There’s a part in a film from the last ten years when an alien posing as a human gives his reasons for hating the human race, along with destroying our own environment it’s also because we smell. I can’t recall the name of the film, it could have been Men in Black or The Matrix, it doesn’t matter other than that the scene has stuck with me for years.
“Humans smell”, comes back to me whenever I travel abroad, not because foreigners smell of shit, but because of all the places on earth it is the airport that somehow manages to attract the smell of human dung the most.
Want to buy a tube of suntan lotion at Shatwick before flying out to Alicante? No problem, but you’ll have to battle the odoriferous stench of human faeces in the same way as if you want to buy a sandwich from Pret, which will probably manage to taste of baby otters like everything else on offer.
Ironically it’s the airport toilets that offer some respite from the stinking Brad Pitt, the smell from the actual brown stuff must get sucked into the Dyson Blade Shit Extractor, or more likely because all the shitters are elsewhere, blowing their stinking fucking brown mist in a carefully orchestrated manoeuvre around Alan Coleman.
“Hang on Barbara love, I’ve just spotted that jumped up little prick Alan Coleman, I’ll just go and drop me northern kebab guts whilst he’s minding his own business choosing one of those book things that southerners are always looking at.”
The scenario doesn’t get much better on the plane, the hermetically sealed tube being the perfect place for filthy Apple Mac users to do their backside business as close to me as is humanly possible.
So I’ve just settled down, had a couple of arguments with the Mooster about not liking other people, been served my veggie in flight meal and as we reach 20,000ft there it is – as if from nowhere the familiar smell of sulphur, rotting meat and the intestinal digestion process of a young man with blue ear studs and an Arsenal shirt (Middle class-anal, the team supported by men who wear earrings, don’t know anything about the game, or just stink of man dung).
The seat in front vibrates as ‘Deano’ giggles and tells the other two fuck knuckles what he’s done. They shake their heads but can’t hide their amusement. This is about the time I think about becoming a Dexter Morgan type character who murders people who drop their guts in public, “You farted one last time you grubby little student cunt! Now it’s time for you to repent the smell of your Hershey muck!”.
In fact the smell of human shit permeates pretty much every aspect of human life, from the workplace to leisure time and beyond, no place is spared mans rear end stench. Take the supermarket for instance, a place where we buy food that we put in our mouths. So there I am looking for a jar of marmalade in Morrisons when the greasy unshaven hood rat stacking the shelves drops the reak of fast food from his stinking “uni” guts.
Utterly. Fucking. Revolting.
So now every time I want to spread something on my toast in the same manner that Englishmen have been doing at breakfast for hundreds of years, I’m reminded of Oliver’s flatulence and his vile student shit molecules gripping the inside of my snout.
I’m not beyond criticism myself.
I recall a skiing trip a few years ago when I mistakenly let one rip in a sealed ski lift during a day on the slopes with our new friends from the hotel. After week of an Austrian diet of venison, cream sauce and wheat beer the smell was what can only be described as utterly grotesque, in fact it was so bad that the skiers waiting to get into our lift were visibly repulsed as the door opened. Of our new found friends, he tried to put an amusing spin on things to save my embarrassment but she could barely hide her disgust, in fact she ate very little for the rest of the holiday and when we saw them last year she got drunk and blamed me for the eating disorder she’d developed post alpine guff.
So there it is. Humans, we smell of shit and that’s just the way it is.