My cousin Nick and I stopped awkwardly trying to do pop shove-its in our grandpa’s driveway to see where the offending remark had come from.
At 12 years old, I was a formidable specimen of beauty and brutality, and I was ready to give my insulter the what-for if need be. Honor was on the line here. I knew, in the deepest pits of my soul, weathered and tempered with a dozen years of life experience, that I was not a fartknocker.
Nick silently echoed the exact same sentiment; I could see it in his eyes. An inner flame blazed.
“Oi there, you bloke! Now see here – we knock on doors with our fists, thank you, not mildly noxious clouds of briefly propelled methane gas! And we’ll come knock on your face with the same bloody things if you say that again, ya grotty nutter!”
…we completely failed to say, as we were neither knowledgable of the chemical makeup of flatulence, nor British, nor particularly good at fighting.