Chris Fartin

Aw, shucks (parp!), you know you'll make me look smug. But I feel my disciples should learn about my art. I am Chris Fartin. I blow hot air. I discussed the intricacies of my art, my brethren, once before, in a gay thread (he who has ears to hear, hear, but no-one heard), for the lack of a burning bush or a mount from which to sermonise. Learn from me, children, and you can blow hot air too. I repeat from the original hot-blown text - 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.

So, there I was, me, Chris Fartin, walking down the street, minding my owny-own, thinking of me gwinny, beloved equine, when what what happens? What what? Some young ruffian, an oik who probably used to listen to Oasis points right at me and says to his friends 'Look at that c*nt. Now there's a face you wanna slap'! The horror! Now, he's not entirely wrong. I've been known to inexplicably slap the odd mirror in my time. But as the oik marched towards me, with a much tougher slap about him, I thought, 'what to do, what to do'? A. Slap him with my rolled-up degree certificate. It's from UCL, you know. B. Run like a girl to my gwinny. But, my friends, I did neither. As he gained, I turned. I blew hot air. "Oh, you want to stop before you begin You want to sink before you could swim You want to stop before you begin Never give in, never give in" Well, the oik was blown right back into the JDsports from whence he sprang. Hurrah, I thought. But that was not the end, my brethren. His mates began to gang up on me. They marched as one, pointing, jeering, clenching their fists. What did I do, my friends? Yes. I blew hot air. "Hold me tight, don't let go Forever be yours in this bright new dawn Open up your eyes for a big new surprise Fixing despise changing civilization yeah brand new world etc" With that, my friends, I banished the oiks forever! Now, you would think I would appear a little smug after such a feat...