“Why are the cats wet, and what’s that smell?”

I have now endured ten sessions of radiotherapy, which means I am half way there. Hooray. But the trips to Newcastle are a drag, I am feeling increasingly weary, and there are hints of complications.

The daily doses of radiation that have been accumulating and doing their job of destroying cancer cells in my prostate, have also been laying waste to innocent adjoining body parts.

One of these  is my cherished anal sphincter, which, until recently, worked under my direction to process poo at an appropriate time and place (usually). Farts were also under close supervision and were usually timed to shock a passing cat.

But the anal sphincter good times are coming to an end. Where once my sphincter was a programmable ring of steel, it now behaves like a faded, shredded wind sock on an abandoned airfield, flapping sadly, unpredictably, in the breeze.

This is most noticeable in my fart frequency, volume and texture. My farts used to be quiet. The sort of farts you could release in mixed company without fear of discovery, provided you changed location rapidly and then looked at a random person with disgust in case there was olfactory fallout. 

No longer. My farting has taken on a symphonic quality, blasting out both major and minor scales at inconvenient moments. If I had more control over the output I reckon I could reproduce the melody to an assortment of popular songs.

There is an additional, more worrying, feature: dampness. This hints at what is known in medical literature* as FFT.

In simple terms, FFT (flatulence follow through) occurs when you expect just a fart but get an extra, unwanted, present. A  soggy poo projectile launched at fart speed. Exciting.
This radiotherapy side effect is discussed  frequently in prostate cancer forums and, although I am yet to experience it, I look forward to terrifying  the cats in new and sticky ways.

*Not really, I made it up.