This is absurd. I am standing at the top of Calton Hill in Edinburgh in the middle of a rainstorm with a man in a green Lycra bodysuit and purple Crimplene shorts, and we are arguing about bad puns. Creative tension, I suppose you would call it. We are here to publicise the show that the two of us are doing together on the Edinburgh Fringe festival in August.
He calls himself Mr Methane, and his singular skill is to augment a series of well-known musical pieces by breaking wind in the style of the famous 19th-century French vaudevillian Le Pétomane. Mine is to write a weekly column in the sports section of the Guardian. Not what you would describe as a marriage made in heaven, but I have somehow been persuaded to be the genial host of a showcase for his unique talent.
I first read about this strange skill in The Straight Dope.
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