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“Christ, I feel like a naughty schoolboy again,” said Alec as they walked into King’s Bench Walk. “We have just had a dressing-down by the headmaster. Strider could easily be a man handy with a cane.” “That man Strider is a crook,” said Bing-Wallace. “His utterances are like the product of a performance of Joseph Pujol … Le Pétomane!” “Who is Joseph Pujol?” “He is a well-known French flatulist performer.” “What?” Alec stopped dead, “A fartist, dear boy, a performer of farts.” Bing-Wallace began to giggle, as did Alec.” — Hugo Woolley
Christ, I feel like a naughty schoolboy again,” said Alec as they walked into King’s Bench Walk. “We have just had a dressing-down by the headmaster. Strider could easily be a man handy with a cane.”
“That man Strider is a crook,” said Bing-Wallace. “His utterances are like the product of a performance of Joseph Pujol … Le Pétomane!”
“Who is Joseph Pujol?”
“He is a well-known French flatulist performer.”
“What?” Alec stopped dead,
“A fartist, dear boy, a performer of farts.” Bing-Wallace began to giggle, as did Alec.