It was the promise of amusing selfies that led me to visit the Cretan village of AFARTA. However, it was not to be. The place turned out to be the victim of careless proof-reading. Despite the promise of my guide book, it was called Afrata.
Nevertheless, having trudged up a scrubby mountainside under a blazing sun to get there (such is the dedication of a committed flatulist!), I decided to explore further.
I came across a stout old lady with piles of artichokes beside her. She was squatting in a shady courtyard pulling off the petals to get to the delicious heart of each artichoke.
I stopped to ask about process of artichoke preparation. The old lady’s explanation included the information that the discarded petals could be eaten raw – if you were hungry enough. One simply scraped off a thin layer of flesh through tightly-clenched teeth. I tried it, although my informant did not join me. After a while (and a lot of artichoke petals), I readied myself to go.
“You don’t clench, yourself?” I asked, gesturing with a final petal. The old lady, who had apparently once lived in Royal Tunbridge Wells, chuckled and said: “Not a fucking chance, mate. I’d be farting all night!”
So, although there were no selfies, her cheerful riposte held out the promise of nocturnal sphincter gurgling! Unfortunately, on this trip that would be a solitary pleasure. However, as I said farewell to Afrata I consoled myself with thinking of a title for the background medley of farty burps that I would record for my flatulism blog. “A Mediterranean Diet of Fartyjokes” had a ring to it…
(Extract from The Jottings of an Itinerant Arse Whistler by Paul Meinfinger)