Inane Banter

The F Word isn’t Fish

It’s a double whammy of lies and deceit on UK television this past week. First it was Liz in a tizz over photo biz. The impression was that the Queen stormed out of a photo shoot after being asked to remove some of the bling. It later turned out that the storming bit had happened before the photo shoot. So was she storming to the photo shoot instead? Are her crown jewels really cheap, was she rushing to the photo shoot before her crown turned green and gave her a nasty rash?

That was bad enough but the real shock falsehood came later.

It turns out that pug faced, walking swear box Gordon Ramsay didn’t catch his own fucking fish! They hired a fisherman to catch fish beforehand in case Gordon didn’t catch enough. Amazing, a fisherman to catch fish, crazy idea.

Instead of being very still and quiet whilst trying to catch the fish Gordon wasn’t seen waving his arms violently shouting “get in the fucking net you wanky, useless, gilled shitflakes before I punch your cunting fins off.”

Of course in the old days Floyd would have spent all of 10 minutes in a boat taking the piss out of some French sailor mate of his whilst drinking copious amounts of rum before cutting back to the kitchen to show him shoving something he scraped off the bottom of the boat into a huge pan whilst slurring abuse and in-jokes at the camera.

Maybe the reason Gordon couldn’t catch any sea bass was because they were all on the seabed drinking like a Floyd.

For the record, I’d like it stated that whilst I didn’t invent these words I didn’t employ somebody to go out before me and catch them and they are in the same order they originally fell out of my head. This is especially obvious in the long rambling sentence about Floyd.


Sony tampering with 360s – The Proof

The first screenshot of Killzone 2 has been released.

Hype meet meme.

Naughty Helghast

Inane Banter

Live Dearth

I’m afraid I missed live earth today as I was too busy planting plants in our garden. If only I cared more about our planet I could have better spent the time watching super-rich popstars flying into arenas round capital cities in front of thousands of people who’d travelled miles to see them.

Of all the people I thought would love global warming, Bono was top of my list. Sure everybody sweltering under an unforgiving tropical heat isn’t great but at least Bono could walk around wearing sunglasses all the time without looking such a twat. 

Inane Banter Videos

Aer Lingerie

The smoking ban is now complete across the UK but let us not forget the trailblazer in the world of stopping smoking, airlines.

Sometime ago airlines decided that being stuck in a tiny space full of smoke was a bad thing. This was a good thing for non-smokers. This was a bad thing for tall smokers like myself who didn’t relish the idea of being stuck for 14 hours in a confined space full of screaming kids, wankers who put the seats back, makeup smeared women who like to bang your funny bone with a metal trolley every ten minutes with only a broken telly and repeats of Mr Bean to replace the craving for sweet, sweet nicotine.

Hurray then for Ícaro airlines who have decided to take our minds off lighting up with scantily clad ladies (link no longer active sadly). It’s a classic piece of replacement therapy. Every time you get a craving to pop a cigarette in your mouth along comes a lovely with something better for you to crave popping in there.

Hopefully we can see other trades replacing smoking in this way. It’d certainly make my local a better place and I might even enjoy going to work if that was on offer.

Now I’m not a sexist man so it’s only fair they put on some hunks for the women and gay men to oggle. Just make sure their undies aren’t too small. Nobody wants one-eyed trouser snakes on a plane.

Inane Banter

Mixed Messages from the Airport Industry

I read today that Milan airport had to close due to a hare infestation. Apparently the little buggers are swarming over the runways and getting stuck under the wheels of landing planes. Now I’m no aviation expert but that sounds like a bad thing. To a plane it must be the equivalent of stepping out of the bath onto a bar of soap.

All of this must be very confusing to the young male employees at the airport. For years the advice they’d been given had to be reversed.

No longer is, “if there are hares on the runway it’s safe to get your undercarriage out” true.

Inane Banter


Watch out, today we were all warned of a terrible creature coming our way. You have 5 years to prepare. 5 years from now the mighty Zor will descend upon London wreaking havoc amongst the terrified populous. Whole town will be flattened, families ripped asunder, milk soured and other terrible fates await us.

The might Zor!

My mistake, it’s something far worse, it’s the new London 2012 Olympics logo. The only way I can even bear to look at it is to imagine that a Blue Peter competition was held to design the logo and this was the entry in the under fours category by little Timmy. It wasn’t even the best entry but little Timmy has a terrible wasting disease so they fudged the results a little.

Sadly I don’t think little Timmy really had a hand in the design. I’d imagine a team of achingly cool designers sat in an shiny glass studio in a scarily expensive part of London sipping champagne out of virgins’ quims whilst Seb Coe spunked cash at them for a year.

After a year of fannying about they realised they had a day before the deadline to produce a symbol to make the entire nation proud. Luckily one of the designers still had an old school book lying around from when he was a kid in the late ’80s. Despite being from a middle-class background, living with two professional parents, studying a nice school with skin of the purest white he yearned to be black. So when he wasn’t studying hard he was doodling graffiti in his margins. Being brought up in a leafy suburb of London he hadn’t seen any real graffiti so he had to draw upon his main source of black culture which was probably some yoof program hosted by Janet Street-Porter which occasionally featured some black kids breakdancing in a studio cheaply knocked up by technicians to like a street. Brick wallpaper covered with “graffiti” and a few boxes on the floor, that sort of thing.

Cut a long story short, he copied his old schoolbook, got the work experience kid to add London and 2012 on it in Microsoft Paint, sent an invoice out for 12 squillion quid, job done, back to the virgin champagne fountains.

Now I’m not saying I could do better… Actually I am saying I could do better, with fuzzy felts, in the dark, drunk and with both arms wedged in the aforementioned virgin.


Note – Yes I am aware that ZOR is in fact 2012 but it took me 10 minutes wondering what the silly little shapes had to do with anything. I really hope ZOR does come and wipe out London, hopefully in 2011 before the whole sorry charade kicks off.


Irn Bru Update

To make amends for my Diet Irn Bru shame in a previous post I bring you great news for hungover people who can’t be bothered to make egg butties.

Irn Bru Sausages. I’m not sure if it’s genius or disgusting but then I’m the guy who made a Cheese and Pineapple Smoothie so what do I know? If anyone has tried them then let me know if they are tasty or not.

Inane Banter

Going Green

I got a letter from Tesco this morning. On the back it said “Haven’t gone green yet? Open now to see how easy it is.”

For those not living in the UK, Tesco is a massive supermarket chain. To give you an idea how big, out of every £8 spent in the UK on retail £1 of it is spent in Tesco. It’s also the 4th largest retailer in the world. It’s fairly big.

I’m assuming this green letter was sent to all clubcard holders and they weren’t just picking on me for throwing a bottle in the bin or something. According to Wiki there are 13 million active clubcard members in the UK.


  • 13 million full colour envelopes with
  • 13 million little plastic windows sealed with
  • 13 million bits of glue containing
  • 26 million full colour pieces of paper held together with
  • 26 million metal staples delivered by
  • Loads of postmen and women (I couldn’t find out how many) using
  • Loads of vans (with or without black and white cats) drinking
  • A shed load of diesel or petrol

To tell me to recycle my plastic bags which if I do will earn me points that I can spend on food from Tesco that will be sold in huge packaging to con me into thinking the meal is massive.

It’s a good job the paper was recycled. Sainsbury’s sent an email to say the same thing, I’m not sure if they recycled the ones and zeros.


Eggstreme Hangover Cure

Poor Mrs Fatuous is off at a conference over the weekend so yet again I made myself the promise I always make when she’s away.

I will not get absolutely ratted and stay up to a stupid hour in the morning playing online poker effectively throwing away most of Saturday.

As always the promise was broken. As I sat downstairs looking at the empty bottle of vodka with 4am proudly flashing at me from the clock I needed a solution. I had even run out of soft drink so the hangover was going to be strong. I could have drank water but water always seems like a throwback to medieval times. There are many wonderful flavoured drinks around so why settle for the basic, taste free, water. Actually our water tastes of fluoride. Look in the shops for fluoride flavoured food, can’t find it can you? The reason being fluoride tastes awful.

Anyway I needed a plan and I needed it for tomorrow morning. Bless my alcohol soaked brain, it didn’t let me down. All I had to do was remember the plan in the morning. For somebody who spends a large percentage of his time standing in rooms wondering why he’s in that room it’s not a forgone conclusion.

Morning came and, as you may have guessed by the fact I’m writing about it, I did remember the plan. But first I’d need to go to the shops. I decided to walk as my eyes felt like they were actually vibrating. I also thought the fresh air might do me good. The air might have been good but walking up the steep hill with armfuls of shopping was not. I was sweating like a pig, shaking like a shitting dog and wheezing like Vanessa Feltz attempting to climb the European butter mountain.

At last I was ready to start with my cunning plan, a plan I intend to share with you. You’ve done well to stick with it so far so who am I to let you down. Ladies, gentlemen, sweaty pigs, shitting dogs and buttery Vanessas I give you

The Yolktastic Egg Butty Hangover Cure!

As the woman off the M & S adverts would say, “this is no ordinary egg butty.” A hangover cure needs several key features, this butty provides most of them.

  • Grease
  • Bacon
  • Egg
  • Chilli sauce

The only thing it lacks is more alcohol. The more adventurous cook may attempt to add alcohol but I had none left. The key to this recipe is egg yolks. Eggs are nice, eggs contain hangover busting chemical chains but, as every child will tell you, eggs have two distinct parts, well three if you include the shell but nobody eats that. The yolk which is the yellow, tasty bit that also happens to be packed with the chemical chains we wish to ingest and the white which is the frankly the pointless, hanger on which just gets in the way of the yolky joy. If it helps, the white is Pete Doherty to a yolky Kate Moss. The recipe has oodles of Kate with just enough Pete to stop the whole thing going off the rails in a heroin fueled rampage. Hang on I haven’t thought this analogy through have I.

You Will Need

4 eggs
Parma ham (you could use bacon but this is much lighter and makes you look a bit posher than the drunk you really are)
Tabasco sauce (wimps have no place in my kitchen)
A roll (or any other bread based product)
Tommy K (or brown sauce if you prefer, fuck it, use both if you like)
A bottle of Irn Bru


Step 1 – Swig the Irn Bru

Irn Bru

If there’s one thing the Scots know how to do it’s drink. If you lived in a cold, wet, miserable country and went round with a chip on your shoulder bigger than your actual town you’d drink too. Their magical orange coloured wonder-drink should give you the strength to finish the cooking.

Step 2 – Heat some oil in a pan and fry the parma ham.

Mmmmm fatty goodness

That’s your fat right there. Embrace it’s lipid love. When they’re done pop them in a warmish oven to crisp up a little. Keep the frying pan hot for stage 5.

Step 3 – Separate the yolks from the the whites. I use the moving the yolk from one half shell to another method. Do whatever your shaking hands can cope with. The key part is to keep the yolks intact.

Yolks as Scooby Doo might say

Step 4 – Add tabasco and a little salt and pepper to the egg whites. We don’t need much of the whites, just enough to stop the yolks from burning. If you wanted to add alcohol you would add it to the whites here. Whisk them with a fork a little.

Our whites lemonade

Step 5 – This part is the tricky part. Pour a little of the egg whites into the pan and let them fry for a few seconds to slightly firm up. You want enough white to support the 4 yolks but not much more.

Step 6 – Gently slide the yolks out of the half shells on top of the white. Try to get low so as to not break the yolks, you’ll kick yourself if you place three perfectly then screw up the forth. I recommend a childhood spent playing operation and buckaroo for the skills required. If you’ve done that (placing the yolks not spending your childhood playing buckaroo) it should look like this

Ain't she a beauty

Step 7 – Squirt your desired sauce on your bread and place the parma rashers on top. When the eggs are cooked (white firm, yolks still runny) place them on top of the parma ham. It’s now ready to eat.

The finished product

You’ll probably need to eat this with a knife and fork as the yolk runs everywhere.

Does it work? Well my eyes have stopped vibrating and there’s a beer in the fridge calling me.

Inane Banter

Should prospective parents be able to determine their child’s gender?

Yep, another week another Toshiba moral dilemma. Like last week rather than think about it I’ll just rattle off some nonsense and that laptop is as good as mine. The get me a free laptop button is was below.


Should prospective parents be able to determine their child’s gender?

Parents have to determine many things in a child’s life, is little Timmy struggling at school, should I immunise him, shall I give him a ridiculous name so he suffers throughout school, has he evacuated his bowels or is it just wind and those are some of the easier decisions. Parents must have a keen eye to judge what’s going on with their child lest they grow up to become an estate agent.

This brings us to the crux of the argument, determining a child’s gender is very easy. If it has something dangling between it’s legs then it’s a boy, if not it’s a girl and if it has something massive dangling between it’s legs then call the nurse over to cut the umbilical cord. If you’re a prospective parent and you don’t know that then I’d seriously think twice about what you’re letting yourself in for.