The World's Loudest Armpit Fart Read Online Free PDF

left armpit, and had been going for fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes and eleven seconds, when I squeezed to hard on the 2,081st ‘Eee-I-Eee-I-Oh’ and bruised my fingers.

    My sister, Natalie, said that if I’d gone on any longer, she’d have bruised more than my fingers! She was upstairs, trying to listen to her favourite boy band, Boy$!!! (or Yawn$!!! As I call them). Even with the volume turned right up, she could still hear my armpit farts! Could they have been the Loudest Ever?

    Best wishes
    Danny Baker

    PS Matthew made a recording of my armpit music on his dad’s old tape recorder. It filled nearly eight tapes. I’ve sent one of them with this letter.

    Dear Danny

    I hope your bruised fingers aren’t too painful and don’t affect your goalkeeping.

    Your Continuous Musical Armpit-farting performance was truly enchanting, but did not trump that of the self-styled ‘Grand Master of Armpit-farting’ Ronan O’Kidney, of Ballybogey in Northern Ireland. On 19 and 20 August 2001, Ronan played a selection of Irish folk-songs on his left armpit for forty-two hours, fourteen minutes and seven seconds, before repetitive strain injury finally took its toll.

    Ronan’s armpit-farts were so loud he drowned out the Ballybogey Boogie-woogie Bugle Boys, who were playing in the village hall two streets away, and forced them to cancel their concert!

    Mr O’Kidney has written a concerto for Solo Armpit and Woodwind, but no traditional musicians will perform it with him. He is determined that the world should take armpit-music seriously and in 2007 formed the All-Ireland Armpit Orchestra, the first and only one of its kind. You could form an armpit band at your school and do duets with Matthew!

    Good luck with your next record attempt.

    Best wishes
    Eric Bibby
    Keeper of the Records

    Danny stood on the wide flat sands of Bladderpool, with his bare feet in a small barrel of donkey do-do, holding a bunch of carrots in each hand. He was not alone. Two long lines of boys and girls also stood in barrels of donkey do-do forming an avenue that led off the sands and along the promenade.

    They were all there to perform the Donkey Dung Dance on Bladderpool’s Summer’s End Saturday. All summer long the donkeys had paraded up and down the beach in their specially decorated straw hats, giving rides to happy children. Today was the day everyone thanked them for their hard work, before the animals went off to have a well-earned rest in their winter pasture. Crowds of people cheered and clapped as a brass band, jugglers and acrobats escorted the donkeys between the lines of jiggling kids.

    Danny waved the carrots around his head and boogied in the barrel.
    ‘Come on, Matt,’ he said, pointing to an unoccupied barrel of donkey dung. ‘Get your shoes and socks off, grab some carrots and get dancing!’
    ‘No thanks, Dan,’ replied Matthew. ‘I’d rather chuck poo than dance in it! Besides, I can see what it’s doing to your feet.’
    Danny glanced down and his eyes widened with delight. When the donkey parade had passed by, the boys raced over to where Danny’s mum and sister, Natalie, were waiting.
    ‘Danny! It looks like you’re wearing brown socks!’ exclaimed Mum. ‘And your toes are like little shiny conkers!’
    Natalie’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘I’m not sitting in a car all the way back to Penleydale with those filthy feet !’

    ‘Will it come off?’ asked Matthew.
    ‘There’s no way they’ll let you in the pool for Swimming Club tomorrow if it doesn’t,’ smirked Natalie.
    Mum examined Danny’s blotchy feet. ‘When I was your age, I did the Donkey Dung Dance. My grandma got my feet clean by soaking them in vinegar and water, then rubbing them with newspaper. If you do it twice a day, the stains should be gone by next weekend.’
    ‘Aw, Mum!’ moaned Natalie. ‘The house’ll smell like a fish and chip shop!’
    ‘Ace!’ said Danny.
    ‘Cool!’ agreed Matthew.
    Mum was right. By the