My own intestines

You bastards. You utter, utter bastards.

I am on holiday from work at the moment, but agreed to go in this morning for a meeting with some external clients. This was a bit of a clash with a lads night out last night, watching trollops in walkabout, but I'm the kind of guy that can do that kind of thing.

Only I'm not.

As soon as I sat down for this meeting, every inch of my asshole was screaming that it needed to release a build-up of noxious gas that had been busy accumulating overnight from the guinness/snakebite/kebab fiasco that was my evening.

I started to sweat and strain. I couldn't concentrate on what anyone was saying, I was concentrating too hard on containing the trouser shout that was desperate to be heard. Eventually, I managed to shuffle sideways and using muscles I never knew I had, I managed to release the fart without making a sound. I settled back into my chair feeling pleased with myself, and ready to continue the meeting.

Then the smell hit. MY GOD. The smell. It was an anal holocaust, and everybody knew it was me. The last five minutes of the meeting were wrapped up in record time as everyone tried not to gag, and no-one dared point out that it was clearly me who had done the crime.

And to top it all off, after the meeting, my boss said 'Thanks for coming in on your day off. But you really smell.'

Job done.