Last night I was in my local off licence, Drinks 4U. This fairly typical budget booze outlet, run by a friendly Armenian is a handy little oasis of liver-challenging fluids and flammable dried leaves positioned opposite my favourite local, The Old Bookshop.
As I stood chatting with the owner a charming woman came in and immediately released a startlingly loud, audaciously sustained burp right behind me. ‘What the f#@k did you do that for?’ I asked politely. ‘Ooh, I’ve been in the bar needing to do that for hours’ she said. I quizzed her on this, suggesting her wind could perhaps have been encouraged to usher forth from her guts via her gullet on the short stretch across the road between the pub and the offy. She pondered my postulation momentarily before finally retorting ‘Well, what would you do if you needed a poo?’, to which I replied:
‘I wouldn’t do it in here.’