Inane Banter


If somebody came up to me in the street and said “John Prescott has a disorder, guess what it is?” I wouldn’t have been able to get it.

If somebody came up to me in the street and said “John Prescott has an eating disorder, guess what it is?” I still wouldn’t have guessed it.

If somebody came up to me in the street and said “John Prescott has an eating disorder beginning with B, guess what it is?” I still would have gone for binge drinking first.

So it’s fair to say I was somewhat shocked to discover that Prescott suffered from bulimia. How do you get to be that size and chuck up a lot of what you eat? I can picture him dressed in a skimpy toga reliving the excesses of a Roman emperor stuffing his face with pies. Actual just imaging that has made me sick up a little in my mouth so I can see how it could happen.

Inane Banter

Very Fishy

I see the other week that an Irish swimmer had tested positive for a banned substance.

What sort of substances are banned for swimmers? I mean things like propellers and flippers are going to be easily spotted. Even subtle things like gills will be easy enough to spot when he starts to flap around on the winners rostrum.

My bet? The guy’s on plankton.

Inane Banter

Gym Slip-Up

I was at the gym the other day that upset me somewhat.

It wasn’t the notice pointing out that the gym was stopping filling the shampoo dispensers right next to the shiny, new machine selling shampoo that just happened to spring up about the same time they stopped filling the dispensers.

It wasn’t the ripped pair of pants that seem to be discarded in the changing room on a weekly basis. I’m not sure if lots of men are wearing pants that are dangerously close to collapse and that a vigorous workout is a sufficient tipping point. Or it might be one man whose ball sweat has the chemical structure as concentrated acid. Whoever the owners of these pants were they had decided, as always, the best place to put broken pants isn’t in the gym changing room bin, or to hide them in a sports bag to be disposed of at home but to leave them in a crumpled heap on the floor so others may gaze on their sweaty, broken majesty.

It wasn’t the men who don’t have that little voice inside their heads. The little voice that says, “we all like chatting with friends, who doesn’t, however most of us don’t do it less then one foot away from said friend, talking loudly, naked, hands on hips with cock thrust proudly forwards.”

That man was there, mid-way between the abandoned pants and the shampoo vending machine but he wasn’t the problem either. The problem was on the bench right next to where I had placed my bad. Here in the middle of a busy men’s changing room was an empty box. The box itself wasn’t worrying, the words on the box however were.

“Sports Bra”

My mind raced with the possibilities. Somewhere in this building could well be a very short-sighted women. A women so short-sighted that she hadn’t seen the large, rather torn, pants or seen the man’s cock despite his best thrusting efforts. She had managed to get changed without noticing any of this and had then gone training. Worse, still she could now be showering and about to return to right next to where I was standing.

Even worse, it could be a man. A man so large his body required the support of a sports bra while exercising. A man of that size coming back from a run, dripping in sweat, pulling back his shirt to reveal his moobs straining at a bra was not a sight I wanted to see.

Worse still was now the possibility that someone would come and get changed next to me, see the box and assume I like wearing bras. I don’t and if I did I think I’d go for a lacy little number with a pretty bow on it, but I don’t and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

I was tempted to use the camera in my phone to capture proof of this box. I then realised the one thing worse than all of that would be a man taking a picture of a box with a bra on it whilst a man stands in the background thrusting his cock about.