Mr Methane meets The Burper King on Japanese TV again & plays toilet videos

The Burper King and Mr Methane preparing at Westminster

Last October, I blogged about the occasion when my chum Mr Methane, the world’s only professional farter, met Guinness world record holder Paul Hunn, ‘The Burper King’.

They were appearing on a Japanese TV show called Sekai no Hate Made Itteq! (Let’s Go to the Ends of the World!) hosted by Japanese comedian Ayako Imoto.

The Japanese were back again for more last month and, at the weekend, they transmitted their piece on Japanese TV (there was an embargo on what was in it until today). Last week, Mr Methane and Paul Hunn told me what happened during the filming. They met at about 10.30 one sunny morning near Westminster Bridge in London…

“Basically,” Paul told me, “we had the chance to ad lib a few. There were lots of people around so there were various looks of disgust and horror apart from the Japanese tourists, who instantly recognised Imoto and seemed very impressed.”

Filming for Japanese TV in a gondola on the London Eye

“Then, obviously,” said Mr Methane, “we did lots of farting and carrying on up in a gondola of the London Eye and then we did a scene where we’re farting and belching in the car going between the different attractions.

“We tried to get into the British Museum but were not allowed. You have to have a Media Pass and they couldn’t get it until the next day – they only allow so many in on each day… At least, that’s what we were told. Maybe they just didn’t like the idea of a man dressed in green farting and a guy belching.

“Then we went to a pub near the Oval and, because Paul’s a world record holder for belching, Imoto looked through a book and found a world record we could all do, which was sorting socks. The record was 17 pairs of socks in a minute into a box and, if we didn’t beat it, we had to eat a raw chilli.”

Paul explained: “I think the record used to be held by a Japanese guy, but he was beaten a while ago. You get 30 pairs of socks, separated and jumbled-up and you have to sort as many as you can into pairs inside a minute.”

Mr Methane went first.

“I only managed 8 pairs,” he told me, “so I had to eat this raw chilli. They were very delighted when I was giving it plenty of like… y’know…  Whooaaa! I’m burning up! and so on… and drinking milk.”

“I managed to sort 9 pairs,” said Paul. “So then I had to eat the chilli. I bit round the edge to avoid the seeds, but I made the fatal error of touching my eyes. As you know, after you eat chillies, you don’t touch your eyes or ‘touch downstairs’. I couldn’t see for about 15 minutes afterwards and I instantly had hiccups as well. I can only think that’s what CS gas feels like – but without the hiccups.”

“How did the Japanese react?” I asked.

“Oh! They loved seeing me in agony!” he said.

After that, our dynamic audio duo went to The Exhibit pub in Balham which has a video game in the urinals.

“There are only two or three of these in this country,” says Paul. “and ten in the world. The guy who runs the pub is the guy who invented it. He was on Dragon’s Den and didn’t get very far with it, but he says the idea has really taken off since the programme.”

“They probably thought he was taking the piss,” I suggested.

Paul did not react.

“There’s a screen above the urinal,” explained Paul, “and a sensor underneath and you pee to operate the game. There are three or four different urinals. There was talk of us using water bottles and pretending to pee, if we couldn’t rise to the occasion with all the film crew around us. But we managed.

“One of the games was a quiz which involved a Yes/No answer, so you aimed either right or left to give your answer.

“Another involved painting a picture. There was a picture and you just aimed your pee all over the place to colour it in…”

“Like water colours?” I asked.

Paul continued doggedly:

“There was another game where penguins came down a ski slope and you had to keep trying to hit them.”

“This is all free?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Obviously, it was quite crowded with all the Japanese film crew in there with the two of us and she’s standing there shouting at us and commentating over the top of it.”

“And these games are in the pub the whole time?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” said Paul.

“So it’s all up and running.” I said.

Paul did not react.

He and Mr Methane are true professionals. Here they are on the previous episode of Sekai no Hate Made Itteq!

The DVD which puts the art into Mr Methane’s fart (& Piers Morgan’s face)

Mr Methane does a sound check with Yuri before the filming

A film about cakes and farting which surprisingly seems to have slipped under the radar of world critics is a 12-minute movie of variable title directed by Swiss film maker Yuri A.

According to one official description of the film, it was titled simply “S” in 2007:

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S is like life: short and shitty. No market research, no demographic segmentation, nothing but imagination and attitude. 100% analogue. A bad film, but good enough for you. Cakes evoke in general only good feelings, while farts, some of the most commonest substances around, shock, repel and offend. But the consequence of a culinary dish is always a fart. It can not be repressed.

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I first became aware of the film in 2004, when my chum Mr Methane, the world’s only professional flatulist, flew to Zürich to make an appearance in a project with the working title Cakes & Farts. Afterwards, he issued some publicity:

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Mr Methane Arsesists With Cakes & Farts Film Project.

Mr Methane has recently been working with award-winning Brazilian born film maker Yuri A on her latest project “Cakes And Farts” a 10 minute short film about eating cakes and farting. As well as Mr Methane, the film also stars Flin an 8 year old child and Maria the Butt Dancer.

Mr.Methane says: “I enjoyed taking part in the film very much, Not only did I get to grunt a few out, I also got to eat a selection of nice tasting cakes as well. But it was all in the name of Art and Public Education.”

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Then, last November, there was more news from Mr Methane:

“For many years,” he said, “I lost the scent in terms of what was happening with this project. In fact once a few years ago, while doing a Google search to see if it had ever been  released, I came upon a YouTube-type video of a lady plonking her G-stringed backside into a chocolate cake before removing herself from the same and farting at the camera with a proximity that was too close for comfort.

“This, for some strange reason, reminded me of Piers Morgan blowing raspberries with his face covered in melted chocolate. I was scared and gave up hope of ever seeing the film in its finished form, so it was nice to hear from Yuri A a few weeks back with news that the film is now available on DVD under the title of Fart Adventures.

“If anyone is looking for another Mr Methane Lets Rip comedy DVD, then this isn’t it. This is a high-end art film about a bottom-end subject. It is produced on 16mm film and seemingly shot in the high-key, high-contrast, super-saturated hues of children’s’ advertising.”

At the time, Mr Methane pointed out that Fart Adventures was retailing for 59 Swiss Francs – around £40 per copy – excluding postage and packing.

“Maybe,” he told me, “they are hoping that the bottom has not fallen out of the fart movie market. I’m not exactly sure who is going to buy such a high art production on DVD at a time when DVDs themselves are not selling and when they do a Lord of the Rings  Trilogy (Theatrical Edition Box Set) for £7.99 – £10.99 on Amazon.”

The DVD: surprisingly not yet a bestseller

The Fart Adventures DVD, with the subtitle Rectum Spectrum, is currently available for 39 Euros (£31.44p at the time of posting) and includes not just Cakes + Farts (12 mins) but also Farts (4 mins), Definitions of Art (5 mins), Shit (6 mins) and UNKO (8 mins) with this explanation:

“The title of ‘Unk’ (or “UNKO”), an invented monosyllabic word intended to function through its acoustic qualities and associations, strongly recalls both Dada poems and babes’ speech.”

 So there you have it: the DVD which puts the art into Mr Methane’s fart.

Mr Methane causes a right Royal stink with his “God Save The Queen” ringtone

Mr Methane blows his own trumpet for Queen Elizabeth II

My chum Mr Methane from Macclesfield knows how to cause a stink. He is, after all, the world’s only professional performing farter.

But he is also a true patriot and says he wants to capture the British nation’s nostalgic mood in this glorious Diamond Jubilee year with his unique rendition of God Save the Queen on what he calls his bottom bugle. His press release starts:

I’ve spent most of my life looking back, so I think I know a thing or two about nostalgia. Over the last sixty years of Her Majesty’s reign, the wind of change has blown through Britain and all its pink bits on the map. My latest release celebrates this. 

When Her Majesty first sat on the throne, it coincided with Edmund Hillary conquering the heights of Mount Everest. I cannot compete with that, but I hope my Royal Fanfare will reach new heights of memorability.

It may well do. The ringtone was released yesterday morning, but he has already received 19 e-mails complaining about it. He is unrepentant.

“Perhaps it sounds like me blowing my own trumpet,” Mr Methane told me in the early hours of this morning, “but I think my long experience means I’m uniquely placed to put the ring into ringtone.”

“You are a smooth-tongued wordsmith,” I told him. “But how did you come up with the idea?”

“Well,” he told me, “Originally, I decided to release an iTunes album of various national anthems. But then I realised it’s the Big One this year for Her Majesty. I remembered the Silver Jubilee of 1977 and what fun it was. And then I saw TV news reports of Gary Barlow doing his bit fixing up a concert for this year’s Diamond Jubilee and thought, I’ll release my own very special gift to Her Majesty – a Diamond Jubilee ringtone – with the emphasis on the ring. One that’s slightly more anarchic and in the spirit of 1977 and the Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen than all this current corporate X-Factor-type, pass-me-the-sick bucket, arse-kissing stuff. 

“And yet,” he continued, “it’s actually totally harmless and all in good fun. It’s a very British thing. It’s something we all do. Even Prince Philip… though I suspect he blames it on the Corgis. My ringtone illustrates in just a few short seconds the unique relationship between the British monarch and her people – I mean, John, you really wouldn’t get away with this sort of thing in North Korea.

“I realise some folks,” Mr Methane admitted, “may just see me as one of the many children of Margaret Thatcher and her Thatcherite revolution… just using my dubious talents by jumping on every opportunity to  make a few quid. But no, no… How could anyone really think that of me, John? People are so cynical nowadays. I am a patriot.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Anything else coming up?”

“I have just been approached to appear on France Has Got Talent (La France a un incroyable talent) possibly because, as you know, last year I got through to the semi-finals of Germany’s Got Talent (Der Supertalent). Then, later this year, I’ll be following up the release of my God Save The Queen ringtone with a full album of various fully-farted national anthems… Australia, America, Italy, Germany, France, Sweden and others.”

“Are the British more or less appreciative of the art of flatulism than other places?” I asked.

“I think farting divides the British nation,” Mr Methane replied, “but not in the way you might think. The key to the UK is that, as a whole, we are a tolerant, polite and slightly oppressed nation with a class system that’s still intact and flatulism really takes off in that sort of an environment. The upper class gentry actually like a good fart performance more than the working classes but the middle classes, as a rule, hate it.”

“Will you be sending a complimentary copy of the ringtone to Her Majesty?” I asked.

“If she requested one, of course, I would send her the full blown-version as well as the shortened ringtone version. But, somehow, I suspect any request from the Palace is more likely to come from Prince Philip than from Her Majesty herself.”

“Why a ringtone and not a single?” I asked.

“A whim. But the downside is you have to find it yourself on iTunes. It has no direct link. I  can’t link to it from my website and you can only access it from a mobile phone, not from a computer – You just go to iTunes and search for ‘mr methane ringtone’. It’s only 99p.”

“I smell commercial success,” I told Mr Methane.

“It’s good to be British,” he said. “I look on it as a very British thing.”

Britain’s Got Talent? Well, let me tell you – you ain’t heard the half of it…

Yesterday, I went to see my chum, the professional farteur Mr Methane, being filmed in the basement bedroom of a hotel near Primrose Hill in London – for a TV show which, alas, I am not allowed to describe until late next month at the earliest.

Apparently the series gets around 20 million viewers worldwide – more than the almost 14 million hits his Britain’s Got Talent clip currently has on YouTube.

While sitting around during the filming, I did have a chance to meet for the first time Paul ‘Burper King’ Hunn, the man who holds the record for the loudest burp in the world.

These two great audio entertainment legends had not met in the flesh until yesterday, so it was a historic day in bodily function circles. I felt privileged to be there.

Paul Hunn has held his distinguished Guinness Book of Records title since 2000 and still does but, he tells me, he is not in this year’s printed book because Guinness do not print every record every year – something which I had not realised.

How strange, I thought.

But the logic, it seems, is that if they printed every record every year then, with some records standing unchallenged over long periods, the book might seem too ‘samey’ every year. So not every record is printed every year.

Paul’s friend Steve Taylor holds the record for having the world’s longest tongue but, this year, he tells me, the Guinness Book of Records only includes the girl with the longest tongue.

According to The People newspaper in 2007, Steve Taylor can “fit five ring doughnuts on his monster. And he is only millimetres away from licking his own elbow – a feat always thought impossible.”

The full abilities of the girl with the longest tongue in the world remain strangely unreported.

I felt a slight tremble of trauma when Paul, the Burper King, mentioned the Guinness Book of Records to me, as I am still recovering from the emotional turmoil of them rejecting spaghetti juggling as a legitimate activity for their records during Malcolm Hardee Week at his year’s Edinburgh Fringe.

At the time, I felt spurned and strangely soiled.

They said spaghetti-juggling was “a little too specialised”.

Now, having recovered a little from the worst of my grief, I feel they simply did not show fitting respect to the sense of adventure and exploration of the unknown which made Britain great.

After leaving the hotel yesterday, with the sounds of Mr Methane and the Burper King still ringing in my ears, wistful memories came into my mind of booking Adrian ‘Nosey’ Wigley, a man from the West Midlands who could play the tune Spanish Eyes on an electric organ with only his nose.

Well, rumour had it that his nose was not the only one of his bodily protuberances with which he could play the electric organ, but modesty and a presumed inability to actually screen anything else on national TV meant I questioned him no further on his other physical abilities.

Sometimes, in the lengthening twilight of my years, I think fondly of Adrian ‘Nosey’ Wigley and sigh a sigh of contentment that, after booking him on The Last Resort with Jonathan Ross, my life has perhaps not been totally in vain.

“Britain’s Got Talent” – farting around causes national outrage in Romania

(This blog was also published in the Huffington Post)

My chum Mr Methane, the world’s only professionally performing farteur, caused a bit of a stink when he appeared on Britain’s Got Talent in 2009 and now he has innocently caused national outrage in Romania.

Last Thursday, viewers were happily watching the current affairs programme Stirea Zilei (News of the Day) on Antena3 TV. Presenter Gabriela Vranceanu Firea was hosting a serious political debate which included former Romanian Prime Minister Adrian Nastase who, not surprisingly was critical of the current ruling politicians.

Then, 16 minutes 25 seconds into the show, they screened footage of Mr Methane on Britain’s Got Talent, farting the Romanian national anthem. The whole Stirea Zilei show is online here:

http://inregistrari.antena3.ro/view-06_Oct-2011-Stirea_Zilei-10.html

The relevant clip was also posted on YouTube:

Angry Romanians enraged that Mr Methane had insulted their nation complained to the TV station, complained to YouTube and contacted Mr Methane direct by e-mail demanding an apology before realising that they had, in fact, been duped.

The TV channel had over-dubbed the sound of a farted Romanian national anthem.

Quite whom they employed to do this complicated task remains a mystery; one suspects a clever videotape editor with a lot of time on his hands.

Reaction included a message from one Dragos B. Baia Mare saying: “My country Romania was humiliated… The people who lead us have allowed my country Romania to be mocked. Try to live dignified and decent. Romanians Awake!”

A more informed but anonymous viewer who had checked the original Britain’s Got Talent clip on YouTube wrote (and I can only go here by what Google Translate tells me):

“To run a movie with a performance of a candidate reprehensible in a contest, with background music is changed intentionally demeaning to every novel that has followed this issue. Especially with how serious it is attitude, not all citizens can check if the original movie in the background was the national anthem or not, the intent to mislead a substantial mass of viewers, is obvious. Last but not least, the use of national anthem for such purposes and to get the audience and to provoke discussion, must be punished.”

I have to agree (I think).

One Romanian who watched the TV show in Bucharest told me: “It felt frustrating and kinda humiliating to see and hear the national anthem being played through the ass.”

A bemused Mr. Methane says: “I’m no stranger to controversy and I don’t mind taking the blame for my own ‘colon coughs’ but, in this case, my botty bugle was not involved. I had been set up and what would really upset me is if this footage has been licensed to be used in this way by TalkbackThames, the UK copyright holder and producer of Britain’s Got Talent…

“I suspect that the Romanian TV channel may have just  gone ahead and used it without their and ITV’s permission. Either way, it’s pain in the arse. I think I deserve an apology from one of them or maybe both. If they want to insult the Romanian national anthem and seek a confrontation with outraged Romanian citizens everywhere, they should take responsibility for their own farting around and not try to pass it off as mine“.

You can see the original Britain’s Got Talent clip without the Romanian national anthem here:

(FOOTNOTE: There was an update and continuation of this blog story two days later here.)

The return of Mr Methane and a Danish TV format which puts “Britain’s Got Talent” into the shade

So Mr Methane, the world’s only professional performing flatulist, phoned me unexpectedly yesterday afternoon. He was at Manchester Airport, on his way back home from Denmark.

He had been flown over to Copenhagen by Danish TV to take part in a show. He had to dress in his green superhero costume and lie on a hospital trolley. He was then wheeled in to the studio so that his green-costume-clad bottom was next to a blindfolded man’s face. As the man’s blindfold was being removed, he farted talcum powder in the man’s face and then had to try to make the guy laugh within 60 seconds.

“That’s quite difficult,” he told me, “because, if you open your eyes and someone you don’t know is farting talcum powder in your face, then you’re not really being put into the sort of relaxed state of mind where you are going to be prone to laugh…you tend not to see the funny side of life immediately… So he didn’t laugh. But it all ended up OK… He won the show because he didn’t laugh and then he was filmed proposing to his girlfriend who said Yes and everybody was happy… At least it was better than doing a Friday night gig at a student union with everyone drunk and shouting…”

When I get phone calls like this, I think I may have led too sheltered a life and I should get out more.

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You can see Mr Methane performing on Britain’s Got Talent here.

Historical farts

Mr Methane phoned me yesterday afternoon, about a show he’s doing in Crawley on the evening of 12th February.

He’s the world’s only professional performing flatulist – a farter to me and you.

He’s very big in Japan and in Sweden and once, entering the United States to appear on shock jock Howard Stern‘s show, was recognised by a Customs man who asked for his autograph.

It has a long tradition.

Farting as entertainment.

People think it was started by Le Pétomane in the late 19th century.

But, even way back in the 13th century, Roland The Farter (also known as Berthold le Fartere) was a specialist jester at the court of England’s King Henry II. His only known duty was, at Christmas time, to perform “Unum saltum et siffletum et unum bumbulum“ (one jump, one whistle and one fart).

They were simpler days.

Britain’s Got Talent, farts, pigeon impersonators and PR spin

The ghost of Malcolm Hardee still stalks the world of comedy and speciality acts six years after his untimely drowning.

In 2009, my chum Mr Methane – the world’s only professionally performing farter and an oft-time performer at Malcolm’s various clubs – was invited to audition for Britain’s Got Talent on ITV. They did not choose him, perhaps because his farts were unusually smelly that day (they usually don’t smell at all and the act is an odour-free zone). But it was worth the trip as the video on YouTubehas so far got almost seven million hits worldwide and it led to him appearing on and reaching the semi-finals of Das Supertalent – Germany’s Got Talent, despite not being German and having no German connections.

And they say the Germans have no sense of the absurd!

On Britain’s Got Talent, the judges perform just as much as the auditionees – they provide OTT, sometimes cartoony, reactions so there is a supply of good cutaway shots for the edited, transmitted show.

It was good to see another regular Malcolm Hardee club performer – Phil ‘The Pigeon Man’ Zimmerman – making the tabloids yesterday by allegedly terrifying Britain’s Got Talent judge Amanda Holden. Getting reported in the Daily Mail is always good news. Especially when they claim you were dressed in a pigeon costume and you weren’t.

According to an ‘audience member’ calling herself Katie Beth who posted on the Digital Spy website, “When the crazy guy was on Amanda looked freaked out and left her seat and spoke to a security guy. Then she went back to her seat only for him to leap off the stage at the end of his ‘performance’. When he jumped off the stage Amanda was straight back out of her seat and stood/hid behind Michael McIntyre who spun his chair round so he was hugging her while security grabbed the crazy man.”

Metro correctly, if less dramatically, reported that Phil had, in fact, only approached the judges to hand out flyers for his comedy club.

And the Chortle website reported that, after the incident, Amanda Holden tweeted on Twitter: “Been possibly the best day we’ve ever had in London for BGT today!! Next week, Manchester here we come!” so I doubt if the lovely Amanda will need too much therapy for post-traumatic stress syndrome.

The spin betwixt truth and publicity is always interesting. But Phil Zimmerman is certainly someone to watch.

I was invited to Phil’s Guy Fawkes Night party last year but couldn’t go – it involved video cameras positioned throughout his house which (as far I remember) were going to stream what was happening inside the house onto the internet. I now wish I had gone. Someone who did go tells me it all ended when an irate neighbour started shooting at the party-goers with an air gun causing mass panic in the garden. When the police eventually arrived, they spent some considerable time crawling around the garden in the dark looking for pellets in the grass…

Phil Zimmerman. The man who brought the Metropolitan Police to its knees.

It sounds almost Hardee-esque in its bizarreness.

On the subject of PR spin and talent, I organise (if that’s the word for it and it probably isn’t) the annual Malcolm Hardee Awards, the real Edinburgh Fringe Awards for comedy. This year, they will be presented during a two-hour stage show on Friday 26th August. Accept no substitutes.

Data protection, a mad inventor, Mr Methane and the Commonwealth Games

After spending the period July 29th to September 30th trying and failing to move my landline and broadband to O2, I gave up. Instead, I signed with Virgin Media’s cable system.

The day before the switch-over, I got a call from Virgin Media saying they wanted to talk to me about the installation but, first, under the terms of the Data Protection Act, they had to ask me for my security details, including my address and the password on my account. I refused. They said, if I did not answer the security questions, my installation would be cancelled. I told the woman I had no way of knowing for certain who she was but that I would tell her my security details if she told me her bank PIN number and home telephone number and I would then check them. She refused, which I thought was a tad unreasonable. I refused to give her my security details. She said, as a consequence, they would cancel my installation. So I phoned back a Virgin Media number where they confirmed it was, indeed, Virgin Media who had called but that they would still install the phone and broadband service. Their previous phone call had been because they had wanted to check if there were any parking restrictions outside my house which might affect the installer’s van.

I complained by e-mail to Virgin Media that they were asking me to give my security details to any caller who claimed they were from Virgin Media. Two days later, I got a call from the Virgin Media Complaints Dept to discuss my complaint but first, the guy told me, I would have to answer security questions including my password. I refused. He seemed surprised.

He then sent me an e-mail saying that, under English law, Virgin Media had to ask for my security details before discussing subjects with me. Virgin Media tell me the Data Protection Act forces them to ask me to give out my security details if they cold call me and want to ask me if I have parking restrictions outside my house. And the Data Protection Act forces them to ask me to give out my security details if they cold call me and… erm… want to inform me that they have to ask me to give out my security details if they cold call me.

Have Telecom companies in the UK been secretly involved in organising the Commonwealth Games? It somehow seems likely.

Virgin Media should think themselves lucky. When I was having trouble with BT and O2 I had pre-emptively arranged for eccentric inventor John Ward to come down to London one afternoon and be photographed with his Bullshit detector (labelled B******T Detector) outside the BT headquarters building. The next day Mr Methane, the world’s only professional farteur, had agreed to come to London in costume and fart at the BT building to see if it made any difference to the hot air emanating from the building. The third day would have involved a farmer whom I know slightly with a large muck-spraying machine.

My current Virgin Media service is erratic. John Ward, Mr Methane and the agricultural muck-spreader remain on standby.

Mr Methane’s act was blown off course in Italy

Mr Methane was performing in northern Italy at the weekend, by the Lakes, and was unable to demonstrate some of the more spectacular parts of his act because of high winds.

The irony. The irony.