Chris Fartin'

Hi all (parp!), Chris Fartin' here! So there I was, riding my Gwyn, beloved palfrey, around the hotel bedroom in our little pre-action gaming thing, when all went wrong. I blew hot air. 'What if there was no light Nothing wrong, nothing right What if there was no time And no reason, or rhyme' With that, we blasted across the room and straight into the mirrored door of the walk-in closet! Poor Gwyn. Poor, poor Gwyn. With her soft, golden head turned all bloody. She called me a pompous goat and all!

Hi all (parp!), Chris Fartin’ here, and let me tell ya, I don’t know about gays , but I know a thing or two about toilets, and when ya gotta go, ya gotta go. So, when the urge strikes me, when inspiration lights me, I run down to the commode. I ran one time, inspired, like a golden god, a wild-eyed revolutionary, like Alexander, Achilles, Jesus and Anakin in one lithe, aching body. I sat. I strained. But wait – wha happen? I blew hot air. ‘Where To, where do I go? If you never try, then you'll never know. How long do I have to climb, Up on the side of this mountain of mine?’ Man, I thought, this is potent stuff. I called up those other guys in Coldplay. I held the phone below and let them hear the divine, etheral, other-worldly wisdom that is borne from my body. They listened. They believed. Their heads exploded one by one, each pop louder than the last. Hearing their praise, the inspiration grabbed me once again. I squeezed and squeezed and light was blown into this dark, dark world. ‘On a hill top, on a sky-rise Like a first born child At full tilt, and in full flight Defeat darkness, breaking daylight’ I’ll think you’ll agree, my enlightened ones, that that is profound. Hot, and smelly, and profound. Sometimes, when I expound my utterings in song form, I topple around on the podium. Some say it is my style. Some say it is my passion. But truly, my children, I have no say. I topple and keel, for I am blown hither and thither like a spiritual rocket. I feel the heat behind. However, the world shall believe. Sit at my feet, little ones. ‘Bones sinking like stones All that we fall for Homes places we’ve grown All of us are done for’ Yes, the world is a tragic place. Folk yearn with a collective spiritual ache that very few men have the power to heal. People stop me in the street, in cafes, in public lavatories. They ask, agog, ‘Chris, where does this wisdom come from? Show us the light!’ I put down my skinny latte. I stand, I beckon, and they follow. We step together into the public commode, but I alone enter the cubicle. I am hidden from their sight. If they could see it, they would understand. If you could see it, you would understand.