Mr Rude

Allow me to introduce you to Mr Rude. You’ve almost certainly met him but just in case you have been lucky enough to have lived your life without bumping into this prize pillock, let me describe him for you.

Mr Rude is the man who drives a car right up your bumper on the motorway at 70 miles per hour because he is clearly in more of a hurry than you.

Mr Rude also flashes his lights at you while tailgating.

Mr Rude is the man who yells into his mobile phone when sitting next to you on a train (“I’m on a train, yah, heading to London for a high-powered meeting where I shall shout lots of business bullshit to people who are less well off than me.”).

Mr Rude is the man who has an ego that is so massive that he butts into a private conversation and refuses to go away despite blatant hints that his presence is not welcome.

Mr Rude is the man who tries to chat up your girlfriend right in front of you, despite the fact that she is holding your hand.

Mr Rude is the man who pushes into the front of the queue and then shrugs his shoulders when somebody speaks up, replying “What’s your problem?”

Mr Rude is the man who pushes in at the bar screaming “two pints of lager” and then when chastised by the likes of me, says “I was here first!”

Mr Rude is the man who decides that playing loud music on a Sunday night at 3am is totally acceptable and then, when confronted by his neighbours, says “What’s your problem?”

Mr Rude is the man who allows his dog to crap on your front lawn.

Mr Rude is the man who is sitting in the seats reserved for old and disabled people and refuses to give up his seat “on principle”.

Mr Rude is the man who parks in front of your drive, blocking you in and then says “The road’s not YOURS you know – what’s your problem?”

Mr Rude is the man who blows his nose in a handkerchief and then insists on showing it to you.

Mr Rude is also the man who coughs and sneezes at you without a handkerchief.

Mr Rude is the cigar smoking dickhead who blows his smoke into your face.

Mr Rude is the English tourist who shouts at foreigners in English, and gets upset when they walk away in disgust.

Mr Rude is the man who gobs right in front of you.

Mr Rude is the motorist who hogs the middle lane of the motorway.

Mr Rude is the man who wants to be in Business Class on a flight and then decides to take it out on the stewardesses when he fails to get an upgrade from Economy Class (presumably because he was rude at the check in desk).

Mr Rude is the person who is more interested in texting somebody than talking to you.

Mr Rude is the man who belches while eating and sprays tiny globules of food all over those eating next to him as he talks with his mouth full of food.

Mr Rude is the man who refuses to hold a door open for you as you approach with your hands full.

Mr Rude is the man who invites himself to your social events even when nobody wants him to be there.

Mr Rude is also a Keyboard Warrior.

We all know Mr Rude. And don’t forget, he has a sister called Ms Rude.

Have you met Mr Rude?

Something's Brewing

What is more satisfying that a deep, rumbling belch?

Picture the scene; you’ve just eaten a magnificent repast in a room full of good friends and you lean back in your chair fully satisfied. As you begin your post meal chat, something stirs within.

What do you do?

Do you allow the inevitable belch to explode from your face, trying to convert it onto a song or words as it escapes your lips, allowing it to introduce itself to your friends?

Or do you cover your mouth and let the burp escape in 658 little burplets?

Or do you hold it back and allow it to brew deep within for fear of offending those in your presence?

For me, it depends on who I am with and what kind of mood I am in.

In the presence of Mrs PM and the kids I allow the belch to erupt with maximum force and maximum noise, usually trying to mould the escaping entity into a heavy metal song.

“DAAAADD!!!!” scream my young lads.

“DAAAVVEEEE!!!” screams Mrs PM before searching for a blunt object to hit me with.

“And don’t ever do that in public,” I will say. “It’s disgusting!”

I am a hypocrite because, to be honest, I hate it when other people belch in front of me. There is nothing more disgusting than bellowing in somebody’s face, which is why, in the company of friends and colleagues, I drift between “The Burp Suppressor” and the “The Burplet Generator”, stifling them until I can hold them no longer and then allowing burplets to sneak out like escaping prisoners under cover of my hand.

In some countries, however, belching is positively encouraged. In China, for example, belching is viewed upon as a massive compliment to the chef. When the burp is born, it tells the chef that he has cooked a fabulous meal and that you have thoroughly enjoyed it.

In most western countries, however, it is frowned upon and I’m certain that if I were to burp in front of the Queen at dinner I would be ostracised and my name would be splashed all over the tabloids; my bad manners and rudeness would be there for all to see as my tarnished reputation dragged through the mud for allowing a little burp to gate crash my party with Her Majesty.

And what about bottom burps (more commonly known as “farts”). These little blighters have a far worse reputation than their oral counterparts. The problem is, nobody likes them and everybody denies their existence. Like the belch, the fart can be released into the wild in a couple of ways; either you let it burst out with a triumphant fanfare or you squeeze it out gently.
The first method is only recommended for people with no shame. In polite company (or even impolite company), if a noisy fart announces its presence the person responsible is at best reprimanded and at worst hurled outside.

The second method is barely recommended; if you drop a “silent but deadly” fart then you have no choice but to get out of the fallout zone as quickly as possible, so that somebody else gets the blame. And the recommended practice is to stay utterly silent and refuse to comment. Why? Because if somebody says

“Who on EARTH did that?

Everybody else says

“He who smelt it, dealt it!”

If you then say

“But it wasn’t me!!!”

Everybody else says

“He who denied it supplied it.”

Stay silent; don’t say a single word. Of course, if there is a dog present and you feel that you have to let rip, just drift over to the dog and stand there until the fart announces its presence – then you can blame the dog.

From a personal perspective, I simply have to get out of there if I feel the ominous rumbling within. I usually make an excuse and find the nearest toilet, so that I don’t embarrass myself. It works for me but only if I haven’t had beans on toast or sprouts.

One thing has always puzzled me though – why do people deny that they fart? I can understand it if the entire room is asphyxiated by a particularly nasty one, but some people go through life giving the impression that they never ever deposit one.

Mrs PM judges a relationship on whether the people concerned have passed “the fart barrier”. She was talking to one of her friends and asked the question:

“Have you passed the fart barrier yet?”

“No,” came the reply. “I can’t fart in front of him.”

Later, she said to me “It’ll never work out.”

She was right on that particular occasion but I still don’t regard it as irrefutable proof that a relationship will fail.

Needless to say, in our relationship, the fart barrier was shattered on the first date – but I’m not saying who was responsible.

Just before I go, here are a couple of rhymes about bodily gases:


Beans, beans, are good for your heart!
The more you eat, the more you fart!
The more you fart, the better you feel,
So let's have beans for every meal!

A little gush of wind
Straight from the heart;
It tickled down my backbone
And it's also called a fart.
A fart can be useful;
It gives the body ease,
It warms the bed in winter
And suffocates the fleas.

A final note for anybody who is wrinkling their nose in disgust at the questionable contents of this post:

Don’t live in denial – everybody burps and everybody farts. Get over it.