. . . the fart erupted like Concorde breaking the sound barrier. It blasted across the playing field like a shockwave, silencing everything it swept across. One by one, the other boys in other matches faltered in their running or stopped altogether, turning their heads towards the sounds of the colonic explosion.
Referees halted, teachers froze, and still the fart rolled on across the flat November field. Then it hit the tall brick wall surrounding the school environs and rolled back in a sulphuric, farting echo, a mocking doppelganger of the original fart repeated over and over until it was swept away in the autumn wind.
I stood still, letting the last waves of flatuence wash over myself and my classmates. No-one moved for what felt like eternity. Then the teacher slowly, robotically, lifted his whistle to his lips and blew a single solitary peep. The ball had rolled into my goal, and we'd lost the game.