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