The thing about Terry Daley was he suffered from what polite society calls wind. He never saw it as 'suffering' of course. To him it was an endless source of recreation and amusement, a talent handed out by nature, just as worthy as a musical ear or a sculptor's eye. He had a gut for gas.

His masterpiece was the creation of what we christened The Lift of Doom in an otherwise classy and respectable hotel on the Costa del Sol - something he was intensely proud of. He often claimed that first contribution had been purely accidental but I suspect he had carefully chosen his moment - when we were all crammed into the lift, imprisoned on our way to the tenth floor. After that it became a tiresome point of pride with him - every lift journey become a target for his legendary expulsions. In fairness, he wasn't a complete barbarian, he always managed to control himself in the presence of strangers, when he would stand stifling both his giggles and his lower bowel. But with us lads he would simply wait until the doors closed then let rip with enthusiastic abandon. Eventually a permanent 'atmosphere' hung in there causing other guests to emerge socially embarrassed or tutting about Spanish drains. And I had to share a room with the man.

For much of the time on that holiday I banished Terry to the balcony where he was less of a health hazard. In fairness, his workaday Paaarps caused only minor irritation, and the odd blips that slipped out were mostly harmless - that could happen to anyone. But unfortunately there was much, much more to Terry's flatulence than that. He could, in a few seconds, create an atmosphere that left only buildings standing within a half mile radius. When the mood took him he would halt, grimace, bend slightly and go HONK, sounding an actual note, round about an E flat, but a deadly E flat that could fell a man at thirty paces.

Deadlier still was his stealth weapon - an almost inaudible but absolutely lethal pffffffffffffffff. Those who did manage to hear it could think themselves fortunate for the early warning - for the only course of action was to flee immediately for your life and not return until sunrise. However, the most terrifying weapon in his armoury, his doomsday option, was a horrifying, teeth-rattling, gut-churning, trouser-ripping FRRRRRRRRPPRRRRUP PRRRPRRRPFFRRUP!!. This would go off without warning like a First World War artillery barrage, leaving grown men, disorientated, gibbering with shell-shock and gasping for air. How he produced all that noxious gas and lived I don't know. Put a match to Terry and he'd go down like the frigging Hindenburg. And someone should have.

I know this subject might be distasteful to some but they should thank heaven its only onomatopoeia. I saw Terry the other day for the first time in years. "I try to only do it in the bathroom now" he told me wistfully when I enquired whether he was still trumping to international standards, "- the missus doesn't like it." he said.

And I had a brief vision of him in his long-suffering bathroom, a steady drip, drip of something unpleasant from the ceiling, the walls stained and discoloured from the constant fumes, the carpet curling up at the edges, tiles intermittently crashing to the floor. And Terry, exiled there, alone, straining in thoughtful reflection.