I feel the need to offer Wikipedia some ammunition in its quest to discredit me

James Delingpole says You Know It Makes Sense

The most excruciatingly awful thing I have ever done in my entire life happened in my penultimate year at school. At the time I was learning classical guitar and occasionally I would meet up with one of my English teachers, ‘Mattie’ Simpson, so that we could play duets together. On the fateful day I’m about to describe the piece we were practising was Bach’s ‘Air on a G String’.

Now my other main activity at the time was cross-country running. Like many of the boys in my house I would train regularly and hard, killing myself up and down the Malvern Hills before hurrying home for tea where I’d fill my knackered, sweating carcass with round after round of peanut butter on toast. Sometimes, the combination of violent exercise and wolfed-down toast seemed to exact a dire penalty on my guts.

And so it was on the dread duet day. No sooner had Mattie and I started plucking away — it was in Matron’s surgery, I remember — than something silent but exceedingly deadly wafted from between my buttocks and into the air. It was evil and it lingered and I could tell it wasn’t going to be the last.

What to do? I’m sure it’s a conundrum Dear Mary could easily have answered, but 17 and gauche, I was flummoxed. As fart after vile fart crept out, I grew redder and redder, while dear Mattie Simpson, a dignified fellow with the most exquisite manners, gamely pretended nothing was happening. But the embarrassment was affecting my playing. This offered Mattie Simpson a lifeline. ‘I say, James. Are you all right?’