It was a gorgeous spring morning in Buckinghamshire. The morning sun had just started to rise and begun to elegantly shine over the vast meadows and beam through the trees that lined the idyllic British countryside. In one sleepy hamlet stood the Roebuck Farmstead, a large, charming farmhouse made of beautiful aged stone, surrounded by fields and hedge rows, effectively removing it from civilisation. The sunlight poked brightly through the window of the master bedroom, waking the master of the house, Oliver Charles, from his slumber.

Oliver Charles was the transport liaison for Downing Street: a seemingly important position on paper, although realistically, it was a position that involved very little actual work, as Oliver had teams of staff on hand to do pretty much everything he needed. Anything that required Oliver to lift a finger simply spurred him to request someone else to do it for him, regardless of the cost to the taxpayer. Despite this, Oliver's position still commanded a lot of his time, and getting precious time away from London was very rare indeed. It was a lifestyle that was hard for Oliver to get used to at first, and even more difficult for Rup Fel Fotch Pasameer-Day Slitheen, the large green Raxacoricofallapatorian alien that was impersonating Oliver.

The real Oliver Charles met his fate a week earlier at the hand (or claw) of Rup and two of his Slitheen brothers. Oliver Charles' rotund and flabby frame was perfect for Rup to squeeze himself into, thanks to the help of the compression collar that Rup wore on his neck. Rup enjoyed being Oliver from the very beginning. His brother Jocrassa was busy impersonating a House of Commons MP, constantly having to deal with his demanding constituents, and his sister Blon was impersonating an Mi5 agent whose main job was sitting at a computer in a dull office all day. Rup, on the other hand, got to bark orders at the young Downing Street interns to do his bidding whilst taking all the credit for their work, and had easy access to the No. 10 cafeteria, which served exquisite rich and fatty foods every day. It was perfect for Rup in order to maintain his large, bulky Slitheen figure, and it was even better for keeping up appearances as Oliver, who was known for loving his food.

The morning air crept into the bedroom and stimulated Rup's nose. Combined with the bright sunlight now filling the room, Oliver, who was still in bed, tried to turn away from the window to block out the light and rest for longer. As if on purpose, his alarm clock began to buzz and bleep loudly, irritating the Raxacoricofallapatorian. He let out an annoyed, primal hiss at the alarm clock before jamming his hand on the top button, turning it off. Frustrated, Oliver dragged his almost-naked body out of bed with effort, stretching his arms upward with a yawn. His belly let out a loud, inhuman gurgle. Oliver strained and pushed out a long, wet fart. PBLRRRTTTT!

Oliver moaned with delight and chuckled. The farting was caused by the gas exchange, an unfortunate side effect of squeezing his large alien frame into a smaller human one. His brothers and sisters would constantly bemoan the gas exchange, citing the embarrassment and conspicuousness it brought to their disguised selves. Rup was the odd one out, he enjoyed the gas exchange he found pleasure in letting the gas build up just to push it out, and there was a child-like humour it brought seeing his colleagues' disturbed faces when he would openly fart in front of them.

The smell was also unique. The Raxacoricofallapatorians at first thought it was repugnant, as it disturbed their highly sensitive sense of smell, but Rup acclimatised to the new stimulus quicker than the others, taking pride in the smells he would produce. The rotten scent quickly overpowered the fresh morning air from the bedroom in which Oliver was stood. His wife, a significantly younger and more petite woman, then walked in the room, holding a laundry basket with one arm. She was already wide awake and fully dressed, unlike Oliver, who was stood proudly inhaling his fart and wearing nothing but tight black Y-fronts.

"My God, Oliver! What did they feed you at work yesterday?" she said, covering her nose with her free hand.

Oliver turned round to face his wife, chuckling childishly. "Cabbage and bean tartlets," he said, closing his eyes and punctuating the words with an airy parp. "Sorry 'bout that, dear."

"It's fine," his wife said weakly. She took an old t-shirt out of the laundry basket and covered her nose with it. "I'm doing laundry. Give me those undies you're wearing."

Oliver obediently bent down and removed the underwear he had slept in, leaving his human form completely naked. He tossed the underwear into the laundry basket, and placed both hands on his wide hips, looking at his wife gleefully.

"Well… I'm naked now. And it's my day off. Fancy a little fun?" he said, moving his hands onto his protruding belly. His stomach gurgled loudly once again in response, causing another fart to slip out. "Oops!" he giggled.

"I can't, Ollie," his wife replied, exasperated. "I've got too many errands to run today. I'm just about to stick this load of laundry on, then I've got to head out and get my hair done, and get the shopping in. I'll be out all day. Oh, and because I'll be out, be sure to let Jack in, it won't be long before he gets here."

Rup was confused. He already found it difficult memorising all these new human names and faces, 'Jack' seemed to have slipped his memory.

"Oh, yes, Jack. Of course," he mumbled, still trying to figure out just who this person was.

"Anyway, I've got to get on. Enjoy your day off, love. And open a window in here!"

His wife spun round and walked out. Rup could hear her footsteps on the stairs. As soon as he knew she was out of earshot, he carelessly ripped some more loud wet farts, snickering after each one.