Ins and Outs: July '09

Howzat! It's Wimbledon fortnight, what?
Staggering, bleary-eyed, out of the corporate hospitality areas, it is the pleasure of the Ins and Outs Committee to "serve" up another monthly helping of the guide that tells you what's ace and what's a disgrace and differentiates your overhead smash from your big load of gash. Get yourself some new balls, because Ins and Outs am here!!!!!!11!!!!!OHISAY!!!!!
In
When your dreadful mates are debating the relative claims of Messi, Ronaldo and Kaka to the title of best footballer in the world, stubbornly insisting that the true owner of the mantle is, in fact, Bayern Munchen and Germany midfield schemer Bastien Schweinsteiger.
Elena Baltacha. Not very good, but, at least she is descended from one of the Three Wise Men.
Litre bottles of ice-cold Mahou beer.
When responding in the affirmative to any question, doing so with an emphatic "Yes, Sensei!"
Boring the arse off everyone, gibbering on about Spotify.
Claiming that Eggsy from Goldie Lookin' Chain is the son of Viv Stanshall.
Lady Gaga.
Eating nothing but fruit. Gives you a healthy gleam and an excuse for sitting down while ‘going toilet.’
Transformers II. A masterpiece in the same way a chimp shitting the dismembered corpse of Steve Brookstein out of its rancid arse would be a ‘masterpiece’. (This is actually the basis of Simon Cowell’s new TV channel, fact fans.)
Warming to your task.
When attending catholic mass and on instruction from the priest to show a sign of peace to your neighbour, turning around, grabbing the generous hooters of the fruity sort behind you and whispering "You don't get many of them to the pound these days".
At work, answering the phone with an exuberant "Wasssaaap!"
Affecting a mode of dress and personal styling that is partly Rocket from the Crypt, partly Cliff Lazarenko.
Ratting out your crew to the Feds just because you like staying in motels.
On being asked how it's going, shrugging and informing them that "Big shit poppin', little shit stoppin'".
Drunken middle-aged women. I love them all, I love them crazily.
Talking to a bodybuilder in the pub, enquiring if his training regime is linked to the Nietzschean concept of "will to power" only to be told that it's more closely associated with the concept of "being able to knock fuckers out".
V.V.S Laxman, Jeremy Paxman and a mad axeman, defrauding the tax man.
Having a crazy, foolish pipe dream of one day visiting Godalming and going for tea and scones and that.
Awaking, sweating, from a nightmare wherein one is were trapped in room of wall-sized video screen showing a continuous loop of Eamonn Dunphy's face as he achieves orgasm, to a soundtrack of B*Witched's "C'est la Vie".
Out
Being unable to negotiate a busy shopping thoroughfare without being implored by mendicants to contribute towards their Special Brew fighting fund.
Tiresome Jacko-paedo joke funny text pests.
Prior to a much-anticipated night out, telling one's chums that they should wear their wellington boots, as the place will be "knee-deep in clunge".
Log jams. Blackcurrant is much nicer.
The demise of Setanta. Serves them right for showing off on the gee-tar.
Sue Barker’s wardrobe allowance. More ‘Ming’ than ‘Bling’.
Bluffin' with your muffin.
Issuing "come and get me" pleas.
Shameful BBC kow-towing to political correctness meaning they can no longer show Mr Benn walking down Festive Road in his bowler hat in case it offends the Catholics.
Claiming to have an old Triumph Stag that you are in the process of restoring.
Giving up a bases-loaded walk.
The Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands. Cheer up, you miserable cow.
Becoming embroiled in a splenetic confrontation with an ice cream man following a disagreement regarding whether Keren Woodward or Sara Dallin was the best one in Bananarama.
Skype. Use a proper phone you tightwad.
Kasabian and Kasabian enthusiasts.
Temporarily forgetting that you aren't a rock star and appending a request for "half a dozen bottles of Jack Daniels, forty-eight bottles of Stella, two bowls of blue M&Ms, a selection of fresh fruit and a couple of whores" to your monthly stationery requisition form at work.
Cardamom pods. Fucking wankers.
These so-called Arabian states with their mad mullahs. Fancy being told what to do by a yoghurt!
Waking up with a mouth like a foxes oxter after supping not wisely but too well on the sweet, sweet Tiger beer.
Making the slightly insensitive and wholly inaccurate claim that you "be getting more pussy than Molly Sugden".


