Friday's child
September 17,
1999
Ere miss, 'oo cut the cheese?" "It were Darren, miss!" "No
it weren't, it were Shane!" "It were 'im, the dirty bugger,
'e does the really juicy ones."
Collapse, in howls of laughter, of a class of 14-year old
boys. The girls in the front primly rearrange their pencil
cases. They are far too mature to discuss such indelicacies
- at least, in mixed company. But the boys have no such
inhibitions. They simply love the rudeness of it, the
irreverence, the sheer smelly untamed revoltingness of
letting wind. Yes, it's fart time again on a Friday
afternoon, and Darren scores for teenage males everywhere.
In Chaucer's England, a court preacher who vented his
flatulence during a sermon reduced the whole court of
Edward II and Queen Isabella to helpless giggles for a full
20 minutes. He would have been a wow in Mcdonald's after a
skateboarding session.
Meantime, Darren and Shane, fartmeisters of Year 9, get a
big kick out of bodily effluents. They may be spotty, they
may not be good at English literature, girls may be a
mystery and a worry, but at least they can make everyone
groan and laugh. Later, they will discover shaggy dog
stories, the ability to buy just one more round and
motoring magazines. But for now, letting off in Miss's
religious education class is the business.
For teachers, of course, it is not so pleasant. There is
something humbling and democratic about this particular
ability to disrupt a lesson; not for nothing has Darren
founded his reputation on timing. Mind you, a diet high in
crisps and fizzy drink plays its part, as does his habit of
gulping air when nervous - generally when asked a question
in history. Some staff, such as Darren's history teacher,
are unruffled by the winds of change and can quell comment
with a glance. Others, such as the female RE teacher, are
not so experienced and fall into the trap of grimacing or
being startled. Worse, they may themselves have a nervous
digestive system - almost a contra-indication to entering
the profession, one might have thought.
"It were Miss, it were Miss!" the cry goes up , accompanied
by references to baked beans, cabbage and "a spicy Indian".
In this case, there is only one piece of advice: never
apologise, never explain. For where Darren and Shane score
for adolescents, for adults, flatulence is an own goal.
The whole point is deflating pomposity and celebrating the
natural life of the body over the austere life of the mind.
Boys whose bodies are growing so fast and in such
alarmingly exotic ways, find pleasure in an aspect of
physicality which is both rank and powerful - unlike spots
or a breaking voice, for instance.
For adults imbued with authority in the classroom, the
physical is an unwelcome interruption. And yet, at the same
time, the whole thing is harmless, natural, inevitable,
part of shared humanity.
Hence the communal delight in Darren and Shane. They can be
rebels, but without a cause. Without even rebelling. Just a
whiff of sulphur is all.
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