Written by Lucy Sweet


Lady Parts: A Smart Woman’s Guide To Fartiquette

Like you, Lucy Sweet knows that women don’t smell of rose petals and daydreams, and she’s not scared to explore the festering bucket of glorious, parping, stinking humanity that is reality. In this column, she ponders the ins and outs of BUM GAS.

Illustration by Lucy Sweet

If you’re the Queen of Farts, that’s OK. You have a bottom, and air comes out of it, just like a big hairy man bottom. Yet farting is still a huge taboo for women. It is considered unladylike, unfeminine and unattractive – and heaven forbid we should ever be any of those, eh girls?
It’s time we stopped hiding our trumps under a bushel. Instead, we should pipe up about our parps and accept them as part of the (stinky) tapestry of life. So let us discuss the top five types of emissions and share some tips on how to face our farts without fear.

When it comes to the fragrant netherworld of feminine farting it’s still 1892 and we’re all delicately pouring tea, doing our embroidery and holding them in. But sometimes, there’s a revolution in our pants: a Jazz Age fart that threatens to blow the lid off society and shock the establishment. This, my friends, is the Flapper. It flouts convention and leaves people trembling in its wake. Usually happens in the middle of a meeting, and nobody dares mention it.
Tip: This is the 21st Century. So if you’re in the office, stand up, draw a picture of a bum on the whiteboard and shout, “Going forward we shall shatter the glass ceiling with our chuffs! I want you ALL to let one off by close of play.”

You know what it’s like. You want to impress your new boyfriend, but you don’t want to gas him. Sure, you managed to let the odd one out in that public toilet in Kidderminster. And during a romantic stroll through the forest, you squeezed one through the barricades and pretended a squirrel did it. But mostly, you’re a pressure cooker, and when he’s dropped you off back home you will do a fart so powerful it will alter the fabric of the universe.
Tip: Instead of putting yourself through the trauma, just say to your boyfriend: “There’s something you should know. I’m a human being and sometimes I expel air as part of my body’s digestive process. By the way, I TOTALLY fancy you.”

Did you parp during beginner’s yoga class? Does your chi smell of eggs? It happens, especially when you’re bending yourself into highly unusual positions in a room full of perimenopausal ladies. The sweating silence that follows a yoga fart is enough to send the Dalai Lama into a tailspin. Usually you wait it out, and if it sounds like it was definitely one of yours, cover it up with a deafening “OHHHHHHHMMMMMM.”
Tip: Open your chakras and offer up your fart to the Buddha. As the old Zen saying goes: “The one who accepts that their farts stink like old dustbins is the one who finds enlightenment.”

Females have been conditioned to be embarrassed about their emissions, so we’ve developed stealth farting techniques that would outwit the SAS. The key to this particular style of silent but deadly trumping is not to let anyone know it emanated from your undercrackers. Many females practice this, accompanied by a vaguely disgusted look that says: “I could never do something like this. Look! I have shiny hair and lots of makeup on, so it was obviously that guy over there.”
Tip: Listen, we know you’re used to pretending it wasn’t you, but it’s time you came out of the closet. Just dance around the dentist’s waiting room, yelling, “PHWOOOOOORRRRR THAT’S A GUFFER! I’LL GIVE IT 9 OUT OF 10!” Instant respect.

“Oh what a *parp* beautiful mo-oooooorning *PARP* Oh what a beauty- *parp* ful daaaaaay *riiiiiiiiiiiiiip* I’ve got a wonderful *phhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffft* feeling…everything’s *parp* going my waaaaaaaay…”
Tip: There is no reason to ever apologise for this fart. This fart moves in constant motion, never pausing to make itself known to others. It is the perfect trump. Hurray!

So keep on keeping on, ladies, and never say sorry for your bottom. After all, it belongs to you. And remember: if God had meant us to never have any surprising bodily functions, he’d have given us smooth plastic Barbie bottoms with no holes in them.


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Written by Lucy Sweet

Lucy Sweet is a writer and incorrigible lard arse. Her nursery school teacher said she would never be a proper lady, and she was right.