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.

Inane Banter

A Dastardly Cover Up

Shock news has spread round the internet this week that Keeley Hazell has done a sex tape. I appreciate that foreign readers may not know who Keeley is. Those about to google her name for images a quick warning, if you are weak of heart or have a 3D monitor please retreat back from your monitor a few paces before clicking on any links. In the name of research for this blog I forced myself to download said video. No I’m not telling you where to get it, think of it of a challenge like when you used to glance into hedgerows along the canal on the off chance of finding discarded Razzles or Readers Wives.

Having forced myself to sit though said video with a Clockwork Orange type device strapped to my noggin a few things puzzled me.

  • Keeley is known for having rather large breasts. 32E according to wikipedia and who am I to argue with that? And what remain covered up throughout the video, yep all 32E of them. Now if you’re prepared to bare them at the drop of a hat for every tabloid or lads mag going why would cover them up in private. Hang on we have a change of argument coming so pay attention (stop googling for more images in the background you dirty little animal)
  • The bloke in question goes from being flaccid pre-Keeley all the way up to mostly flaccid when young Keeley shows up. Now it’s not a situation most of us men find ourselves in but I’d like to think that if I found myself in bed with a large-breasted page 3 model I’d have the common courtesy to become aroused. It’s politeness if nothing else. So far we have a man who likes to keep his girlfriends massive boobs covered up and isn’t particularly aroused when she makes an effort. But wait it gets worse…
  • Now I’m no Steven Spielburg but if I was to film myself having sex with a young lady where would I point the camera? I’ll give you a clue it wouldn’t be at my own hairy arse. Just to clarify – I’m sure Steven doesn’t film himself with young ladies, he has aliens, large sharks and Jewish people to film instead but I remember watching Raiders of the lost ark and he did spend some of the time filming Karen Allen rather than pointing the camera longingly at Harrison Ford’s arse. Why would you film your own arse? One of the things I am satisfied about my body is that the arse is round the back so I don’t have to look at it. In the video there are two people, one is some nobody, the other a page 3 model. Who would you point the camera at. Here’s a clue, one of them has a camera pointed at them all day, the other probably tries to sell them at dixons.

So let’s look at the facts, the man in question doesn’t like to see big boobs, doesn’t get turned on by women and likes to look at arses. I don’t need to spell it out do I?

Speaking of criminally covered up breastages, come on Cleo, you’re on Celebrity Big Brother, you have the largest breasts there (H from steps is just a big tit,) I’m sure it’s a rule in BB that if you have the largest breasts you have to expose them at some stage. I’ve been waiting since 1981 you little minx you.

Inane Banter

Soap Dodger

I was having a wash this morning and I got some in my eyes, which stung like a wasp on cheap super strength cider. As I was checking the tube to see who to swear at I noticed it proudly boasted “SOAP FREE.”

Now I’m not metrosexual (if I was to have sex with a car I’d go for something classier than a rusty old student car) but when exactly did soap become a bad thing? First I had to adapt to soap having bits in, then soap being liquid and coming in a tube and finally being liquid, having bits in and coming in a tube but now I find it doesn’t even have soap in anymore.

It appears that instead of soap I’m now washing with a tube of “with ALLANTOIN.” I’m not even sure that allantoin is the the bit that cleans but it’s the only thing on the front that looks like an ingredient.

Actually there is a bit at the bottom that says “developed with athletes.” This poses a couple of important questions –
Firstly when they say “with athletes” do they mean they extract allantoin from the athlete directly. Am I washing my face in the seepage from a sweaty sportman’s glands? If so then can I have my soap back? I was happy enough wiping my face with whale blubber but this is a step too far.
Secondly if it’s made with the assistance of athletes then I’m sorry I want my money back. If it’s a gloopy liquid for applying to my body then I want it developed by scientists or at the very least beauticians. At least they know about this sort of stuff. What do athletes know about washing your face that I don’t already know? Even if they do somehow know more why aren’t they practicing at running very quick or throwing something very hard instead of mucking around with allantain.

Now wonder the medal tally for GB at the last Olympics was a load of Boswellox.

And most worryingly of all, does this mean the death of the “soapy tit wank?” An allantoin tit wank just doesn’t sound right.


DLT to the Rescue

Click the image below to view a little piece I call

The Hairy Cornflake uses his afros sonar-like qualities to forewarn the world of the threat to Broadcasting House by a freakishly large Noel Edmonds mutated in a garish shirt
The Hairy Cornflake uses his afro's sonar-like qualities to forewarn the world of the threat to Broadcasting House by a freakishly large Noel Edmonds mutated in a garish shirt

Inane Banter

A Modern Conundrum

It’s Christmas card writing time again and this year we updated addressing protocol with one unforeseen issue.

In the past we had a two tier system for addresses on the envelope. Family and acquaintances would be addressed formally e.g. Mr and Mrs P. Dunderhead. The older generation used to get caned into next week being forced to learn all the in and outs of the English language so who were we to slack off on the one time of the year we post anything more than bill payments.

Closer friends would be addressed informally e.g. Dave and Helen. The friendly, devil may care face of Christmas. Everybody was generally happy apart from the odd discussion about when an acquaintance got promoted to friend or a friend drifted away into acquaintanceship league division one.

This year in an attempt to streamline the process into ninja-like shape we decided to ditch the informal style for the envelopes. Nicknames, jokes and other frivolity would be consigned to the card itself.

Then we stumbled upon the “Adam and Steve” issue. Now English may be my first, and if I’m honest my only language, but that doesn’t mean I’m great at it. However I distinctly remember a lack coverage in GCSE English on how exactly your formally address a letter to a gay couple.

“Mr Trifle and Mr Bauble” makes them sound like Victorian serial killers. It might also tip off the postman that two men live in a house together but only get one set of cards. I’m not the sort of man who outs a couple to the local postal service.

“Mr and Mr Trifle” involves me having to do one of the following

  • An embarrassing conversation where I try to grill them over which one “wears the trousers” or
  • Having to mentally visualise both of them in sexual positions and try and work out which looks best in the dominant position
  • Tossing a coin

None of which seemed ideal.

“Mr and Mrs Trifle” also seemed like a no-no.

“To the occupier” is a sure way to get a card binned and even if it is opened it’s hardly saying “Happy Christmas friends” more “You too could be in with a chance of winning a squillion quid with Reader’s Digest.”

In the end I gave my wife the envelope and made some excuse about needing to get on with licking stamps. The lack of taste buds for a few days seemed a small price to pay.

Thank God we don’t know any lesbians. Oh sure the idea sounds great when watching dodgy videos but spare a thought for the poor cameraman who is going to have to send Christmas cards to a whole frottage of lesbians. I don’t know what the collective term is for a group of lesbians but frottage seemed apt.

Merry Christmas everyone!


Nectar of the Gods!

Tiny triangular sandwiches with no crusts, mini sausage rolls, weak squash of indeterminate fruit origin, jelly and squirty cream. All tasty and some would say essential ingredients of any party (adults can swap the weak squash for an alcohol punch of equal indeterminate origin.)

All fine and upstanding but all must bow beneath the king of party food. Sometimes presented in hedgehog form, sometimes plainly on a stick, always delicious…

The original and best


How does one improve on perfection? Where to start? How would I turn gold into platinum and not lead?

How about sticking it into a smoothie maker and making a drink?