Yesterday, arriving too early for visiting time at the hospital, I went into a nearby pub to sink a pint whilst waiting.
At first I thought that I had come across a swearing contest : everyone in the place was addressed as a c**t and no sentence, or even part of a sentence, was complete without the descriptive and imaginative use of the word f**king.
But I soon discovered that it was in fact a belching contest I had stumbled across. In fact, it was possibly the belching Olympics. A thickset middle-aged man who looked like he had suffered a hard paper-round started the proceedings with an explosive offering. Glancing round, I noticed that this performance impressed no-one. All the c**ts sat stoney-faced.
Next came a wet, crackling effort from a huge, bald, tattooed f*cker, but this drew no comment whatsoever. I soon knew why - they were all waiting for the champion, a little bandy-legged fellow wearing a cloth cap!
His contribution, which I cannot find superlatives enough to describe, almost lifted the roof and drew roars of protest from the assembled company:
"For f**k's sake, is there no peace in this f**king place, you c**nts?"