b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Bad Smells » Page 2 | Search
This is a question Bad Smells

"I once left the world's stinkiest guff in a lift before sending it down to a group of Germans, all bustling to be first in the doors upon its arrival," giggles Boarders. Tell us your stories involving farts, noxious gasses and unpleasant smells.

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 11:56)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

on holiday, i sometimes get mistaken for a german, due to my colouring. this means that i get german people trying to talk to me and ask for directions, etc. ordinarily, i have no problem with this and help if i can.
however, one particular day, i was accosted by a large, elderly german woman, who clearly had something important she wanted to ask me. i leaned closer in order to hear better and, if possible, make out what she wanted.
this turned out to be a huge mistake. as she opened her mouth, i was almost floored by the foul cloud of eau de roadkill, gingivitis and cloves that wafted up my poor nostrils.
through grimly-clenched teeth, i managed to mutter "sorry, i don't speak german", before staggering off to deposit my breakfast in the nearest rosebush.
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 14:35, 5 replies)
As a typical student, an empty wine bottle was to become a candle holder.
To weight it down, I filled it with tap water, and then - clever clever clever - poured in melted wax to form a plug.

Several months later, to avoid a mishap when moving, there was cause to remove the water, and thus break open the plug.

Oh dear god - I did not know water could rot.
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 14:34, 5 replies)
They fucking stink, that's why you should stay about from my bins.

(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 14:19, 2 replies)
Classroom farts
I know this is a classic in my profession, but one that I feel deserves a mention.

When I first started teaching, like so many I used alcohol and comfort eating as a crutch to get me through that difficult NQT year. It was not an easy school, and in my first term I began to drink Tennents Super with an alarming regularity for someone with a job and a roof over their head.

One night I had quite a heavy Tennents session coupled with a massive curry.....a vegetable Naga with all the trimmings, blow your head off spicy, just how I like it. The next day my stomach was brewing some terrible treats. How was I going to survive in the classroom?

I felt a big fart brewing whilst teaching Year 7 History, and suddenly it hit me what I should do. I went and stood next to a kid who I knew would be blamed for the toxic fart, pretended to look at what he was writing over his shoulder, and let out a massive silent but violent, then walked off. The heaviness of the hot curry/ tramp juice fuelled fart meant that it took a few seconds to hit the noses of the other children, at which point I was at a safe distance. "Eurghhhhh.....[kid's name]!" the other kids began shouting. The boy began to protest, so to add authenticity I joined in with the class: "That was absolutely disgusting! If you are going to do that again, I suggest you go outside! I will not tolerate smells like that in my classroom!" I was really laying it on thick, in the hope that no-one would suspect me.

I thought I was really clever, but when I relayed my antics to some of my colleagues, apparently it's a tried and tested staple! xx
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 14:18, 3 replies)
Fart midwife
I was once out with family in a very busy Islington pub celebrating a family birthday and a promotion. I had the worst trapped wind ever, and was in quite considerable pain. "Mum" I said, "I've got a horrible fart baby."

Mum, being slightly merry at this point, jumped to attention and proclaimed "Don't worry! I'll be your fart midwife!" and proceeded to rub my stomach and lower back until I let out an exceptionally heavy, evil smelling fart. Once I'd gone into labour, they just kept on coming!

Well, as I said the pub was incredibly busy, but these farts cleared a massive space around us. Every so often, someone would breach the imaginary line of fart safety, only to recoil in horror at the smell. Mum seemed horrified at what she'd had a hand in the birth of. "Why do they smell like that?" I didn't know. Being a girl, my farts don't usually smell at all.

The next day, I came down ill with a virus. A few days after that, mum rang to say that she'd come down ill too and the day before she had suffered from toxic farts as well. Strange. xx
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 14:03, 1 reply)
Oh no, not more food.
Way back when all this were fields, I went on a school exchange to Germany. Natch, German culture was very different and we were schooled for 6 weeks at a middle class 'Schule'. One aspect that caught me out was the food - I couldn't get used to it - and that led to a fateful day in the classroom. A French lesson, for Germans and one where we could only twiddle our thumbs. Not me tho, I had a fearful rumbling tummy and it was only a matter of time before internal pressure was equalised. "Paaaaaarp" - a few giggles from us Brits but utter silence from the crusty Krauts. 2 minutes later, another trouser cough, this time a high pitched titter from the Germans and the French teacher went quiet for a bit. A minute or two later and another huge guff - this time the whole multi-cultural classroom erupted in laughter for what seemed like ages but I was only too relieved to be relieved of stomach ache. The fateful side of this? I was later grabbed by some of the more muscular classmates and given a bearhug, presumably to see (or hear) if any more wind was forth coming.
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 13:17, 1 reply)
The people who operate sewers need to know if any leaks develop
There are two types of sewer in Britain, the storm type and the so-called 'foul' type, which is the one that carries all the jobbies. Contrary to every computer game you've ever played, most of these sewers are very narrow in diameter, like six inches across or so.

You may have noticed that the square manhole covers you get in every street are roughly 100 metres apart - this is so that the insides of the tube can be inspected. Inspected how, you might ask?

Well, as a weak and naive 19-year-old I got a temporary job with a company who have a contract to record video of the inside of the sewer tubes and send it off to however maintains them so that they can check for any structural defects.

The way this is done is quite long winded. Two adjacent manhole covers are lifted, and then a very long, rigid but bendy cable is shoved into one end of the sewer pipe and pushed with great physical effort the 100m to the next manhole. The man at the other end has a tripod set up over the second manhole which has a winch attached to it. When the rigid cable appears, he attaches the cable from his winch to the first cable.

The person at the first manhole then pulls the rigid cable all the way back through, which of course has the effect of pulling the winch cable along with it. When this is all the way through, the rigid cable is disconnected and a camera is attached to the winch cable. The camera has a very thick cable coming from it which powers it and also takes the video feed back to the recording device in the van.

So winch man then slowly and carefully winches the camera all the way through the length of sewer, until such time as the camera has gone all the way through. Then the camera is pulled back by hand, and the manhole covers are replaced.

As I said I was pretty damn feeble, and the effort involved in this was rather too much for me, so I felt very embarrassed that the muscly, ex-army man had to take over frequently whilst I sobbed like Cedric the Sissy.

As you can imagine, this was not a pleasant job in any sense of the word. In addition to the groping-through-shit nature of the job, Mr Ex-Army's conversation seemed to stretch no further than complaining extensively about the Pakis, and so I didn't go back for a second day.
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 13:17, Reply)
It's that time of year again, I can taste the air.

(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 12:06, 2 replies)
The drains...
I possess, among certain circles, a reputation for gastrointestinal fortitude. I have been known to clear rooms, and once woke up members (plural) of my family, through a STRUCTURAL WALL of the house, merely with the noise of my ano-rectal ministrations. One event, however, lives proud in my memory, and stands out as a truly special example of the genre.

We had gone, as a group of middle-class-nerdy-orchestra-kids, to the Royal Albert Hall. It was summer, and the proms were on, but because we were *cough* cool *cough* middle-class-nerdy-orchestra-kids, we had gone to the 'late' prom. A jazz trumpeter called Wynton Marsalis was playing. We had heard he was good, and so we were going to be cool-jazz-kids for the evening. We queued outside, and entered the plush and hallowed concert hall.

Those of you who have been to or seen the Albert hall during Proms season will know that the whole central arena is standing room. You end up fairly packed in, and we found a place somewhere near the middle, to the right of the stage. Once standing, some... issues... began to arise. There was a dark, mysterious odour. A sharp, acidic, almost tangy scent. It smelt a little like something had died. It got worse. The group I was with turned to me with a resigned disgust.

I knew I had done a bad. I had made a rather impressive stinky, and now we were all standing in it, packed in by other concert-goers. I decided that in my new guise as cool-jazz-kid, that I did not want to take the blame for this. I decided to produce a very clever lie.

"Bugger off, that's not me! And you KNOW I like to take credit for them!"

They'd never fall for it. It is true that I did/do take credit where it is due, but there was no way they would be fooled. They weren't fooled. But, clinging to the last vestiges of my dignity and self-respect, I kept up protesting my innocence.

More stench arrived. In waves. Each one more ripe, more fruity and pungent, more soul-destroying than before. It felt, as they were escaping, like they were somewhere in a hinter-land between gas and liquid, so dense and cloying were these airborne-toxic-events.

After about 30 minutes of the sort of chemical onslaught that even hardened war-criminals would refuse to inflict, there was a round of sheepish apology from my friends.

"Actually mate, there's no way that could be you. This is just inhuman. It must be the drains!"

For the full concert, my bowels continued to unleash their vile and venomous fury. Other patrons began complaining to the ushers ("It simply isn't right that a venue such as this has inadequate drainage!"), in endlessly polite hushed whispers, so as not to disturb the concert audibly as well as nasally. People from yards away, the other side of the auditorium, were clearly also disturbed. The ushers were putting in near-frantic calls on their walkie-talkies to get someone,(anyone!) from maintenance to come and try and sort out the problem. How the band managed to keep playing is a mystery and a testament to their professionalism.

The gig... Okay the *concert* (really am still a bit too middle class) finished, and we left the venue. I felt elated. Not only was I many cubic feet of shit-smelling-buttockular-foulness lighter, but I had pulled off the crime of the century. I had dropped a Colo-rectal Hiroshima, and escaped blameless, with only my assaulted nostrils and slight sense of repressed shame as a lasting reminder. I was off scot-free.

That is, until the drains... sort of... followed us onto the tube. I will never forget that look of loathing, mixed with quiet awe.

Good concert, though.
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 11:22, 6 replies)
60% of the time, it works every time

(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 10:35, 1 reply)

In my old house , I pulled the flush of my upstairs toilet once and it didn`t flush away as God intended it to - realising a.that I better not do it again b.oh shitsticks , my poo drain is blocked .
My sink , bath and toilet all went into the same downpipe down the side of the house and then into a pipe under the path , down the side of the house to the front of the house . The plan was to fill the bath to its brim , fill the sink to its brim - and then deplug them and flush the toilet all at the same time , creating a head of pressure to push the blockage out . Well , that part was left to the wife anyway , the clean end of this tale .

The front of my drive slanted downwards , so I pulled up the manhole cover to have a look at the other end . The outward bound 5 inch pipe was just seeping water , I shouted up to the wife to release all the plugs and flush to create the pressure to clear the blockage) and watched . Within a few seconds I heard a noise and then started to also cough and spit my guts up with the smell as a 10 foot long ,5 inch thick, shit torpedo came flying out of my drainpipe , splashing up the sides into the street . Luckily I did a very camp jump and scream combo as I jumped out of the torpedo`s splatters way .
The turd torpedo blocked the manhole completely , so I had to hosepipe/stick strategy to break it up , while trying not to be sick from the week old torpedos contents....I found the reason for the blockage , my mrs had been flushing dental floss down the toilet and it snagged toilet paper and that piled up etc etc , I did tell her she`d be sorting out the next one .
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 9:03, 3 replies)
For most of my life my great-grandmother was as wrinkly, leathery and liver-spotted as George Hamilton's ballsack
That is to say she was old when I was born and just kept getting older (as is the way with our species). She developed the kind of curved spine that meant her chin bobbed along level with her waist and a pair of googly-eyes and a black cloak would get her a role in Young Frankenstein.

With her increasing old age came dementia and a roll call of names recited before she made it to the right one when greeting family members ("Oh hello John, George, Callum, Paul er Frank"). It was difficult to watch the woman that taught me how to play scrabble (and not in the competitive sense, I'd get a fair scolding if I wasn't making an effort to open up the board. The fun for her was both players filling the board and getting rid of all our letters) go downhill over the years and be reduced to a burden.

After finishing university I went to live with them for a while. This is when I started to notice a not too pleasant odour from my Great Grandmother that no amount of Alyssa Ashley Musk could mask. My grandmother, who did most of the care work, confirmed there were no unwiped tagnuts or fingernail deposits to blame, her clothes were washed but stank of musty farts.

In the end, and without enough sense to employ some Walter White-style prep, I made the trip into Mordor her room to investigate. And here the smell intensified. Oh did it fucking intensify. Had I a bunch of flowers in one hand and a canary in a cage in the other one would have comically wilted whilst the other toppled of its' perch with X's for eyes. Ground zero smelt to be the large solid wood antique wardrobe in the corner. I gripped the handle, mentally preparing for a helldog roaring "Zuuuuulll" at me, and opened the door. There, stacked like pyramid bricks, were about a months worth of decaying great-granny shits wrapped in flowery kitchen roll. Like a self-sacrificing movie grunt I threw myself on the grenade (did the curve-jumper-into-a-makeshift-bag thing and swiped the lot into it) and ran in heroic slo-mo through the house, skittling old folk left and right, till I made it outside to the bin.

In that final moment, when instinct took over, I was not immune to the smell. I remember the smell. I don't think I could ever forget that smell. I'm a reasonable guy. But, in that moment, I experienced a very unreasonable smell.
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 1:56, 1 reply)
It has been many years since I lost the ability to fart silently.
The best I can do now is let the fog horn blow* while I'm alone in an elevator and then hope that someone gets on when I get off.

*Van Morrison - 'Into the Mystic'
(, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 1:54, Reply)
Visiting Australia, I noticed roadkill there doesn't smell the same as American roadkill. Sweeter, somehow. Why is that? Different bacteria? Is kangaroo meat more savory than deer? It is a mystery.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 23:59, 5 replies)
Enough formaldehyde to choke a horse :(
What's he building in there?
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 23:33, 1 reply)
Not a smell, but a noise
Off topic but, meh, Im bored and stuck at work til 07:30 tomorow morning.

Few months ago I had to go on a course at a small, local hsopital. Said hospital had an education department which had large, unisex, toilets. I finished my course and popped for a pee in a cubicle before the long drive home. The main door goes and I hear (feminine) footsteps and a door close; then the most almighty pissing sound - like a race horse. I finished, and was in a hurry to vacate before the female fire hydrant came out, so i bolted to the sink, washed my hands and as I was drying, the perpetrator came out; about 10 stone, 5' 2". Couldnt belive such a small person produced so much piss, at such pressure.

Star Wars.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 22:38, Reply)

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 22:25, 1 reply)
and a question?
What is THAT smell that envelops Banbury?
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 21:41, 8 replies)
when is it unacceptable? exactly?
Farting in bed. At some point in every relationship must come the first time a fart happens whilst you are both in the bed and it is "accepted". This then opens the door for wholesale abuse of the privilege, something I have abused a lot over the years.

A particularly memorable occasion concerns the fart I let rip well after she had gone to sleep. Even the cats vacated the room and I was just thinking "thats really smelly", and she woke up.

I think the first words from Mrs G were " That's an awful smell, was that you?".

By this time I'm really laughing at my prowess.

"That fart was so bad it woke me up!"

I couldn't keep my mirth in at this point and the final point was:

"And what's worse is that you're really proud of it"
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 21:35, Reply)

(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 19:11, Reply)
..and I had a bit of an upset stomach. Not to offend anyone, I went to the loo and had a massive poo, with some quite astonishing aromas.

While I was safely locked in the cubicle, I heard my boss (who's quite a scary man and definitely ranks highly on the psycopath scale) come into the toilet and start shouting.


Which meant another round of spectacularly noxious aromas, and we entered a vicious circle of verbal to gaseous explosions.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 18:54, 3 replies)
Baby Poo Demons
When our daughter was just over a year old, my husband and I took her, his ancient grandparents, and mother out for a nice Chinese meal. Batty old great-gran decided that somewhat iffy scallops in brown sauce was suitable food for a tiny tot, and proceeded to pop them into her mouth when we weren't looking. The child began to cry about half an hour later, and we made our excuses and drove home (an hour's drive from the restaurant). In the meantime she had passed said iffy scallops. And passed more when we got home. And more after that. Needless to say, it was if the gates of hell had opened a day-old seafood restaurant in our small apartment. We opened every window, despite it being the middle of December, and still could hardly breathe. Poor child eventually just passed out from exhaustion.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 18:27, Reply)
I was once sitting in the bath putting various computer peripherals up my Mr Matey-lubed rectum
when I had a sudden urge to break wind. Long story short I guffed out my own mouse.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 18:22, 4 replies)
Y'all remember that time when...
...all the farmers in europe made the entirety of Britain reek of shite? This is why we should all vote UKIP.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 18:22, 2 replies)
Team Unbuilding
Way, way back, when there was more money and everyone was doing it, I was sent on a work retreat for Team Building. Now, this retreat was at a really swank resorty place, that had unlimited cheesey, fatty, delicious foods. Having gorged on a huge double-decker cheese and mushroom omelette for breakfast, I found myself in a Team Building activity that involved passing team members through some sort of cargo net to the other side. I volunteered to go first, which would involve my being strong enough to dive through the net hole (without touching it, I believe), place my hands on the ground opposite, and have two other team members pass my legs through, all wheelbarrowlike. Well, I dove through, planted my hands on the ground, and as my team members grabbed onto my legs, out came the foulest eggy cheesey stink ever from my nether regions. All the team had gathered around at that point, and everyone got it fair in the face. Because it was Team Building, however, no one could say anything or do anything but hold their breath and continue with the activity. Mortified, I was!
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 18:17, 2 replies)
Rotten rubbish bin
A few years ago, I returned from a two-week summer holiday to find my back garden looking like the setting for a midget version of I'm A Nonentity Get Me Out Of Here. Time to drag the lawnmower out of the shed then.

A few minutes later I was working up a sweat which must have left me smelling pretty rank, before unhitching the mower's grass box and setting off up the garden to empty it into the brown bin, that chocolate-hued two-wheeled device for kitchen and garden rubbish we had recently been given by the council. What I didn't know is a) some old fruit and vegetable remnants had been left in the bottom of the bin while we had been away on holiday and b) said two weeks had been unseasonably hot for an English summer. Said food waste had therefore turned to unrecognisable sludge.

As I opened the bin to empty the grass in, the most extreme incredible stench hit my nostrils. It was as if Satan himself had given himself an enema, then re-ingested the contents and shat them back out again. Baby poo covering a hundred rotting corpses could not have smelled worse.

I dropped the grass box and almost keeled over, before spewing up the (thankfully small amount of) food in my gut at the time onto the patio. A quick spray with the hosepipe got rid of that, and I then emptied what grass I hadn't spilled everywhere into a plastic bin sack. I don't recall who eventually dealt with the putrid horrors in the brown bin - someone else's problem of course.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 17:40, Reply)
Burning oil depot. Ick
I used to live in Hemel Hempstead. Like any sane person, I got out, but not until after a big chunk of it had been improved by the biggest non-nuclear explosion in history. If you're expecting a hair-raising tale of how I was millimetres away from being atomised, I must disappoint, my home at the time (11th Dec 2005) was just about exactly 1km from the Buncefield oil depot as it exploded, so I got a pretty comprehensive awakening but no damage

We were, however, downwind of it. Over the next hour we were choked by a series of clouds of various sorts of vapours (sometimes diesel-ish, sometimes more like paraffin, some of them seemed as much to be vapourised petrol products as smoke from the burning of them). Briefly, it rained fire,which although damaging the paint on my car a bit, caused no real issues as it was a cold and thankfully damp morning

The smells were rank. Everyone in our street had sore throats for days afterwards and felt like we'd tried to top ourselves through the old car-and-hosepipe method but failed. Ever since, I find walking along roads with heavy traffic to be more acutely unpleasant than I ever did before

Oh, and all the trees in our street died. Never figured out exactly why.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 17:20, Reply)
One Boy One Cup
Back when I was small I'd stumbled on to realisation that your own farts smell pretty good. Further thought and I'd noted that by the time they reach your nose they'd been pretty diluted. Just imagine if you could capture the fart whole! How amazing would that smell? In the bath that night I got a cup, filled it with water and strategically positioned it upside down. Burbling came from below and success! Carefully I moved my nose to the water's edge, lifted the cup and inhaled good and proper.

...And nearly vomited on the spot. Your own farts smell reasonable BECAUSE they've been diluted. Don't go to the source.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 17:18, 6 replies)
Have you ever trodden in shit in the moonlight?
It smells quite, quite bad.
(, Fri 17 Jan 2014, 16:22, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1