The Banjo Files

Now that my eldest lad has turned 7 and a half, i've noticed that his eating habits are changing.

Over the last couple of weeks, probably as a result of a conversation at school, he's been asking for a fried egg for breakfast. Whilst the others are wolfing down their porridge or Weetabix, there he is, with a single fried egg on a plate. Just a tiny bit of salt and he's happy. Being a chip off the old block, he's extremely pleased with the side effects of this diet.

This morning, it was my turn to do the early shift, so I made my way down with the two eldest lads at 6.15, while the others were still kipping. I squared away the 5 year old with a bit of toast, then said to the eldest.

"What do you fancy?"

"Can I have a fried egg?"

"Yeah" Bang - clatter - smash - wallop - wheres the fcuking olive oil - wheres the fcuking eggs - wheres the fcuking pan - etc etc etc.

He sat at the table, waiting patiently whilst the egg crackled away, before saying to me.



"Can I have it with some bread?"


"Can I have it with some bread?"

"What. You want some toast as well?"

"No. Can I have my egg like a sandwich."

I dropped the spatula and turned round slowly with tears in my eyes.

"You know what you've just asked for, don't you son?"



"What's an egg banjo"

Buttering the bread in a couple of seconds, I whacked the egg on the bottom slice, before closing the deal and presenting it to him with a flourish.

"That, son," I said, holding it under his nose and jabbing at it with my index finger, "Is an egg banjo, food of the gods."

I laid it before him, stood back and gave him a sh-it salute.

He took a bite and said "Lovely" as I gazed on proudly.

My lad likes egg banjos. I don't care if he goes to university. I don't care if he gets married or has kids. I don't care if he learns to swim or cross the road. In my eyes he's already an achiever.

For wasn't it Voltaire or perhaps Kierkegaard who once said, "Never trust any fcuker, who wouldn't scoff a banjo"

He looked great, sat there with his oversized butty and a big smile on his face. Unfortunately it gave me a bit of a flash back. I pointed to his brother and said.

"Hurry up and get it fcuking eaten. Then you and him are on prowler. SCHNELL! SCNELL!"
I hope he wears the dribble of egg yolk down the front of his school jumper with pride, it should be viewed as a medal ribbon!
Sir, In a recent conversation about the state of the nation myself and some other ex bill oddies decided that the current rag order of society is due to the p1ss poor standards of parenting.
Your post, however, gives me heart. Your youth rearing admin is a shining beacon of how to get the job done.
I myself have an 18 month old son and the thought of him having his first egg banjo causes me to well up, even now.
Although I have to say that when I introduce the boy to this right of passage, I will have the bread tarnished with some form of POL. I am still undecided whether to soak my hands in diesel, kero or OMD 80 before knocking up his first banjo. Although I have already decided to serve it up just after turfing him out of his maggot and to have it accompanied with a black metal mug of tea with tape around the rim and a bit of leaf mould floating in it.
Just out of curiosity, are you going to move him onto kero heater toast in the future? If so just remember to never trim the wicks on the heater so that it smokes like billy-O and gives that extra strong taste.
Surely this could be a replacement to the familiarisation training currently used by the army. Instead we could have "Regts and Corps related Banjos".

Potential recruits sample banjos cooked in the various styles. For example:

Armoured Inf could cook a BV hard boiled egg and the recruit has to eat it without checking the insides of the bread for egg shards.

REME could cover it in various greases.

POL types could cake it in fuel.

Chef types could have it horribly undercooked.
I remember the first time I had an egg banjo.

We had just finished some ridiculously long patrol exercise across Wales and had just been flown back to Westdown Camp to link up with our vehicles to prep for Phase 2. I was a (very) young patrol radio bloke and was - frankly - shattered. The long flight crammed into a Chinook bucket seat hadn't exactly helped the situation so I looked decidedly pathetic as we ambled painfully through the camp towards the LSVs.

My patrol commander - a particularly hard basta*d (ex Pioneer) who I idolised (odd how we do that) - had his usual scowl on his face as I neared the wagon and without saying a word, helped me off with my bergan, gave me a brew and a peculiar floppy sandwich dripping red and yellow gunk.

'What's this stuff?' I dared ask the legend. 'An egg banjo mate - well done for the last few weeks. Keep it up.'

Great thread C_C.
As a young cook on tour in NI in the early 90's, I used to leave out a stack of eggs and a bakeries supply of bread for the patrols. I would come in the following morning to find a kitchen looking like the SAS had been in and cleared it. Used to take about an hour to clean all the crap up
the_rigger said:
Just out of curiosity, are you going to move him onto kero heater toast in the future? If so just remember to never trim the wicks on the heater so that it smokes like billy-O and gives that extra strong taste.
Ahhhh, the kero heater toastie. I'm not quite sure how to replicate this flame grilling masterpiece. I never really made toasties on mine, and was content to spend an 8 hour radio stag, flobbing grollies on to it's lid, so that I could watch them fizzle and evaporate, giving off a peculiar steamy smell that i've never encounted since. As for the banjos, my wife enquired as to the presence of an unwashed pan in the sink when she came downstairs. I casually reminded her, that the pan had now been designated

'pan - egg banjo for the use of' and as such will never be cleaned again. With a bit of luck, it will be that fcuking gritty in a few weeks, the eggs will look like they've been rolled in ants when they come out of it. She's got a fcuking neck. What am I supposed to tell the lads when they come in off prowler. Sorry kids, the banjo pan is in to soak. I may as well just go the whole hog and stick a dress on, whilst screaming for George Michael's willy. As an additional culinary detail, tomorrow I will present his banjo in the open style, before squeezing half a bottle of Tommy K on to it, then saying, "You want some ketchup on it, son??"


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Darth_Doctrinus said:
C_C - do you puncture the yolk before handing it on - or let your lad experience the sudden rush of yellow goo for himself?
It has to be the yellow goo explosion, or it's not a real Banjo!

As we all know, the banjo in the classic style, should explode on the first bite. Yolk should then be distributed evenly round the muzzy for all the Freddy Mercury lookalikes and the chin for all the hairless ones. Some of it should find it's way out the banjo bottom and on to the genital area of ones strides. Once hardened, this stain can look extremely unsightly and can be mistaken for extremely sperm-dense-spun-k.

It is an offence under Queens Regs to try and eat a banjo neatly, or to use any sort of napkin to assist in yolk containment. A young Tom I once knew, had the temerity to ask of his det commander once "Have you got any wet wipes?" The resulting full face thwack with a GS shovel, ensured that the tom and the banjo were welded together for eternity.

I hope this answers your question.
Take EB in both hands taking care to spread fingers across as much floppy bread as possible. Bend slightly forward to remove front of uniform from drip danger zone and proceed to ram as much of said EB into gob as quickly as possible to avoid inevitable spillage around gob and remaining splash zone. Now days I need a pelican bib.............

Baggy out...
You barstards. You utter utter unfeeling bastards.

Do you not know what fcuking time it is!!

Its lunch time and I am sitting here in Boxhead land with out a snowballs chance in hell of getting an egg banjo anywhere.

Steven said:
You barstards. You utter utter unfeeling bastards.

Do you not know what fcuking time it is!!

Its lunch time and I am sitting here in Boxhead land with out a snowballs chance in hell of getting an egg banjo anywhere.

guess its currywurst mit poms then........... :D
convoy_cock said:

It is an offence under Queens Regs to try and eat a banjo neatly, or to use any sort of napkin to assist in yolk containment. .
Yes, it is a lesser known offence, but an offence non the less, although I believe it was enforced with a bit more vigour before touching other blokes khybers got the green light by the top brass.

I distinctly remember in 7 Sigs around 89, a young tom on guard was wiping his fizzer mid egg banjo, in the guardroom, when the razzer walked in.
I believe he got 28 days nick, and instead of the usual bulled artillery shell, he had to run around camp with a hot cookhouse tray full of fried eggs above his head.
Following his bang-up he as assigned to the guardroom for a year, with the sole task of making egg banjos. During this time he made 2467 banjos......
For one RP and 2700 for the other. The rest of the guard had to jack their own up.

Was it not Montgomery who wrote
"My pride at serving my country is tempered only by the sadness that I feel when I contemplate all the young men who have died under my command. I only hope they can forgive me when we meet in heaven. In the meantime if somebody doesn't square me away an egg banjo schnell machen, I'll throw them so far inside the pokey, their escort will need a death pack for the journey. Now geldi, fcuking geldi you hats."
As well as being a top bit of scoff, the banjo was also deployable as a weapon.

You remember the scene in Saving Private Ryan, where they try to use sticky bombs against the German Tanks??? Typical yank revisionists. The truth of that story came from an action 4 years earlier when three lance-jacks from 1st Royal Anglians, disabled 3 Panzers with 4 egg banjos.

Apparently they'd perfected their frying technique earlier on in the war, when, as a forerunner to the Breville snack and sandwich maker, they'd commandeered an old steam press from a french laundry, and used it to knock up fifteen banjos in a one-er. Running low on ammo and pinned down by armour, they'd had the idea, to subject the banjos to massive yolk pressure, by all sitting on the lid of the steam press, whilst it bucked like a bronco. The next phase called for a steel nerve and involved the placing of the banjo carefully next to the gun turret of the Panzer.

As soon as the jerries got a sniff, the hatch was up, followed by the first boxhead, sniffing curiously and saying.

"Was ist das Franz? Ist ein eggy schmell"

The trap was set and as soon as he lifted the top bit of bread for a cheeky skeg, the yolk detonated, subjecting the entire crew to massive egg burns.
It worked on three tanks before the Anglians luck ran out. Private Archie Bluebottle set his off during placement and died almost immediately. In the style of the Tommy, he was cheery to the end, and his last words are reported as being, "Make us a brew, me mouths full of fcuking egg."
Convoy, I stand in awe mate.

I have a little girl and since she turn six months nearly two years ago Ive tried to encourage the delights of the Banjo.... she isn't taken

I know this is an early indication that she will turn to vice and drugs and a series of failed relationships. Anyone who can offer advice, I'm all ears.

I even sat her in a high chair, strapped in and made her face the front while I tucked into a piping hot, freshly prepared banjo in the knowledge that a big dollop of yolk would dribble on my tie.... she giggled and called me silly but didn't take the bait.

To say I'm a desperate and concerned dad is an understatement.
MDN, you need to stick at it, mate. Remember 'No child ever starved of stubborness.'
I'm building my boy up to it gradually, a kind of 'pre-banjo beat-up' if you like. The main hurdle is eggs, get them into fried eggs and that's 80% of the battle. All kids eat bread, once the eggs are in the bag then it's just a case of combining the two.
Obviously you will have to stop her eating anything else for a while, so that she is desperately hungry. It may be unpleasant seeing your child go hungry for a while, but it is considerably more favourable than her inviting her first boyfreind home in 15 years time, and Rocco Siffredi turning up on your doorstep with that glint in his eye.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, old chap.

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