Nearly a Nasty Accident

I very nearly had a nasty accident the other day. You know the sort: you let go what you think is just a casual, everyday fart, then you feel that horrible warm sensation in your underpants which leaves you fearing that you've 'followed through'. Sadly, I've found that as the years progress, this becomes an ever commoner siuation to find oneself in - the fear of such anal accidents start making you mistrust your own emissions. Whereas before, you would happily have let rip (particularly in private), now you tend to clench your buttocks tight at the first sign of a fart, and only tentatively release your sphincter a few millimeters to 'test the water', so to speak. However, every so often, you forget and recklessly open up, full throttle, only to be left fearing the worst.

As it turned out, I was lucky - a false alarm. Gases had become trapped in my gusset area (I was sitting down at the time) creating an unpleasant warm sensation somewhat akin to that of the dreaded 'follow through'. Of course, the only way to properly check this is to drop both trousers and underpants to verify the state of the latter. At least, that's my excuse for standing in my front room, naked from the waist down, examining the back of my battle-scarred boxer shorts. I was doubly lucky, of course - not only was it a false alarm, but it happened whilst I was in private. Public occurrences are excruciating, necessitating a dash for the nearest public toilets, phone box or convenient patch of shrubbery to check one's kacks, all the time hoping that there is no sticky brown stain spreading across your posterior for the world to see. This latter scenario, where the 'follow through' not only soils your underwear, but penetrates right through to the outer layer of your trousers (known to Star Trek aficionados as a 'core breach'), is one of my worst nightmares. Luckily, I've never experienced it (occasionally I've experienced that small damp patch on the seat of my boxers after a particularly virulent fart and I did once have the misfortune to completely douse the back of my pants with liquid brown when I let rip whilst taking a pee, but thankfully I was in my own bathroom at the time), but the fearful possibility raises its ugly head with every public fart.

I can't help but feel that in the event of this 'doomsday scenario' befalling one, the best course of action would simply be to try and maintain some dignity by calmly walking away as if nothing had happened. I'd like to think that this is what the likes of Nelson Mandela or the Duke of Edinburgh would do in such circumstances. Let's face it, this sort of thing must happen to public figures too. How many times has Tony Blair stepped up to the Despatch Box to answer whichever itinerant leader of the opposition is facing him that week, let slip a sly chuffer, only to feel that deadly warmth spread across his buttocks. All through his answer he must be thinking, 'Have I shat myself?' and thanking God that he has his back to his own MPs, rather than the opposition. Or imagine Kevin Spacey launching forth into a soliloquoy on the stage of the Old Vic, only to start suspecting that he has liquid shit running down his legs. Dare he look down, for fear of seeing a dirty puddle forming at his feet? Should the show go on, or is he entitled to gingerly creep (bow-legged) off-stage to check his under crackers? I can't help but feel that this an area of social etiquette that has been neglected for far too long!