Free The Donut Diaries by Dermot Milligan Page A

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    Then there was the even trickier problem of the poo itself. Doc Morlock was going to do her scientific test on it and find out exactly what I’d been eating. Then she was going to feed back to my mum.
    Then it was Camp Fatso. Plus I’d feel like I’d let everyone down, which is even worse. OK, feeling like you’ve let everyone down isn’t, actually, worse than being sent to fat prison, but it’s still pretty rubbish.
    But what could I do? I couldn’t talk about it with the guys at school. Somehow news would spill out, like poo from Doc Morlock’s little pot. Couldn’t even talk about it with Jim. It was just too embarrassing and yucky.
    Stop eating donuts, then?
    Unthinkable.
    Even thinking about thinking about it is unthinkable, which is why I’m not going to think about thinking about thinking about it.
    All this not thinking about things is making me hungry. And what do I have in my secret drawer?
    Ah yes, two fresh, moist, succulent, irresistible donuts.
    DONUT COUNT:

Saturday 30 September
    RENFREW CAME ROUND today, along with Corky. It was a bit weird having a play date with my new mates.
    NOTE TO SELF: IT’S NOT A PLAY DATE WHEN YOU’RE AT BIG SCHOOL. IT’S JUST CALLED ‘HANGING OUT’ .
    NOTE TO SELF: HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU ABOUT USING THE TERM ‘BIG SCHOOL’?!!!!!
    Corky seemed a bit more relaxed than he was at school. His stutter was still really bad, though, and it took him about ten minutes to say hello. Renfrew sort of looks after him, which is kind of nice.
    We were in my room when Corky did this fart that sounded exactly like that song, ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’. It was about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Also pretty gross, of course, especially when you considered that I had to sleep in that room, and the fart gas was going to linger in there for some time, hanging under the ceiling or lurking behind the curtains.
    Actually, it didn’t smell that bad, considering how long it had gone on for. Jim says that short farts are more pungent, but I’ve always thought it was the really long ones that do the damage. My theory is that the first bit of the fart is fairly harmless as it’s really just froth and air. But once you get down to the last dying bit of a long fart, you’ve got some really toxic stuff in there. It’s the dregs, and there’s more to it than just gas. We’re talking chunks. I know the fairly innocent Corky long fart seems to weigh in on Jim’s side of the question, but that’s because we’re ignoring another dimension – the loudness. As everyone knows, the silenter a fart is, the more deadly. So you have to integrate that fact with the data we have about the duration.
    You need to think about it like a graph. If the duration of the fart represents the x-axis, then the loudness of the fart is the y-axis, with the loudest fart at the bottom of the axis.

    For any fart, the toxicity (i.e. poisonousness) is measured by plotting both the length and the loudness of the fart. The worst farts are the long, slow silent ones. The least nasty are the short loud ones.
    In the example here (all these farts are hypothetical), Fart A is the least noxious, as it has both low duration (or length) and high loudness. Fart F, on the other hand, is long and quiet and would therefore be a real killer.
    Anyway, all this stuff about farts gave me an idea.
    ‘Corky,’ I said. ‘If you can sing “Yes, We Have No Bananas”, couldn’t you sometimes say other things, you know, using your butt? I mean, when you get stuck.’
    Corky thought for a moment, looking deadly serious. Then he lifted up one buttock and farted a clear and distinct ‘Yes!’
    We laughed so much that my dad came out of the toilet to see what was going on.
    A bit later Jim came round, but I asked my dad to tell him that I wasn’t in. I wasn’t ready yet to mix up home and school friends. My dad gave me a funny look and began to say that it was wrong to tell lies for no good reason, but then