Inane Banter

A Question of Etiquette

I have a quandary that occurred last week at the gym.

What is the correct way to respond to seeing an elderly gentleman naked and spotting that his gonads are frankly wrong?

I’m no medical doctor but I do possess a pair myself and with the internet you’re probably never more than two clicks away from plummage even if you don’t want to see it. However even my amateur knowledge are advanced enough to know that each one should be roughly the size of a baby’s head. Once I’d clapped eyes on these monsters my mind started racing, had nobody ever told him they weren’t natural, had his wife never seen another pair before and assumed they all looked like that, had the man never ejaculated in his life before, should I suggest he see a doctor, had he seen me staring, could he even sit down or cross his legs, had he read Buster Gonad, did he have a wheelbarrow, how on earth did he run at the gym?

What is the correct polite response? I just got changed and walked away still none the wiser and I’m scared to google to find out just in case it comes with images.


Cadbury’s Full English Breakfast

Today’s creation is a celebrity meal. As featured in his weekly column the creator of this recipe is none other than the master of misery, the baron of belligerence, the archdeacon of arsiness, Britain’s youngest ever curmudgeon, the one, the only Mr Charlie Brooker. To quote the article on the take over of Cadbury by evil Cheesemeisters Kraft,

Cadbury’s Full English Breakfast bar would contain the real thing: fried egg, bacon, chips and beans, mashed and compacted into a Crunchie-sized slab, covered with a layer of ketchup, then swaddled in thick Dairy Milk chocolate. It’d look and weigh about the same as a Double Decker. And yes, it sounds disgusting – but you’d have to try it once, wouldn’t you?

Yes Charlie, you would have to try it once.

I’ve modified the recipe as I’ve never had chips for breakfast and I think beans would cause the resulting bar to be too sloppy. Fear not, my replacements are stalwarts of the breakfast plate, sausages and black pudding.

Firstly I pre-cooked the meat until it was nearly done. I figured I might as well make sure everything was cooked before I started deviating from human cookery too far.

Into the blender to mince everything into a nice carne concrete ready to mix with the egg to hopefully create our meat “biscuit.”

I then had to scoop that muck into my hands to form a large flat patty. I hoped I could cut the shape out once cooked. Uncooked meat can be a shape-shifting, fickle mistress once placed in the pan. You can have that tip free of charge.

I melted the chocolate whilst the meat cooked.

Once melted I poured a little of the chocolate onto a piece of clingfilm to form the base. I’d seen this done on a programme when they made nice chocolates. I wasn’t making nice chocolates but that was no reason to ignore handy hints. Yes that really is chocolate!

When the patty had cooked I cut out a chunk to the correct size and shape of a crunchy bar. As a control to find out exactly how lovely the addition of chocolate was I ate some of the meat mixture on it’s own.

Imagine the meatiest thing you can, maybe a nice steak, maybe a plate full of offal or maybe even sausages wrapped in bacon. Times that by about ten and that’s how meaty this mixture tasted. My chest hair visibly grew after eating it, that’s how meaty we are talking. It was tasty though.

I placed the slab ‘o’ meat onto the chocolate base, gave it a squirt of ketchup and poured the rest of the chocolate over the top.

I wonder what the camera decided to focus on in this picture because I can’t find anything?

I then wrapped the whole thing in the cling, shaped it and popped it into the fridge for a little while until it set.

What came out looked like a chocolate bar, albeit a bar that had been left on the dashboard of a transit van during a nice summers day.

Cutting into it revealed the full horror.

It looks like somebody is in the process of performing an autopsy on fat Jock McLardy the fattest man in the whole of Scotland who had just died after an evening spent trying to break the world haggis eating competition.

It tasted worse. For the first time in my culinary adventures I really struggled to force down one mouthful. Four hours later I can still feel that one bite lying in my stomach mocking me, I think it just called me a pussy. I can’t actually describe the taste in culinary terms. Imagine Boris Johnson taking an Oompa Loompa up the wrong ‘un whilst listening to Alan Titchmarsh sings Radiohead. Convert that to a taste and you’re nearly there.

Sorry Charlie, stick to raging about things, your recipes are terrible.

Inane Banter

Official Gibberish Provider of London 2012

I’ve just bought a chocolate bar and discovered that Cadbury appear to be the “official treat provider of London 2012”

Not the women’s volleyball then?