this celebration.
The end of one millennium, the starting of the next,
But, how to act historically did have me all perplexed.
I pondered it for months on end, from March until November,
A special feat that future generations would remember.
Eventually it came to me, a plan at last unfurled,
So brazen it would send reverberations round the world.
Forget your Abba tribute bands, your fireworks and your porter,
This plan of mine would blow all other schemes out of the water.
The echoes of it would be felt from Jordan to Jakarta,
And I’d gain immortality as “The Millennium-Spanning Farter.”
My notion was to summon up my inner-body forces,
I’d place my hands upon my knees and gather my resources,
And, as the final seconds chimed, I would let loose a blast
That ceased in one millennium, but started in the last.
I practiced nearly every night, the timing was essential
If I were to realize the daring plot’s potential.
I took a course in Farting at my local evening classes
And tested different foodstuffs for to maximize my gases.
My technique worked and I could soon produce a fart to last,
And easily could let fly with a seven-second blast.
And as the big day dawned, I almost shook with trepidation,
As I prepared to mark it with this act of flatulation.
The family had all arrived by quarter after eight,
[I had been somewhat nervous in case someone should be late]
The Guinness Records man was there to validate my claim,
In case some sneering cynics tried to rob me of my fame.
The Outside Broadcast Unit of the R.T.E. was there,
Competing with the man from Sky to get my fart on air.
The BBC strapped tiny microphones all round my bum,
Which Dad thought quite amusing but which horrified my Mum.
For me, the last few hours came and went without a worry
I scoffed a dozen boiled eggs and one hot, spicy curry,
Four tins of beans and seven cans of cheapo Tesco beer,
My confidence increasing as my destiny grew near.
And, as the countdown started, everybody gave me space.
To much applause, my father even started to say grace.
My hands upon my knees, I held on tightly to my load,
Feeling all the while as if my stomach would explode.
“SIX-FIVE-FOUR…” I heard them yell and tightened up my belly,
Which, up till then, had been cavorting like a toxic jelly.
But, as I clenched my buttocks tight, there came a mighty roar,
The like of which all history had never heard before.
It lasted for a full eleven seconds, even longer,
And took the wind out of my sails as it grew ever stronger.
And everybody turned and stared at dear old Auntie Gin,
Who was sitting on the sofa saying “Better out than in.”
The Guinness Records man announced there was no ambiguity-
The true millennia-spanning fart was there for perpetuity.
They hoisted Auntie Gin on high in cheering hero poses,
Then quickly put her down again and held on to their noses.
Auntie Gin’s a heroine, no-one has cause to doubt it.
She travelled all around the world and wrote a book about it.
She even sold the movie-rights and moved down to L.A.,
Where, though she’s just a blow-in, she still parties every day.
I know I should feel happy for my dear old Auntie Gin.
Her arse is down in hist’ry , I should take it on the chin.
But, often I relive that day, and cannot help but wonder
What might have been, if she had not stepped in and stole my thunder.
Trying hard to work out how to mark this celebration.
The end of one millennium, the starting of the next,
But, how to act historically did have me all perplexed.
I pondered it for months on end, from March until November,
A special feat that future generations would remember.
Eventually it came to me, a plan at last unfurled,
So brazen it would send reverberations round the world.
Forget your Abba tribute bands, your fireworks and your porter,
This plan of mine would blow all other schemes out of the water.
The echoes of it would be felt from Jordan to Jakarta,
And I’d gain immortality as “The Millennium-Spanning Farter.”
My notion was to summon up my inner-body forces,
I’d place my hands upon my knees and gather my resources,
And, as the final seconds chimed, I would let loose a blast
That ceased in one millennium, but started in the last.
I practiced nearly every night, the timing was essential
If I were to realize the daring plot’s potential.
I took a course in Farting at my local evening classes
And tested different foodstuffs for to maximize my gases.
My technique worked and I could soon produce a fart to last,
And easily could let fly with a seven-second blast.
And as the big day dawned, I almost shook with trepidation,
As I prepared to mark it with this act of flatulation.
The family had all arrived by quarter after eight,
[I had been somewhat nervous in case someone should be late]
The Guinness Records man was there to validate my claim,
In case some sneering cynics tried to rob me of my fame.
The Outside Broadcast Unit of the R.T.E. was there,
Competing with the man from Sky to get my fart on air.
The BBC strapped tiny microphones all round my bum,
Which Dad thought quite amusing but which horrified my Mum.
For me, the last few hours came and went without a worry
I scoffed a dozen boiled eggs and one hot, spicy curry,
Four tins of beans and seven cans of cheapo Tesco beer,
My confidence increasing as my destiny grew near.
And, as the countdown started, everybody gave me space.
To much applause, my father even started to say grace.
My hands upon my knees, I held on tightly to my load,
Feeling all the while as if my stomach would explode.
“SIX-FIVE-FOUR…” I heard them yell and tightened up my belly,
Which, up till then, had been cavorting like a toxic jelly.
But, as I clenched my buttocks tight, there came a mighty roar,
The like of which all history had never heard before.
It lasted for a full eleven seconds, even longer,
And took the wind out of my sails as it grew ever stronger.
And everybody turned and stared at dear old Auntie Gin,
Who was sitting on the sofa saying “Better out than in.”
The Guinness Records man announced there was no ambiguity-
The true millennia-spanning fart was there for perpetuity.
They hoisted Auntie Gin on high in cheering hero poses,
Then quickly put her down again and held on to their noses.
Auntie Gin’s a heroine, no-one has cause to doubt it.
She travelled all around the world and wrote a book about it.
She even sold the movie-rights and moved down to L.A.,
Where, though she’s just a blow-in, she still parties every day.
I know I should feel happy for my dear old Auntie Gin.
Her arse is down in hist’ry , I should take it on the chin.
But, often I relive that day, and cannot help but wonder
What might have been, if she had not stepped in and stole my thunder.
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