Inane Banter

Reality Fix Up

As we all know in the UK there’s nothing on telly these days but soap operas and reality programs. Sorry I forgot about the gritty police dramas that exist purely to give older, under appreciated stars a bit more coverage.

Rather than hark back to the old days of variety (whether that be literally by bring back old 70s comedians and men with puppets or figuratively in terms of challenging drama and frankly just brining back James Burke) I feel we should just take it to next level.

Let’s start making programmes where we try and fix the damage done by reality TV in the first place. House made over by GCSE qualified idiots who think bedrooms should look like brothels? Let’s film it being done over by people who care about interiors, know what real wood looks like and don’t have a crushingly tight deadline.

Appeared on big brother? How about a show that treats you how to develop a TV personality or maybe a photo shoot that doesn’t involve you having to flash your “average” cleavage whilst a slimy man asks you questions that sound normal but willappear in the mag in the form of “do you take it up bourneville avenue?”

Appeared on daytime TV having declared your lust for your brother, maybe speed dating with a room full of look-a-likes.

Sadly the only program I can think of for someone who has wanked off a pig is a porcine version of blind date. I’m buggered if I can think of the questions they’d ask their potential piggy dates.

Maybe that’s a new quiz show right there. “Bugger me until I can think of a question to baffle the panel of brainiacs”

Endemol are free to approach me whenever they’ve filled enough sack of cash.

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.

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. 

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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.

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.

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.

Inane Banter

Born Bad

Toshiba have had a website where they post a question of the week and people blog their answer. As I’m not too proud to pimp this junk wherever I can I thought I’d join in. You never know it may repair some of those brain connections destroyed by years of alcohol. I’m not holding my breath.


Are people born evil?

Let’s put it this way, if I invited somebody into to my home and the first thing they did was pull a lamp over before collapsing in a heap on the floor, that wouldn’t be a good start. If they then decided to interrupt conversations by screaming at the top of their lungs with no thought to others I’d be thinking that they were very rude.

Whilst not everybody is interested in politics, I wouldn’t say that a ‘good’ person would spoil the debate by loudly soiling themselves in front of everybody. If they did I wouldn’t expect them to lie there crying until somebody else had to go and clean them up.

If their thanks for being looked after was coat the outfit of the kind soul with warm, runny vomit then they’d be edging into the ‘nasty’ sort of personality.

The mark of a truly evil person is having disrupted the whole night, left a lingering smell in the lounge, ruined somebody’s top would to then insist on going to bed before everybody else and not only that but insist on having a special bed made up by somebody else rather than using the perfectly good bed in the spare room.

I can only conclude that babies are evil and so people are born evil.

And to rub it all in they never bring a bottle of wine.

Food Inane Banter

Egg, why do you mock me?

Is it funny how different things embarrass you throughout life. Things that would make me cringe years ago don’t bother me at all now and things I wouldn’t have thought about at all as a 5 year old now rise up to smite me.

When you’re at school there’s a whole sea of potential embarrassment waiting to wash over you. You might wet yourself, get an answer wrong in front of the class or be forced to sing hymns even if you have a voice so bad it practically proves the flaws in God’s great design. Heaven help you if you look a bit funny or buy the wrong trainers. You’re looking at months of pricey psychotherapy in later life if you turned up to school wearing rip-off adidas that only had two stripes.

Even if you never actually did anything embarrassing that wouldn’t stop school kids just making something up and it was usually far worse than anything you might actually have done. So instead of “Dave walks funny” you’d more likely get something like “Dave shags dogs, it’s true, he has bonios down his pants and everything.” Fortunately for me I was a spotty, slightly overweight boy who couldn’t talk to girls and had hair that, despite having enough hairspray in it to globally warm a cup of tea, became a bowl cut before I’d even got to the end of the road. Nobody had to make anything up about me.

Then you get that bit older and discover alcohol and the opposite sex. You don’t need anybody else to embarrass you then. You’re more than capable of making a tit of yourself without anybody else’s help. If I didn’t wake on a Sunday in a fuggy haze of self loathing based on something I’d done the night before then I’d figured the pub must have watered the beer down.

Now I’ve reached that age where it takes a lot to embarrass me. If I do something stupid I can easily think of 10 things far more idiotic I’ve done in the past with no long term damage. So now once again outside forces have to raise their heads to embarrass me.

Now I’m not a messy eater, I can quite happily eat all sorts of sloppy food without it getting all over me. Curry, spaghetti, beetroot all no problem. However egg mayonnaise has taken it upon itself to become my nemesis. I like eggs, I like mayonnaise, they hate me. Today, as so many time before, I was eating my egg mayonnaise sandwich. As usual a bit of egg mayonnaise escaped it’s bready confines and with laser-like precision it yet again aimed straight for the crotch area of my trousers. So begins another afternoon trying not to walk around like I’ve just spunked all over my trousers.

Ironically when I was young I used to get this strange panicked feeling that I’d gone to school without putting my trousers on. I’ve no idea where this strange paranoia came from. I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually done it or even come close but I used to get small panic attacks about it. All I had to do was glance down to confirm that, yes, I was wearing trousers and all would be well with the world. However if today I had forgotten to wear trousers at least they wouldn’t look like I’d just creamed on them.