Unaffiliated excerpt

He came and sat unselfconsciously on the throne; he sighed; he farted. The symphony emitted was like the hesitant midwinter ignition of a venerable French tractor engine, each individual billowing of faecal gas and subsequent clapping of arse-palms. It was akin to the irregular but markedly forced banging of a small child on his first drum. A drum, yes, no trumpets here.

He sighed again and reached for the paper.

–          A short literary excursion from the delights of the Maastricht Treaty

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