Farts & Table Service

Before vanlife I had a different life. Was it normal? Far from it. Was it just as filled with calamities? You bet your arse it was! So as today lacked anything eventful, I shall reflect upon a time when I genuinely wanted to disappear in a puff of wispy sorcerers smoke.

I shall endeavour to set the scene. I had not long taken on a pub and restaurant, and quickly discovered that life owning such a thing wasn’t as easy as it looked from the other side of the bar. The dreams of idle chit chat with the customers, listening to their stories of their latest conquest whilst prising more of their hard earned readies from their ever tightening grip soon vanished. It was tough, consisting of 120 hour weeks, hair loss, vanishing funds and a vanishing life.

On this particular day, I had been let down by most of my staff so the team was reduced to just myself and one other. Expectedly, it turned out to be busier than a free brothel outside Pentonville Prison. We struggled through, myself bringing as much food out to the hungry customers as I could in between cooking it and the next order, avoiding eye contact with the customers in case I got caught up in the next story of lust. Typically my pancreas was also having a bad day, producing lots of gurgling gas. Over the years I’ve learned how to hold said gas in without to much trouble, but there comes a point. A point where even the mightiest wouldn’t be able to hold back Storm Farty Pants.

The main pub floor was uneven flagstones. Flagstones which I always struggled walking on without doing little trip ups here and there. You know that trip where the bottom of your foot scuffs and makes you stumble for a moment, achieving nothing but weird stares from people. Yeah that floor. So I’m carrying 18 plates of food out in two hands (might’ve been 3 or 4 to be honest) squeezing through the ever growing crowds of customers “excuse me, coming through” no one is listening, it’s loud with chatter and jukebox noise. I approach the table numbered on the ticket but just as I’m passing a closer table I did the aforementioned stumble. Now I’d normally have gotten away with this but at that precise moment the electric trips out descending the pub into silence. Apart from the mahoosif fart that bellowed out like a roaring lion trying to impress its latest shag. No. Please no. No. Nope. That didn’t happen. It did happen. And it happened right in between a lady and a gentleman of a senior age out for their anniversary. Slap bang in between their noses. And ears. In a suddenly silent pub. I just wanted to die.

I didn’t die though, much to my disappointment. I just froze. “Fucking hell the landlord just farted in that blokes face” shouted one of the regulars and the entire pub roared with laughter! Except the couple who unexpectedly ate my guff. No amount of “drink on the house guys?” could make it right.

I was waiting for the one star review “lively place, landlord farts a lot, usually in your face” but it never came. Thank you lord!

That was a defining moment in my life. A moment that caused me to realise that everyone farts, so just go somewhere quiet and out the way rather than hold it in and destroy lives later on. Secretly I was also proud. A: because it really was that loud. And long. And B: because I also didn’t shit myself with a follow through.

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