FART: the Story of Bob’s Fart, by Bob’s Dog


Last night, I dreamt I wrote a book. It was called “FART: the story of Bob’s fart,” and it was the most popular book I ever wrote.

I remember one line from the text, and this is that line: “He said his dog done the fart, but we all knew it were him,” and I was reading that and nodding along, like “so true, so true,” though the book doesn’t exist.

Everyone blames the dog.

You know, if I ever did write that book, which I wouldn’t, I’d attribute it to Bob’s dog, and it would be all “hey, this is Bob’s dog, and I wanted to set the record straight. I never done that fart.”


So, I did write it. I did. Not a whole book, but, ah….



max here.

im bobs dog and im max. or maybe im baddog. i answer to both.

also im offended.

last night bob went on bork bork you are doing me a frighten which is a computer page where dogs talk like numpties. i dont talk like that. i talk like this. like im talking right now.

look at me. cant you hear me?

bork. bork. now youre listening.

furthermore im offended cos bob done a fart and he blamed it on me. all our friends saw.

bob done me a shame.

i never done that fart.


“Want to hear something horrible?”

Look at him. Just look at him. Fucking Marko. This is the night. This is truly the night. I’m packing him in.

God, he’s got gravy on his chin. He’s got a great gravy baird, and it’s almost an improvement. He has one of those faces, you know, one of those faces, where you look at him now and you can see him in fifty years, all flabby and slack with his jowls hanging loose, like he’s got twice his allowance of skin. It’s starting already, just there round the eyes. There, where the skin’s in a bag.



“I said, want to hear something rancid?”

Oh. Right.

“Sure. Why not?”

Jesus, he’s rancid. Who the fuck eats like that? Close your mouth all the way. Close it tight. Go on, tighter.

Now, you chew.

Or, you know, just keep right on talking with that chip hanging out. It’s not a cigar, you fucking reprobate. Suck it in. Suck it in. SUCK IT THE FUCK…thank you. Now, wipe your mouth. Wipe your mouth! Wipe your mouth, or so help me

“…anyway, we’re all ready, but Sam’s on the bog, leaving us on a shit gap. You know, eh…a shit gap, where everyone’s waiting but nobody talks, and you stand in the hallway like warts on a heffalump, listening for the splash?”

Not once have I done that. Not once in my life.

“Anyway, we’re doing that, and Bob’s dog just scarpers, just…yips and runs off, and we’re all like…eh? And that’s when it hits us, this gaseous waft, this…petrol and fishsticks and eggs in the sun. We’re all just boaking, and Bob shouts out ‘bad dog,’ like he didn’t just bronk in its face.”

He’s going to say the fart jar thing. He’s going to say the fart jar thing. Please don’t say the fart jar thing.

If I dump him right now, he can’t say the fart jar thing.

“—and Bob’s all, it weren’t me, and we’re all, c’mon, mate, admit it. Your haboob just phoned home.”


“His ha-whoob, now?”

“His haboob, eh, like Greek food?”

“You mean his kebab?”

“Whatever. What’d I say?”

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much.

“This is why we need fart jars. To capture these moments. Like Instagram for your arse.”

I hate you.

So much.


i did leave the room.

that much is true.

but not cos i smelt it. and NOT cos i dealt it. it was a precautionary measure.

bob made that face. its his wind warning face. unleash the haboob. (see? i know the difference. and im just a dog.)

he faced.

i left.

theres a place for the wind in my fur and thats in the car with my face hanging out. i dont stand for butt haboobs. neither should you.


Jocko Price was with Bob Turlington
2 days ago

tfw ur dog blows a beany and uve no choice bit tae pull, cos ur nae gaeing hame wi that pong up yir rafters.

Joe Walsingham and 9 others liked this post


first of all.

bob can’t pull MY tail, let alone any other sort.

i mean seriously.

my tail.

i wag it. i slap his leg.

he yells but cant stop me.

also jockos a human being who talks like a borky bork frighten dog.

never listen to jocko.


hey mum,

thx for the ££££££££. I wouldn’t ask, but the electric’s just booming and my heating’s on the bludge. the putty’s all crackt in the windowframes. it’s letting the wind in. it overworks the boiler and it goes all that whistly way, and then it breaks again.

how’s barky? is he back from the vet’s?

speaking of dogs and wind, here’s a laugh for you. we went on the piss sat. nite, me and joe, bob and marko, and sam & jocko from the sainsbury’s near gran’s. (don’t worry, I just had a few.)

so we were all in the hallway while sam draint the snake, and this smell filled the room, like we were slowly in a gas chamber getting cylon b’d. it was obviously a gas main burst, that egg yolk and diesel smell you get, but everyone thought it was a fart and started fighting over whodunnit. bob went all red and he fingered the dog. marko goes, naw man, you done it. I didn’t say anything and they started to wrestle, and bob had his arse almost in marko’s face, which if he HAD done the fart, marko would’ve been huffing the remnants.

anyway, that’s not the funny part. the funny part is, we were off out just after, and the dog was in the garden. it was staring us down with this pure hate look on its face. i mean, not really. it’s one of those dogs with the eyebrows, so it always looks agro. but if a dog could glare, then this one was doing it. bloody beady eye bastard. like it knew what bob done.

hope barky feels better soon,


ps – sorry I used the b. word. and the a. word. xox



i was not in the garden.

there was no wrestling.

but i did do one thing. i went in bobs closet and released one (1) drop of piss in each of his shoes boots and galoshes. i did that right after they left. i couldnt have been in the garden making hate faces.

why is pete such a liar?

maybe he did the fart.

but he didnt.

it was bob.


Joe necks his lager and grabs for another. He flops back and itches his balls.

“You know that cunt Grisha?” he says.

“Him from the office, always nicking your crisps?”

“Not just crisps. KP gammon and pineapple. Not everywhere has those, and they’re dear when they do.” He takes another swig. “And it’s not just the crisps. He’s a seat-sniffer, credit grabber, snidey wee gladhanding nae-mates enfuckment.”

“Lot like you, then.”

Joe gets that flat look, that psychopath stare. IRA McVeigh, Jocko calls it, Molotovs down the office and up Grisha’s arse. I could see that, one day.

“You wanna watch yisself,” he says, and he’s slurring a bit. “Hard to mouth off with your teeth in your gullet.”


“Yeah, fuck you are.” He gulps lager and snorts. “Anyway, I fucking showed him.”

I grunt, like go on.

“I’ve been snaking his credit,” he says. “Three weeks, I’ve been at it, nodding off at my desk, doing sod all. Only, I’ve switched Grisha’s login with mine, so everything he does, Plimpton thinks it was me.” He grins, wide and sharky. “Grisha’s on warning, circling the drain—I think he was crying, the other day. Poor cunt’s got no clue, and I ate his tomatoes.”

“You what?”

“Ate his fucking tomatoes. He brought in a bag of them, that health kick he’s on, and I took ‘em out back and I guzzled ’em down. Got up the next morning and did a massive tomato shit, all red and all…seedy, all floating bits of skin. Brilliant. Fucking mega. Sweet revenge.”

I blink. This is awful. It’s been me eating his crisps.

“And you know what else? Know what else I fucking done?”

I should own up. Poor Grisha.

“That fart, down at Bob’s? That was me.”            


Yeah. Grisha’s on his own.

Joe’s clearly the devil.



just no.

joe said it himself. hes a glory nabber. he takes headpats for stuff he never done.

and he never done that fart.

you know how i know he never done it? he had on leather trews. you cant sbd into leather. it rattles. it booms. everyone knows you done that fart.

joe never done that fart.


boab the snoab: ok, you know what? fine. it were me.

markopolis: I FACKIN KNEW IT

markopolis: FECKEN GASBAG

boab the snoab: BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

markopolis: well wer else wud u parp from? ur ear?

boab the snoab: fuck off.

boab the snoab: here’s the thing, tho. i’d been honking all day. i had chips. got the gtfs.

boab the snoab: them great trumpeting farts.

boab the snoab: noisy af but not much of a whiff.

boab the snoab: so I thought I’d sneak one off, quiet blast in my keks. no smell, no tell.

markopolis: hate ta tell ya but it fucken smelt

boab the snoab: well yeah. no shit. but I had no way of knowing.

markopolis: one question. did u shit uself?

boab the snoab: get tae fuck no what’s wrong w/u?

markopolis: well……….

boab the snoab: what

markopolis: just walked in the door. pennys stuffs all gone.

boab the snoab: o

boab the snoab: o shit sorry

markopolis: wish ud done a fart jar of that. could of posted it to her

boab the snoab: fuck m8….


bob done the fart.

bob done! the fart!

this is my dog dance.

its a victory dance.

bob done the fart. da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da!


“Morning, Sam.”

“Ey, Ma.”

“Looking for breakfast?”

“Aye.” He pushed the milk to one side. “What happened to them sausages?”

“I et ‘em.”


“There’s cabbage pie in the crisper, from the other night.”

Sam bent to retrieve it. Cabbage pie, that was good, extra eggs, extra onions. Burnty crust, loads of flavour.

“Just, if you have that, don’t use the upstairs loo.”

Tchah. Don’t you worry. I’ll use the one at Bob’s.”


5 thoughts on “FART: the Story of Bob’s Fart, by Bob’s Dog

    1. Ha, ha, thanks! You know, I had a lot of fun writing it. Farts aren’t my usualy subject matter, but, man, at any age, they’re funny.


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