Thursday, May 12, 2016

Notes on a Relegation



Comrades, fellow travellers, neutrals.  These are grave times for Newcastle United Football Club.  The Rafalution has been crushed under the iron jackboot of Big Fat Sam's square-headed hoofball.  As pundits pontificate, hilarious memes circulate, and gloating WhatsApps elucidate, the Mackems Wanted It More.

Of course they did.  This is a club willing to pay Nazis, child molesters, and Lee Cattermole if it thinks they will help achieve their dream 17th position each year and preserve their tawdry EPL status.  

Such brutish, win-at-all-costs Sweep-the-leg Johnny Foreigner pragmatism is not for us on Tyneside.  We are an altruistic, corinthian outfit that disdains the baubles and trinkets of so-called 'winning' and instead concerns itself with Doing the Right Thing.

A cursory glance around the stadium reveals the words "Sports Direct" at every turn.  The message to young people and disaffected adults in the north-east is clear; don't just sit and watch this shite, get out there, participate in sport.  And buy the equipment and clothing for said sport at low, low prices at the discount retail outlets run by the club's benefactor Mike Ashley.  

The club sponsor is Wonga, the market leader in short term loan solutions.  What better aid to social inclusion and the preservation of the family than by giving a financial helping hand to unfortunate young men and women who have spunked all their money getting cunted on legal highs and vodka?

NUFC also leads the field in its diverse, compassionate employment policies.  

Our chief scout and de facto Football Director, Graham Carr, is the father of camp TV unfunnyman Alan 'Chatty Man' Carr.  What could potentially be a fraught father-son relationship is surely improved no end when Graham returns from a scouting mission having signed a beautiful French boy with gorgeous hair.  One pictures the young Alan, waiting with mum at the airport for his father's return, his little face lighting up in delight as he sees the latest boy-toy.  "Oh daddy!  I love it!" he no doubt squeals, before doing that thing he does with his specs.  

Who cares if the footballer proves to be too lightweight and useless for the English game?  You can't put a price on a lovely family memory.  £12 million.  And you can always send them to play for Marseille.

Who else would employ Steven McClaren in one of the most important, financially lucrative seasons since football began, in 1993?  

This poor, down on his luck chap, who resembles nothing more than a bumbling coach driver played by Paul Whitehouse in an unfunny insurance advert, was given a new lease of life by being placed into a job for which he was clearly unsuitable.  So what if he lost game after game, made poor selections and was unable to inspire any positive reaction from a group of players who seemed to be close to laughing in his face?  

That confused, red-faced man now has an extremely generous pension pot and can spend his remaining days buying and restoring old Routemasters, and experimenting with hair transplant technology.  Heart-warming.

There are similarly charming stories among the players, too.  Jack Colback, a ginger kid from Tyneside who was abducted by Sunderland and forced to turn out in their unflattering red-and-white striped shirts.  The club generously repatriated him in Newcastle and allowed him to potter around in their central midfield, kicking and grabbing at the footballers as they ran by him.  

Yes, he may have been booked in every single game, and have contributed nothing more than nuisance value to the black-and-white cause, but the look in that little lad's eyes, knowing he's away from the dark place, the cheesey chips and incest.  Well, that's a thing you can't buy with money.  Not even the £100m that the club has lost.

Seydou Doumbia is a gentle dignified old man, who was trafficked from Africa to Russia and forced to perform in front of audiences of right-wing, banana-throwing skinheads.  Newcastle rescued him in January this year and provided him with a safe haven.  They even allowed him on the pitch one time.  This sight of that bandy-legged, 70 year-old footballing Morgan Freeman shuffling gamely towards the Stoke City penalty area is possibly the most inspiring thing any football fan could ever hope to see.  

In a transfer window when the Wearside Mean Machine were going about ruthlessly buying players who could 'play in their team' and 'improve their defence' it's good to know that on Tyneside the club could see the bigger picture.

So, relegation then.  Another visit to the Championship.  It's a situation very much analogous with holiday destinations.  When you're too slow, unfit or useless to get your hole in Mallorca or Marbella, then simply lower your ambitions and go to Benidorm.  Even Shola Ameobi and Kevin Nolan could get twenty a season in Benidorm.  

The club moves down a division, to shine its light on ever more deserving, deprived, desolate spots.  Former mill towns, places where rugby league is popular, the footballing backwater of Birmingham; Newcastle will be visiting them all, and giving a quick lesson in football and sportsmanship, before shagging their women, and drinking their beer.  

Let Sunderland enjoy their hollow 'success'.  In Newcastle we cherish the spirit of fair play, community, and decency.  

On Sunday we will no doubt commemorate this in time-honoured fashion as everyone gets mortal drunk, and smashes fuck out of our own city centre.


Mike Ashley, Lee Charnley, Graham Carr, Alan Pardew, Steve McClaren, Fabricio Coloccini, Moussa Sissoko, Daryl Janmaat.  Your boys took a hell of a beating!  Your boys took a hell of a beating!  And you're not even bothered.

Peace.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Top Ten of 2015

Word to yo' moms, I come to drop bombs.  Calm down, FBI spybots, I don't mean actual explosives, only YouTube videos of pop songs.

While voguish hipster blogs and newspaper websites will try to convince you in their round-ups that people genuinely listen to that Kendrick Lamar album (a din) and Grimes for pleasure, and tell you that Adele and Justin Beiber are making worthwhile music, your old pal the Colonel will give you the real deal.



Courtney Barnett - Pedestrian at Best
A shouty number from the excellent Antipodean singer-songwriter. The downbeat "Depreston" was also a contender.

Galantis - Peanut Butter Jelly
A summer favourite in all downmarket nite spots. A good video.

Rat Boy - Fake ID
Sweary pop-punk that may well have been devised by a computer generated algorithm to appeal to Steve Lamacq.

Majical Cloudz - Downtown
A fun singalong version of the Petula Clark classic.

Missy Elliott - WTF (Where They From)
Yacka to the yack.

Ezra Furman - Restless Year
Pretty much the best orthodox Jewish crossdresser singer-songwriter around in my book. Then again, my book is called "Ezra Furman is pretty much the best orthodox Jewis crossdresser singer-songwreter around".

Riton - Rinse and Repeat
Dancefloor banger inna de area, and that.

Unloved - Guilty of Love
David Holmes addresses the issues of a scarcity of lost 60s chanteuse classics for him and Tarantino to put in film soundtracks by creating his own.

Jamie XX - Gosh
Soaring loveliness from the uncommunicative knob-twiddler.

Bloc Party - The Love Within
Never had any use for Bloc Party, probably never will again, but the synth sound on this is worth the entrance fee alone.


Have fun with it!

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2015



Happy Christmas and that, yeah? Imagine, if you will, a series of statements about a bearded man that could apply equally to Santa Claus and to peace-loving, enemy-of-the-state Jeremy Corbyns. Some self-assembly side-splitting satire there. Send it in to Private Eye or 'The News Huddlines' when you're finished, they might give you a tenner.

To the chase. Want to tell your winter wonderland from your munter from Sunderland? Your Happy Hanukkah from your Erich Honecker, your tinsel decorations from your Isil decapitations?

Well wonder no more, my pretties, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!

In


Refusing to have any truck with the odious neologism 'selfie', preferring instead the term 'Self Taken Image'.

Listening to any Nick Cave song while shaving. Feels like you're in a film and something Enormously Significant is going to go down once you've got your clothes on.

Convincing a gullible friend that Loughborough is pronounced 'lowbrow'.

Wyclef Jean. The thinking person's Will.I.Am. Not a massive achievement, but still.

The comedic stylings of Amy Schumer. First rate.

After having some rugby bores in your local pub, going on about how you can have a pint in the stands, and sit with opposing fans and everything, hauling up your slacks and telling them that's because it's a shit game that doesn't inspire any passion, played and watched by posh cunts.

Recently-single friends who embrace the digital dating age with gusto, seemingly viewing the search facility on PlentyofFish as an electronic Panini sticker book, to be completed as rapidly as possible. "Got, got, need, got, need, squirter."

Sidling up to a flighty-looking Learning Support Assistant in 'Cozy Joe's' and pigeonholing her on subject of the recent Comic-Con event at the local arena, stoutly maintaining despite her confused denials that you saw her there dressed as Emma Frost off of 'X-Men'.

When friends are discussing the recent activities of Chinese artist and activist Ai Weiwei, chipping in with and bellowing "Stop the bus, I want Ai Weiwei!"

The hot water bottle and the electric blanket. Fine bedwarming solutions, but not exactly rock 'n' roll. Put them together, though, then you've got a frisson of excitement going on.

That sitcom that's always on; "Science Guys". Them and their catchphrase "Bosingwa!" - priceless.

Gaining a little grim entertainment while attending an 'earthy' family wedding by keeping a mental tally of racist statements vouchsafed to you, a propos nothing, by your fellow revellers.

Lobbying the local council asking that they ban any future performance of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" due to its insensitivity towards the transgender community. And because it's shit.

Missy Elliott is back. Yacka to the yack!

Moving to the fourth largest city in the Netherlands to open a scrapyard that specialises in 'Utility' pickup vehicles, calling it, with grinding inevitability, "Ute Wrecked".

Banging on the DJ booth, asking the custodian of the turntables to take off that "Peanut Butter Jelly" song because you have a nut allergy.

Knowing so little about 19th century Russian literature that you have to Gogol 'Dead Souls'.

Folk who collect mugs or postcards from various foreign cities. Easy to mock, but it's nice to gain genuine pleasure from something so simple and, frankly, inexpensive.

Referring to a stay-at-home evening of onanism as 'Kodi and chill'.

Confusing Tinder with Twitter. Difficult to follow current events as they happen via the medium of photos of pouting ladies who are keen to stress they are not looking for 'casual' or 'players'. On the plus side, though, some lovely dates with Joey Barton and Stephen Fry.


Out

Going on about the after effects of a strong cup of coffee like you're Hunter S. cunting Thompson. Bitch please, it's only a cuppa.

The mistaken belief that 'banal, hackneyed saying or observation + picture of a Minion = fresh comedy gold'.

Jurgen Klopp. Zany cunt.

'Hilarious' photographs wherein young ladies wield a false moustache on a stick or one of them little cards that makes it appear you have A Slightly Different Chin!

Gamergate and similar faux-controversies. Grown-ups who spent most of their leisure time playing computer games have poor social skills and little respect for women - who'd have thought that?

The return to the music scene of Phil effing Collins. Tory voters - you may be losing your tax credits, but you've got your baked-bean-headed musical messiah back. Swings and roundabouts, what?

James Bond films. Is there any need for these tiresome, Little Englander wank fantasies in this day and age?

Tough Mudder and similar assault course enthusiasts, thinking they the shit because they enjoy titting about in clarts of a weekend. They need to bring back 'The Krypton Factor', that would sort the w. from the c.

Peter Oborne. Not fooling anybody. His real name's Peter Ginger.

Posting pictures of your 'afternoon tea'. What's that, a little sammidge, a scone AND a cupcake? On the top shelf of a twee cakestand? Oooh, I've just come.

Emojis. Fuck your emojis. Dirty leering winky-face. I was born an emoticon man and I'll ruddy well die an emoticon man. :p

Lonely Planet cornholes, vapouring on about their trip to see The Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis? Aurora Boringbastards more like!

People complaining about Christmas decorations being up too soon. It's like they start moaning earlier and earlier each year.

Pornographic actors having to conclude proceedings by finishing themselves off manually while a lazy/unskilful female ON TEN TIMES THE MONEY just lies there waggling her dugs and batting her eyelashes.

Sleaford Mods. Two Eight-Ace-lookings tramps doing third rate John Cooper Clarke shtick? FTS. The emperor's new tracksuit.

Sharing your full and frank criticism of the latest John Lewis advert, as though there is a genuine expectation that a mawkish shop advert aimed at thick people should have any artistic merit.

Missing five-a-side, having been mercilessly kicked in a previous game by a so-called friend unable to live with your mad skillz.

Cyclists who feel the need to give an in-depth account of the number of miles covered and the route they took. I used to like playing on me bike when I was little but I didn't go on and fucking on about it or dress up like Eddy Merckx.

Schmucks with their 'man cave' BS. Just be honest and call it a 'tug shop' or 'wanking chamber'.

A new LP from Adele? Dreadful music for dreadful people who buy (buy!) their music from supermarkets.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Inept Geordie Manager of the Year 2015

It's the last day of the EPL Premier League of English soccer, when the big football issues are rounded up and herded into a big shed like cattle. While there are minor sidebars to decide, such as who gets to avoid the Europa Shield and so forth, the real pith and moment surrounds the question of just who is the most useless Geordie twat of a manager? The Shearer Cup, if you will.

Is it Steve "Brucie" Bruce of Hull Tigers, or John "Special John" Carver of the Newcastle Sports Direct Jets? Only by crunching the numbers can the answer be found, so let the crunching begin!


Geordieness
JC: Despite the fact that he speaks in a cut-glass BBC style accent, John Carver is actually from Newcastle. This often goes unnoticed by many people despite the fact he mentions it In Every Fucking Interview, thinking that his Tyneside roots will compensate for an absence of any tactical, motivation, or communicational ability.
10/10
SB: Often keen to play up his Geordie credentials and boyhood affinity for NUFC whenever there is a chance of landing the manager's job or explaining why the mackem supporters didn't care for him, Bruce is actually from Corbridge in Northumberland. So not technically a Geordie. However, his enthusiastic support for the fine products of Tyneside's baked product solutions chain The Greggs sees him score well in this round.
7/10

Experience
JC: Sacked from the MSL soccer franchise Toronto Moosefuckers, Carver's record as a gaffer is not the most glorious. Despite this, and his abysmal results in the SJP hot seat, he seems to think this track record, as well as being a professional Geordie, entitles him to a full time contract at a Premier League club. Quite the set of balls.
3/10
SB: A managerial career at two-bit clubs such as Sheffield United, Birmingham Zulus, Huddersfield and Sunderland have seen him plough a consistent furrow of mediocrity, leavened by occasional promotions. Signed a three year contract in March 2015 despite being in the midst of a relegation battle. Not daft, this lad. Two words - compen fuckinsation.
6/10

Hot or not?
JC: Recently voted the Best Looking Man in the World by himself, JC's rugged looks may be just the thing for the odd fruity boiler in Grey's Club or down Bar Luga, but it's safe to say Harry Styles and him out of Twilight Saga can rest easy enough in their beds.
4/10
SB: Dashing good looks are not Brucie's strong suit, with the Hull boss looking as though he's been bobbing for chips in a deep fat fryer. Looking like a rougher version of Mrs Brown or Queen Bea from Prison Cell Block H, Stevie's ongoing love affair with the pies is unlikely to see him gracing the cover of GQ or Massive Arms magazine any time soon.
2/10

Excuses
JC: An endless supply of excuses flow from the mouth of Carver like honey from a bee's bellend. Whether he's blaming the hot climate of QPR in May, or bemoaning the fact that a few protesting fatsos waving bedsheets were putting off his team of millionaire footballers, he's never stuck for a reason why It's Not His Fault, Honest. Strong work.
8/10
SB: Famously claimed that Sunderland supporters wanted him out because he supported Newcastle, rather than the more prosaic reason that his team were shite and going to get relegated. Has also been quick to blame disgruntled supporters at Hull rather than himself or his players when things have gone wrong.
6/10

Nose Straightness
JC: With a nose as straight as a Roman road, or one of Iron Mike Williamson's upfield punts into touch, the Newcastle manager finishes on a high with a perfect 9 out of ten.
9/10
SB: Oh dear. With a schnozz that looks like a blind cobbler's thumb, Stevie's conk is all over the place, with the integrity of a FIFA enquiry. If Steven Fry ever mated with a proboscis monkey (not that he would) the resulting offspring might grow up to be a less bent-nosed version of Steve Bruce. Essentially, I'm saying, no, his nose isn't straight.
0/10

Final Score: John Carver 34 Steve Bruce 21

There we have it. John Carver, a man so hapless he hasn't seen a hap in years, is clearly the Most Useless Geordie Manager. Another proud title to add to his Best EPL Manager In My Opinion and Greatest Golfer accolades. 


 Enjoy the Championship John, you fucking knacker! 

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2014



Merry Mithras, bitches!

It's the time of year when a ruddy-faced old man decides on the niceness or naughtiness of all and sundry, based on his list-centric observations. Also, Santa Claus does his thing.

Put some glue in your wines, some bantz in your Vines, cast pearls before swines, and let the Committee illuminate you as to what's zeitgeist, what's not-quitegeist, who's Bing Crosby and who's bang ordinary, who's a Blyth Spartan and who's blithely sharting? Long story short, Ins and Outs am here!


In


Having listened with great good humour to a colleague ruminating for twenty minutes about whether a pair of black leggings and a sparkly top is suitable attire for the office party, finally losing it and bellowing "Who gives a shit you fat cow, nobody's looking at you and it'll be covered in puke by 11, midnight latest".
Buying a lambswool sweater and telling yourself that this time, This Time!, you'll get the care instructions right and it won't be twice the size after its first wash.
Scenes of carnage in supermarkets as desparate specimens of humanity rend one another limb from limb in a scuffle over a budget model flatscreen television. Any injuries sustained are thoroughly deserved.
Watching the bemused expressions on the faces of US stars like Henry Winkler and Priscilla Presley when asked to explain the attraction of two months appearing in Puss In Boots in the Alhambra, Hartlepool.
The simple beauty of a really low quality homemade tinfoil FA Cup.
Wearing the quietly satisfied air of one who has successfully raxed in a new pair of boots and is fully intent on enjoying the fruits of his labours over the forthcoming winter.
Calmly explaining to a workplace enthusiast that no, you aren't 'all excited for Christmas' because you aren't a Christian, don't have small children, and aren't a nitwit obsessed with shopping.
When met with recriminations, replying that no, you aren't being a "Bah humbug", the character was actually called Ebeneezer Scrooge, and, in conclusion, no I don't want to be in the office 'Secret Santa' and you can fuck off away from that monitor with your tinsel as well. And that's swearing. At Christmas.
Going to one of them lovely authentic German markets and picking up an art book on Bauhaus Constructivism, the latest long player by Einstürzende Neubauten, and a sex toy moulded in the shape of Dolly Buster's vagina.
Spending a full 28 years living on this planet without once ever looking down at your inner wrists and thinking "What ho! That would be a splendid place to get someone's name tattooed, yeah?"
Annoying the GLW when she's putting her make-up on by constantly muttering the "I gotta hundred dollar bill fo' every lump on your face" refrain as per gangsta rap's A$AP Ferg.
Ensuring your potential audience is fully aware of the enormous wisdom you are imparting by concluding any online utterances with 'Let that sink in'.
Idly wondering whether that little absorbent mat that you get in a tray of supermarket pre-packed meat has a specific name.
That "I'm all about that bass, me" song. The singer would be quite tidy as well if she dropped a few pounds.
Having a racing green mug from the Cotswolds Motoring Museum as your workplace mug. Fucking legend.
Lewis Hamilton, Britain's Sports Personality of the Year. Worthy recognition of his magnificent achievement in beating one other fellow who also had the good car.
While applying a mint-based shower gel in the shower, singing out your homemade jingle "Minty balls, minty balls! Pop a minty ball in your mouth". Any ladies wishing to join in (unlikely), simply sing "Minty minge, minty minge! It's the minge that's good to munch."
When seeing an oncoming motorist who, in your expert opinion should have his lights on by this time of day, muttering sourly "Carrot munching cunt" as you pass by one another.
Any Merseyside DJ who chooses to play Underworld's "Born Slippy" at any nite spot where Stevie G and his Anfield chums are 'having it large' at their Christmas bash. Hash tag bantz to the maximum, what?
Describing one whose appearance is at once corpulent yet down-at-heel as a "Food bank robber".


Out

Getting all arsey about such consumerist transatlantic guff such as Black Friday and Cyber Monday, only to find yourself compromised after buying a Russell Hobbs kettle off of Amazon that you simply had! to have.
Being slightly worried that your 'delightful' teenage son is going to have a disappointing time this year, since his Christmas list consisted of Julien Blanc tickets, a Dappy Laughs DVD, and a Sheffield United Ched Evans replica shirt.
Films and TV shows with zombies in. Popular with the same twats who were all about vampires last year. Get to fuck, will ya?
Grown ups who purchase a chocolate-based advent calendar, then proceed to give a full and frank account of their delicious daily adventures via the magic of social media.
Russell Brands. The daft singsong voice, dressing like a musical theatre chimney sweep, the constant stream of unfunny/half-baked nonsense. What this man needs is one or more 'Jim McDonald' style male friends to tell him to 'catch himself on'.
Noting with a slight tinge of sadness that televised darts no longer brings any joy to your cold, flinty heart.
Imposing a moratorium on ladies posing for photographs wearing false moustaches as if it's the most hilarious thing ever. Sorry gals, it is no longer amusing.
"It's a Wonderful Life"? It's a big load of shite, more like! Some old fud is going to top his self, then doesn't top his self. Big waste of two hours.
Opportunitistically sourcing a consignment of 'Frozen' dolls with the intention of spending the pre-Christmas period up to your nuts in single-mother guts in an exploitative black market scenario.
On seeing a hostage being released after however many years, having the unworthy thought that 'He still looks a bit chunky. There must be some nourishment in that rat soup they have.'
Hearing some fellow in a workplace toilet vigorously cleaning his hindquarters, making a noise akin to somebody sanding down the handrail on an oak staircase, and being struck with the chilling thought: Have I Been Wiping My Arse Wrong All These Years?
"Uptown Funk". A shite Wham b-side, that's what that is.
Ending a fledgling relationship primarily due to the other person's use of the word "to" instead of "too" in written communications.
When showering, the awful moment when, after much slapping and squeezing of the bottle, the last glob of shampoo falls from your hand and disappears down the plughole faster than you can say "Aw shite, there's me shampoo gone".
Being impatient with acquaintances who are only trying to make a little small talk. When being asked what you're doing for Christmas, it is unacceptable to reply "Your mother".
Driving five miles out of town to save two pound a bottle on Champagne for the festive season. Such tightwaddery is out of keeping with the champers lifestyle.
That kid who cannot pronounce the 'chimp' bit in 'Mail Chimp'. I use Mail Chimp!
The bigwigs at the BPI and Disney, shutting down The Pirate Bay, FORCING a brother to source torrents from less reputable sites. Try explaining to a crying five year-old girl on Christmas afternoon why "Frozen" contained five minutes of Ben Dover's hairy arse going up and down!
John Lewis and his shitty imaginary penguin.
Misguided and muddled attempts to foster racial harmony that end in restraining orders. Who knew that approaching Asian women on the underground and handing them a piece of paper with "I'll ride you! " on it could have such unfortunate consequences?

Friday, August 29, 2014

Ins and Outs: September '14

 

Hoots mon, cock up your beaver the noo! 

This September sees our Caledonian comrades from north of Hadrian's Wall deciding whether they want to be independent or if they've just been bleating on all these years for no reason. While the Ins and Outs Committee is a strictly English group, with no place for Jock Q. McTavish at the table, the constituent members are all keen proponents of plaid skirts, going commando, tonic wine and extreme inebriation in a public place.

While avoiding any specific reference to Scotland, politics or Bonnie Prince Charlie Nicholas, it is to be hoped that the Committee latest epistle will enable the floating voter to tell their cock-a-leekie from Mock the Weeky, the Darien Scheme from the Tangerine Dream, and their braw bricht moonlit night from their geet big massive shite.

Ins and Oots am here, ye ken?

In

Vincent Tan's hot sister, Poon.
Looking upon the televised travails of Kellie/Frank Maloney and remembering nostalgically the good old days of James/Lauren Harries, when a chap could have a good old belly laugh while pointing out "It's a gadgie in a frock!" without fear of rebuke for one's 'problematic' attitudes. 
Visting the Musee d'Orsay and spending a good twenty minutes transfixed in front of "L'Origine du Monde", eventually emerging from one's reverie and sagely opining "They went in for a hairy clopper in them days, what?"
Post World Cup, referring to any acquaintance with the forename James as "Ham-ez".
Nicki Minaj's tremendous new offering "Anaconda", a glorious appropriation of large chunks of Sir Mixalot's "Baby Got Back" in celebration of Ms Minaj's magnificent hindquarters.
The Mohorovičić discontinuity. Splendid stuff.
Watching documentaries about Northern Soul and thinking back to the first time you ever watched a programme that harked back to the glory days of the Wigan Casino et al, featuring the same handful of clips and the same talking heads from the scene, some of them mere thirty-somethings the first time they were called upon to reminisce about necking bombers and dexys and putting talc on the floor. Great memories. KTF.
Spending a short break with aged parents. Not the most exhilarating holiday, but you will gain valuable new insights into the forensic techniques of American police in the late 1990s, due to a daily diet of 'True Crime' TV documentaries. At deafening volume.
While queueing to get in the VIP area of "Roofies" nite club, confiding to a smoking hot Payroll Administrator that 'at the minute, I'm rolling an '05 Astra'. Bitches respect that shit.
Being blackballed from the local judging panel of 'Britain in Bloom' after getting into a splenetic, bile-filled correspondence with the Chair over whose is less dull out of Midlake and The National.
On meeting the parents of your beloved for the first time, and being left alone with her father, circumventing any efforts on his part to play the heavy father by making pointed enquiries as to how much dowry he was proposing to pony up should this thing go the distance. Veiled references to daddy's little girl stating a preference to hire a stately hall for the ceremony ought to keep the old buster in line.
Loving Bangkok, hating on Pattaya.
That great Jon Spencer's Blues Explosion tune. Can't remember the name, but in the middle of it he shouts "Blues! Explosion!" then they all start playing at 100mph. That one.
The new series of children's serial "Dr Who", where the viewer sees very little of "The Doctor", with most of the crises being dealt with by a new character "The Practice Nurse".
Ham-fisted attempts at satire.
On being asked to pass back a stray 'penny floater' football to children in the street, sending in a crisply-struck ball that swerves both ways before dipping viciously and crashing into the bespectacled face of a small boy, necessitating an increase in one's pace in order to avoid a subsequent inquest.
Telling the GLW that her new fashionable 'bob' haircut is The Very Thing and is rather reminiscent of Bam Margera.
Giving yourself side by adopting a Derek Nimmo style glottal stammer after a few pints. 
Local free newspapers. Say what you like, but you can't swat a fly or dispose of the waste from your grill pan with Guardian Online or Yahoo News, can you? That said, anyone paying cash money for a newspaper in this day and age is, frankly, a tool.
Using one's tongue, expertly dislodging a hitherto recalcitrant piece of food from between one's teeth.


Out

Second hand exposure to the banal Mumsnet-style social media quacking of dough-faced unfunnyman Jason Manford.
Dudley Do-Rights getting buckets of ice water tipped over them in order to buy £3 worth of attention. Almost makes one long for the halcyon days of plain women posting online photos of themselves sans cosmetics.
Vladimir Putin. The man's a bally wrong 'un. There, I've said it!
Christy Mack arrivistes. Some of us liked her before it was trendy.
Dates. Three hours of laboured small talk where your hand ends up in your pocket far more often than down the front of her décolletage.
The re-booted "Planet of the Apes" franchise. The producers of this simian gash are the ones that should be booted. Right up their jacksies.
The reprehensible text-pest lo-jinks of disgraced soccer coach 'Malky' Mackay. Very little prospect of him ever being ordained Archbishop of Banterbury.
Coeliac disease sufferers. Just a bunch of puffs who cannot handle their gluten.
Going to the home of a lady for whom you previously entertained tender feelings, to be confronted by some ghastly trite quotation about family life or phrase from a godawful pop song stencilled on a living room or bedroom wall. After such an affront to one's sensibilities there is no way she is coaxing a hint of tumescence out of a chap, try how she might.
Seriously, put "wall quotes" into Google images. The horror.
Workplace sicknote shithouses, afforded a 'phased return' in order that the strain of sitting at a desk for a full day isn't too much for them. To compound their blackguardery, they then breezily mention that they're off to the gym in the afternoon, after completing a mere four hours of what they understand as work.
Social media mothers, remorselessly cataloguing Every Single Day of your foul children's summer holiday activities in order to outdo that no-bidness bitch whose bairn goes to school with your youngest, who thinks She All That because she took her kids to Alton Towers one time.
Daniel Radcliffe. Face it, you're the Mickey Rooney for the noughties. Kick back and count those sweet, sweet wizard residuals and stop with the daft rom coms with actresses who tower over your dwarf arse. It just ain't happening. 
Computer games being reviewed alongside proper culture in newspaper sections and television shows. They may as well be reviewing the week's output of Babestation and similar channels, and providing listings of local shops that will sell single tabs to youths without insisting upon proof of age.
Attending a terrible 'fake festival' full of low rent tribute bands such as Kings of Leigh-on-Sea, The Mock Mock Turtles and Jackie faux-Motherfucker.
That shower of Dundonian shithouses at The Beano, rejecting your letters page joke for the umpteenth time since 1998. What child of today wouldn't find it hilarious that Dennis the Menace's favourite Cornershop single is "Brimful of Gnasher"? 
Ill-advised females who use a photograph of their children as a Tinder or Plenty of Fish profile picture. Sorry pet, but Ian Watkins is off the market at the moment.
Pulled pork. Looks like bloody cat food.
Robert Smith off of The Cure. You're, like, 60, and still dressing as a fat goth and pretending to be a-feared of spiders? Bitch, please.
Using one's tongue, inadvertently dislodging a hitherto unsuspected piece of food from between someone else's teeth.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Top 10 Footballers Who Sound Like Female Adult Film Actresses...

...and their specialities.

Alexis Sanchez - sultry latin looking 'Milf', always having it off with her teenage son's mates.

Laurent Koscielny - East European, large natural breasts.

Lilian Thuram - Black woman, lots of very vigorous anal.

Andrea Pirlo - Late 80s/early 90s European, very hirsute 'down there'.

Jay Bothroyd - Posh older lady, mainly does 'JOI' videos.

Shinji Kagawa - Japanese faux-schoolgirl.  Pixellated genitals.

Kasey Keller - Corn-fed, silicon-enhanced, alliterative blonde.

Papiss Cisse - Indonesian transsexual, keen interest in watersports.

Luka Modric - Yugoslavian, erstwhile lover of a warlord accused of ethnic cleansing in the 90s.

Billy Davies - British girl, regularly starring as a 'chav teen' despite being the far side of 30.


Keep flicking to kick, sports fans!


Tuesday, December 03, 2013

Cash Money Hoes


At the risk of repeating oneself: 

* WHO writes on banknotes?

* 565 + 5, sir?  You really needed to deface a twenty spot to work out that tricky bit of arithmetic?

* This country.

Monday, December 02, 2013

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2013


Excellent parenting, there.

Konnichiwa, coming atcha!  Rising above the waves in the manner of Godzilla, but a sour-faced, kvetching Godzilla that bitches about cultural minutaie rather than averting disasters.  Ins and Outs is back and it's hungry for Chewits. 

Like Santa Claus, the I&O Committee have been making a list.  Unlike Santa, there has been no checking of said list, let alone checking it twice.  Such due diligence would be essentially out of step with the 'will this do?' ethos of the Committee's endeavours.

Read on if you wish to know who's bringing gold and who's minging and old, who's pulling  crackers and who's scratching their knackers, who's walking in the air and who's talking out their arse, taking off like Chrimbo and the Jet Set, Ins and Outs am here! 



In

Claiming that an acquaintance, known to be a hearty trencherman, had his knife and fork made by Hattori Hanzo.
When short of funds, passing an agreeable friday night in by 'sexting' one's house phone then listening back to what can easily be imagined to be voicemails from one's 'sexy robot girlfriend'.
Nudging one's way to the bar in a crowded Edinburgh gentlemen's establishment, raised tenner akimbo, before asking the barmaid what guest ales they have in.
Having a new-found respect for Nigella, knowing she was ripped to her ample tits on ching when she was doing them shows where she's all giddy about a big chocolate pudding, not like certain gannets you know who genuinely get that excited about confectionery, cakes and desserts.
Accepting that old age and the cold of winter are writing cheques that brer hot water bottle is increasingly unable to cash, taking the plunge and investing in the latest word in electric blanket solutions.
When asked by the GLW what present we should get for our niece's low faced boyfriend, replying "How about a big bumper box of fuck all". 
Airily intoning "Ah, the quintessential Englishman" whenever a particularly unlikely example is being discussed, eg Adge Cutler, Karl Howman, Ian 'Sludge' Lees.
Noting that Carol Vorderman, judging by her Xmas TV advert, has entered into the festive spirit by apparently stuffing a couple of large turkeys down the back of her knickers. 
Jitterbugging to 'I'm Up All Night To Get Lucky' with a lass from Marketing at the Xmas disco, bellowing in her ear that you've a pair of Sir Anthony Eden's silver plated, monogrammed hair brushes available for viewing at yours if she has a care at evening's end? 
Schools that ban parents from videoing their kids' nativity plays.  It's not to stop paedophiles getting their jollies over the resulting footage, it's to save friends and relatives from having to endure watching your badly-shot recording of a, frankly, shit production.
Knocking up your own version of the popular rappers beverage Purple Drank by blending R White's Lemonade with a bottle of Covonia.  Mighty mighty pleasing.
Assuring your lass when she gets home from the beauty parlour that the eyebrow threading she's had done is Just The Ticket and lends her an air of a young Ira Kaplan.
Sweet Baboo.  An unprepopessing looking chubby faced feller he may be (who isn't?) but he knocks out the tunes like a husky Welsh pre-mental health issues Brian Wilson.
The sharp-witted folk at http://yourfaveisproblematic.tumblr.com/  elegantly parodying biscuit-ersed piety and holier-than-thou crawthumping with the skill of a surgeon.
Cornelius Gurlitt, sitting on a priceless hoard of art treasures stolen by the Nazis, slowly selling them off one by one in order to to get money for drink.  Geezer!
Sucking a thoughtful tooth and seriously contemplating the purchase of a pair of waxy brown leather desert boots by Loake ahead of the oncoming bad weather, before coming to the conclusion that the lookalike ones that H&M are knocking out for £19.99 are likely to be Every Bit As Good, Yeah?
The magic of a USB compatible car stereo, enabling the stylish man about to town to impress hot chicks in Tesco car park, windows down, blasting out the latest toe-tappers from Pissed Jeans and Action Bronson.
That unique cultural signifier that finally makes you feel that the festive season is upon us.  For some, it's putting up their tree and decorations, for others the first sighting of the Coca Cola truck adverts, for still others the first hearing of The Pogues or Slade's seasonal ditties.  But really, what better sight to kickstart the yuletide vibe than the glorious sight of the hamster from Xhamster with his little Santa hat on? A foaming festive hand shandy and no error.
Training a strand of tinsel around the perimeter  of your workstation monitor screen.  Now you can feel all Christmassy while you work.  Yay!
Oul' fellers on Boxing Day, fresh from their annual bath and clad in the fresh underwear, socks and sweaters they got for Christmas. The only day in the year when the scruffy old gets will be clean and they spend it shuffling between the club and the bookies, attempting to keep a rollie alight the entire time they're out in the open.
Tom Daley.  With his 'I fancy lasses but I'm schtupping a bloke' schtick, he's basically the anti-Brett Anderson.



Out

Ashby de la Zouche.  De la Zouche indeed, you prick.
While watching a football match featuring Real Madrid or Wales, ushering friends close to you with the air of one with wisdom to impart, then pointing out that that Gareth Bale, he looks like a monkey or something!  Honestly, he's like one of them 'Planet of the Apes' fellows, no?
Channel 4's "Gogglebox".  If one was interested in hearing borderline imbeciles giving their witless, insight-free verdicts on low quality TV programming, one would choose to interact with co-workers.
The return to the pop scene of Lily Allen and Kate Nash.  The hitherto assumed defunct pair are very much like polio and smallpox in musical form.
Holding the door open for a podium dancer from 'Sinners' nite spot as she makes her way back from her tab break and asking her brightly "Twerking hard or hardly twerking?", only to be met with a look of utter contempt.
Signing up with voguish 'I would' app Tinder and finally getting one's first 'match' after a month of indiscriminate right-swiping, only to drop one's phone in the excitement, smashing it beyond repair.
The rise of the zany Christmas Jumper.  When worn by stick thin hipsters and student types, the juxtaposition of their angular frames/sideways hairstyles with the kitschy awfulness of the sweaters made this a mildly diverting fad.  When sported by folk of average to below-average attractiveness and those who clearly like plenty of butter on their potatoes, the look achieved is more reminiscent of a gormless Richard Briers or Bernard Bresslaw, or in extreme cases Fred West.  Enough! 
Folk that post photographs of their newly-erected Christmas trees on social media websites.  Like babies and snowscapes, they all look much of a muchness.
Workplace moaners, unable to complete a full week without taking time off because their chair is hurting their back or the lights are giving them a 'migraine'.  Good job you're not employed in a Bangladesh sweat shop, yeah?
That Kanye West song where he's riding the motorbike with his wife.  Not only is the song one of the worst things in the history of recorded music, you don't even get a proper look at her tits.
Banknotes with figures written in biro on them.  Who the fuck uses a twenty pound note as a jotter?
Instagram.  The world was simply crying out for a method of transforming boring photos into boring photos with a thick frame around them.
Earnestly discussing the various Christmas themed television adverts as though there is a possibility that the advertising industry could ever produce anything that possesses merit of any sort.
The towering loss to 21st century cinema that was the death of him out of "Fast and Furious".  Let us all pray that no ill comes to the cast of "Dude, Where's My Car?"
Copping off with a fifty-something stunner in Oochie Coochie's after complimenting her on the tasteful font that her ink man has used to inscribe her grandbairns' names on her left tit.  (That's the Crip side)
Boring bastards who tell you that they don't even like turkey that much, you know?  As though a) their culinary preferences are of any interest to you, and b) as though they're being forced at gunpoint to eat the fucker.  Have some ham or beef or little sausages and shut your shite up.
The ethereal spirits of Gordon Jackson and Lewis Collins, condemned to dwell in Purgatory by a series of obstructionist petitions to Saint Peter lodge by Martin Shaw's legal team.
The sense of being truly loved and, more than that, understood by one's mother when receiving such thoughtful presents as a Sure gift set and a book about farts from Next.
Robdog hackney carriagemen, their triple-tariff meters ticking over faster than the speedometer on KITT from off of "Knight Rider".

Friday, December 07, 2012

Top Ten Tunes of 2012



Now then, now then, guys and gals, what have we here then? A letter saying "Dear Colonel, can you fix it for me to sit through a playlist of all your godawful musical selections of the year?" As it happens, that it just what I have for you in my dressing room, if you would care to step this way.

1. Icona Pop - "I Love It"
Swedish lasses. Giddy up! A feelgood dancefloor anthem about crashing one's car and bags of shit. Formidable.

2. Nicki Minaj - "Pound the Alarm"
Steel drums, a big beat, textbook breasts. Magnificent.

3. The Donkeys - "I Like the Way you Walk"
Laidback San Diego rockers with a lovely, mellow, chiming guitar rocker.

4. Jens Lekman - "The World Moves On"
A Swedish chap. Giddy up! A feelbad heartbreak anthem about forest fires, cycling accidents and getting chucked by your lass. Nice.

5. Die Antwoord - "I Fink U Freeky"
South African mentalists throw everything at this one. Don't go round their house for an egg sandwich, mind.

6. Major Lazer - "Jah No Partial"
Magnificent dub/dubstep/house/reggae dancefloor tune from the lazer-armed military man.

7. Allo Darlin' - "Capricornia"
A highlight of the Australian/English band's second album, this finds the band in wistful mood, as singer Elizabeth remembers her childhood haunts.

8. Diplo - "Express Yourself"
Heavy bass, top shouting, stylish knitwear and some sexy, sexy dancing. Splendid.

9. Withered Hand - "Heart Heart"
A rare uptempo outing from the Edinburgh balladeer. I'm not normally one for 'cuteness' but how 'bout the two wee dancing lassies in this video? One would need a heart of stone not to find those two charming.

10. Alabama Shakes - "Hold On"
They may be darlings of the Rolling Stone/Q Magazine/Later with Jools crowd, but the soulful Memphis stylings of Brittany and co can't be denied. Righteous.


Laters, pop pickers! CU Next Yr!