Thursday, October 24, 2019

Ins and Outs: Get Ins and Outs Done

Citizens of the United Kingdom of British Isles Union.  These are trying times for a once-proud country.  The traitorous fat cats of Westminster and the PC Gone Mad Brigade are betraying the Will Of The People!  The brave 17 million didn't vote for parliamentary debates, legal challenges, debates, votes, or any of that shite.  

Spitfires.  Poppies.  Being able to refer to convenience stores and chinese takeaways in language befitting an off-colour 70s comedian.  Blue passports.  Posting rashers of bacon through the letterbox of Asian families.  Bomber Harris on a stamp.  The thwack of Doc Marten leather on dreadlock.  Katie Hopkins on the panel of 'Loose Women'.  

The 52% are reasonable people with reasonable wishes.

While this glorious nation is being denied its destiny by those 'elected in 2017' nogoodniks, what better way to bring back the Spirit of the Blitz than by hunkering down with a tin of bully beef, a pot of british Yorkshire Tea, and a vintage copy of 'Titbits', and enjoying the latest instructions from the Ins and Outs Committee? 

Whether you need to know who's taking an E, and who's taking a knee.  If you're confused as to who's kooky, who's spooky, who's Teemu Pukki, then buckle up, mister, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


When confronting a dreadful mate in the pub with his many shortcomings, throwing in a judicious Rafa Benitez style "These are facts". 

Getting overly excited when it's Spanish food week at Lidl's.  Like Christmas if you're middle aged.  And like Spanish food.

Opening a pop-up restaurant for meerkats.

Couples that go off and get married with no prior announcement.  Hats off for sparing your friends, family, and most importantly work colleagues from a year or more of remorseless updates vis a vis your arrangements.

Cutting quite the dash in a pair of black Superga trainers.

Seeing a social media photograph of a friend's small child wearing sunglasses, and pouncing straight in there to comment "cool dude", spiking the guns of countless elderly relatives who will be pure foaming.

Eighteen ageing Asians, angling in the Aegean.

Calling time on a fledgling romance following a screaming row, where the other party be chatting shit, claiming that the Voodoo Queens were better than Mambo Taxi.  

Preferring Matt and Luke Goss to Dan Blocker's character in "Bonanza".  Bros before Hoss every time.

The onstage announcement at Woodstock not to eat the brown acid.  First ever TripAdvisor review. 

The mazy dribbling skills and dreamboat good looks of Fabian Schär.

Despite generally viewing the consumption of sweet pastries, cakes and that, as largely the domain of women and the effeminate, being all about the Portuguese custard tart.  Good eating, right there.

Claiming to 'hardly ever go on Facebook these days', because it's easier than saying that you've 'unfollowed' the vast majority of your relatives and friends, because of the shit and/or boring things they say and share.

Striding into the barbers like a boss, and getting a big old shaved-in parting, as normally sported only by professional footballers and moosey-faced bairns in the paper who've been sent home from school.

Scornfully judging people by their unorthodox appearance with the epithet '...completist'.  e.g A herbert with a lipring and clumpy skateboard trainers = 'Deftones completist'.  Ageing feller in a Pretty Green coat = 'Northern Uproar completist'.

Going to one of those illegal car meets, where Daz the virgin from Rotherham is stroking his revolting chap over some chrome-laden souped-up Mazda MX5, in your mam’s Fiat Panda.

Just as the applause dies down following the first song on his latest solo tour, screaming at the top of your lungs to Mark Knopfler: “Just play ‘Local Hero’ will you, man?”

Interrupting your boss midway through your appraisal for no other reason than to ask him if he’s circumcised.

Calling tails on a coin toss because it makes you feel like some Rive Gauche philosopher.

Despite being a middle-aged bloke with no bairns, starting to write a 'mummy blog'.  An occasional 2000 words on how your tits are hurting, or passive-aggressively moaning about how your other half doesn't help out enough?  Piece of piss.  Knock it out before the pub on a Friday.


The afternoon tea industry.  Prissy, faux-posh nonsense that involves selling a plate of buffet food at an inflated price to twats by arranging it photogenically on a cake stand.

Being unnecessarily proud of having completed your post-holiday laundry after four days away.  You've washed clothing that fits into a carry-on case, you're not exactly Dot Cotton or Wishee Washee, yeah?

ale-hop: Quirky plastic cow cunts.

On the rare occasion of scoring a good goal at five-a-side, pulling a 'pornstar being fellated' serious face, while nodding in a 'yeah, this is what I do' fashion.  Prick.

Those 'Captcha' things that require you to prove you're not a robot.  They should have a box where you can write "I have no problem at all with humans being injured due to my inaction."

The traditional advice that the best way to deal with a bully is to stand up to them.  Not so good if you're a wicketkeeper getting picked on by your team's fast bowler.

Them hairy-faced, over-emoting pricks on the Strongbow advert with their 'proper music' desecration of 'Together in Electric Dreams'.

Attempting to engage in a workplace discussion of "Love's Island" by asking "So.  Do you get to see it going in?"

Hearing a 60-year-old female work colleague complaining about almost burning herself on the too-hot water from the taps in the toilet, fixing her with a look similar to Roy Keane hearing about a footballer wearing a snood, and curtly informing her that they have mixer taps in there.

The buyers remorse of the Lexiteer.  Who'd have thought that siding with Every Cunt in the Land in a binary vote could have unintended negative consequences, what?

People who post their holiday photos online, and include shots of the hotel bed.  I know what a fucking bed looks like, you pricks.

The titular Bank Robber from the Clash song.  He may have convinced himself he never hurt nobody (sic), but try telling the blameless bank tellers who suffered with PTSD.  Hang your fictional 70s blag head in shame.

This Boris Johnson feller.  Seems a bit of a cunt, what?

Fourteen-year-old young fellers, slavishly recreating the 80s football casual look, wedge haircuts and Fila/CP Company gear akimbo.

Be-clawed squirrels staring at you as they rip open the wire of the latest of a long line of £1.99 peanut feeders you’ve bought from The Range and chowing down on the contents like Augustus Gloop by a chocolate river. The bushy-tailed cunts.

Turning down the offer of drinks with your dreadful mates, pleading a prior engagement of an 'axe throwing lesson' with Jesy Nelson.

Standing around getting in the fucking way, vaping your fucking Bakewell tart flavoured smoke everywhere, like the Pied Piper of Noncetown.

Notwithstanding the fact that "The Peaky Blinders" is an entertaining TV show, it remains a fact that anybody under 70 years of age wearing a flat cap is A Fucking Prick.

Loudly telling a bar owner that the beautiful hilltop village in Tuscany he lives in “looks like it should be on Red Dead Redemption”.

The sudden realisation that, even if you climb as high as you can on the career ladder and became CEO of the firm you work for, you still wouldn’t be paid as much as Garth Crooks is.  

Thursday, December 20, 2018

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2018

Listen up, chillun! Gather round for yo' vitamins, Ritalin, and chitterlings.

The Committee have been pow-wowing, and after much desk-thumping, dry-humping, and mugwhumping, they have the following communique:

Ins and Outs am here!


Convincing people you're a foodie arsehole by referring to any snacks you prepare as 'small plates'.

Sporting what appears to be a nascent Hitler 'tache because you've promised yourself a pre-Christmas nose waxing at the Turkish barber's, and you want to get your money's worth.

The 1922 Committee. Some boys, them.

A local press or club website training gallery featuring your team. Nothing more than a collection of photos of footballers in bibs jogging in desultory fashion or grinning while playing five-a-side, but oddly compelling.

Feeling somewhat dirty donning one's first pair of New Balance training shoes, having been a staunch Adidas man since childhood.

The eyebrows of Gabriel Jesus.

Being late to the party, but getting properly into the music of Orange Juice. Marvellous.

Having spent many years furious, *furious*, about the fact that the allied team don't in fact, win the match, in the film "Escape to Victory", gaining some inner peace from the fact that the title refers to the eventual, some say more important, victory in World War II. 

The film would really have had to be called "Escape After Victory" if they had won the match, which would have entailed two large spoilers, right there.

Politically-aware adult website Pornhub re-classifying all of its Big Black Cock (BBC) content as Big Cock of Colour (BCoC). This follows their previous ‘woke’ categorisation of Big Beautiful Women (BBW) rather than ‘fat lasses’. 

Considering at length, then completing, the purchase of a brown corduroy jacket.

"Vic and Bob's Big Night Out". A triumph.

Getting hold of a 20% off voucher for Marks and Spencer, and hotfooting it down there to get your lass' bit Christmas presents, stopping only to ask an assistant where is the "Any old fucking shit" aisle. Cashback!

The pleasing ladies fashion news that choker chains are back as part of a '90s retro' vogue. Giddy up!

Avidly watching tv shows about caravans and motorhomes, eagerly lapping up reviews of assorted Swifts and Elddises despite having no intention of ever getting in a one.

Doing that 'talking with your hand over your mouth' thing the footballers do, when you're at the pub with your mates.

Robert Mueller. A modern day Eliot Ness, and a rare source of good news stories as a succession of Trump's odious mates get despatched to the big house.

Netflick's blockbusting docu-series "The Daft Twats of Sunderland".

Eschewing the gauche Christmas sweater look for a simple lapel badge that says "Hey, fuck your pigs in blankets".

Getting the bum's rush from the Snootytown Golf Club's big Christmas Ball after falling foul of their 'no denim' admittance regulations, your plea that "They're Grim Timms! Heavyweight selvedge denim and that!" cutting no ice with the walrus-tached, blazered up Rotarian who escorts you from the premises.


Telling people that the local social club lays on a 'fabulous' cheeseboard and charcuterie of a Sunday lunchtime. A somewhat lavish description of cheddar cubes, black pudding and chopped up hot dogs.

Believing that downmarket frozen food hawkers Iceland gives any more of a shite about palm oil than it does about the dietary requirements of Kerry Katona's bairns.

That shit Queen film, emboldening knackers of all stripes to inflict the band's shitty music in public houses.

Ian Brown's execrable new single "First World Problems"; an "Another Day in Paradise" for the Pretty Green whopper generation.

Referring to records as 'vinyls'.

Any statement that is followed by multiple 'crying laughing' emojis. The emoji of 'banter'. The emoji of the Fucking Prick.

Beer or Gin or Prosecco 'festivals', where the word 'festival' means nothing more than 'for sale'. Like all other licensed premises.

A bloke of twenty-eight or more summers describing something as 'on point'. Is a bloke who needs a dry slap.

Roaring Home County Brexit whoppers, only able to achieve an erection while watching "Dunkirk" or "The World at War", getting an absolute diamond-cutter on at reports of No Deal preparations, troops on the streets, and urgent medical supply convoys.

Acting all Mother Teresa over the great works you're going to accomplish with the money you're not spending on Christmas cards. It's like two quid for a big box of cards, yeah?

Posting a picture of your so-so Christmas tree online without the devastatingly original caption "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas"

Buying a small cylinder with a woman’s voice to Google shit for you.

All year round poppy blowhards.

Stuttering penalty kick run-ups. Get the fucker kicked, man.

Old Dog’s Mess from Arctic Monkey. A true heir to the ‘self-satisfied Yorkshire cunt’ mantle of Sir Geoff Boycott.

Standing around freezing your arse off in a converted container unit, drinking overpriced little tins of American IPA shite, when you're in the middle of a city littered with warm pubs that sell beer you've heard of.

Letting out a big old Stan Laurel style yelp the first time a Turkish barber goes after your ear hairs with a flaming splint. Disconcerting.

6 Music's decision to replace the Radcliffe and Maconie's iron horse of afternoon radio with the tiresome oaf Sean Keaveney.

The ratio between how much of a hard-faced ratbag a female acquaintance is, and the nauseatingly over the top positivity of her online social media photo commenting style.

People who buy turkey crowns at Christmas. Mocking the poor bird like that. That said, the baby Jesus was given a crown before he died as well, so that's fitting. 

Monday, December 04, 2017

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2017

Squad! Word to yo' momma, bitches! It's the most magical time of year again. The crowds, the expense, the tiresome discussions regarding the shrinking dimensions of Quality Street containers. 

Christmas, as even the fool knows, is the province of bairns and twats. Ideally, one would slope off like Sherlock Holmes to an opium den and get through the whole thing under the influence of powerful stimulants, red wine, and strong cheese. 

 Unfortunately, as Ice T was wont to mention, shit ain't like that; it's real fucked up. 

 In this spirit of twisty-faced resignation, the Committee is here to show you the way. All you hotties, fitties, Jack the Hat McVities, get your finger out your arse, get an eggnog down your neck, and get busy with it. 

Ins and Outs am here! 


 That film where Leo di Caprio spends three hours fending off the unwelcome attentions of a carpet; “The Remnant”. 

 Unfailingly referring to any dreadful mate seen reading a work of improving literature as “Billy Bookcase”. 

"Davey Attenborough and his Daft Fishes"; top notch aquatic shenanigans. 

Attempting to obtain compensation from record shops on the grounds that you were knowingly mis-sold P.P. Arnold. 

 Terns, sturgeons, and stern surgeons. 

 The Rugby League World Cup. The only sporting event where they have the final at the start, then again at the end. Like ‘Memento’ but with loads of huge blokes with tiny ears. 

 The parliamentary sketches of The Guardian’s John Crace. That said, has it really come to this? Broadsheet political satire for entertainment? Mother, the Sanatogen! 

 The pneumatic musical stylings of Charli XCX. 

 When frequenting a social/workingman’s club with an officious committee overly fond of small printed notices, defacing them so that instead of finishing ‘By order of the Committee’ they say ‘By order of the Peaky fucking Blinders’. 

 Meeting Mel Machin and Mal Meninga in the Manchester Malmaison for mimosas, marmalade and memes. 

 The relief, upon one’s return to the workplace, of finding that you’ve missed out on a collection, some say whip round, no matter how worthy the cause. 

 Fretting about the Vodafone couple. Will Mateyboy from The Office's face be glistening like a glazed doughnut by Xmas Eve or not?  

 Telling your bird that her Christmas-themed poncho from Lorraine Kelly's seasonal collection ('Because Ye'r Special!') is delightful, in fact she looks like Clint Eastwood in For A Few Dollars More, with slightly more stubble.  

 Maggie Gyllenhall’s excellent performance, and pleasing diddies, in “The Deuce”. 

 Being A Good Boyfriend and patiently sitting through “Say Yes to the Dress”, with the unspoken proviso that at least one of the brides-to-be has big knockers. Otherwise, on goes Sky Sports News. 

 Eagerly anticipating the organ donor people’s Christmas announcement of who it was that got George Michael’s heart last year. No doubt someone special, special, special.

 Being unable to get angry with the warmongering or the human rights abuses of Kim Jong Un, due to his little chubby face being just toooo adorable! 

 The happy world inhabited by the marketing creatives behind the ‘You’re So Money Supermarket’ campaigns. Freed from the cares of the workaday world, or any necessity to refer to their somewhat mundane 'product', these freewheeling, coke-snorting innocents are at liberty to engage in whatever fripperies, juvenilia or flight of fancy that comes into their heads. Lovely. 

 Considering your music highlight of the year to be Ed Sheeran getting knocked off his bike and breaking his arm. 

 The excellent form of Burnley FC defender Ben Mee. Look out for his promising younger brothers Shay Mee and Anywayyouwant Mee. 


 The gushing, overly-earnest messages sent in by listeners to the otherwise excellent Lauren Laverne show on 6Music. 

Complaining about being the recipient of “Mansplaining”. Fuck off and Google next time, yeah? (It’s a search engine). 

 Footballers who express their intention to ‘go again’ following an underwhelming result. That’s big of you. Cheers. 

 Internet Billy Bigtimes, venting on social media about what they’ll do to the ‘scum’ that robbed their work tools. If you were that much of a hardman, the local toe-rags would have left your van alone, yeah? 

Claiming that you once got through a bag of Aldi’s Easy Peelers without finding at least one furry blue feller mouldering away in there at some point. Never happened. 

 Anybody participating in the phenomenon of the Coca Cola ‘Holidays are Coming’ truck. Not for nothing, but if you and your gormless spouse are pitching up with your unfortunate children to show them a lorry hawking cola then you, Sir or Madam, are a cunt. 

 Being rumbled by a lass at work with big, drawn-on eyebrows when you’ve been innocently singing “I’m doing my face, with magic marker” from “Tilted” to yourself. 

 Chatting to a posh feller at new voguish gin bar “Onanist”, and, upon learning that he manages a hedge fund, asking “Why don’t you buy your own hedges, you cadging rich fucker?” 

 Wafer-thin ham. Given the relative popularity of the two items, why not ham-thin wafers? Eh? 

 James Franco’s mugging acting style in “The Deuce”. 

 Any fool who types using ampersands in the middle of sentences. Worse than Space Hitler, them. 

 Claiming you do Hot Yoga and that the instructor’s mood music is “Motherfucker = Redeemer” by Godspeed You Black Emperor. 

 Paul Merson’s bad Cliff Clavin-looking muzzy. 

 The Rover’s Return pub. Almost every bloke who’s had a pint in there has been lifted at some point for rape, sexual assault or noncing. It’s either full of sex cases or grasses. Avoid.  

Claiming people have 'lost their shit' over a pictorial representation of an equation that contains a possibly ambiguous multiplication element. No, they haven't. 

 Aled Jones. Walking In The Air? More like Wanking In Her Hair, the dirty bloody sod. And him married with bairns, for shame.  

 Being all up on Instagram, claiming you’re “fat-stackin’ dead presidents”, when in fact you’ve got £17 to last you to next Thursday, and you’re bringing sammidges in for your bait at work. 

 Going to a Christmas market and shelling out the thick end of a fiver for an ‘authentic’ German bratwurst THE EXACT CUNTING SAME as you can get in The Lidl’s, six for £1.59. 

Old Dog’s Mess Trump, re-tweeting Little Britain videos. Computer says no! 

 Attempting to make some headway with a bleach-blonde cruiserweight rock chick in ‘Trillians’, claiming vaingloriously that you ‘look like Ronnie James Dio, you drive an ‘05 Renault Clio’. What is is with uncooperative heavy metal enthusiasts and their scant knowledge of Billy Bragg lyrics?

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2016

Christmas time, Morecambe and Wise. Children drinking fortified wine. 

2016, eh? A rum bugger of a year and no mistaking, what? Terrorist attacks, Aleppo, Jo Cox, Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, Brexit, Trump, and that fat sack of turds Allardyce keeping Sunderland up at the expense of dear old Newcastle United. 

 Still, we battle on. And what better at this festive time than the list that tells you who's a bit of alright and who's a little alt-right? Want to delineate your Festive Bake from your Daniel Blake, your tinnies from Oddbins and your shit from Kate Hopkins? 

 Then step lively, ducks, because Ins and Outs am here! 


Upon one of your dreadful mates displaying any knowledge of 'modern' music, pointedly asking them "Who are yee, like, Jason Status?" 

Original Source's coconut shower gel. Smells that good that it's a struggle to refrain from licking oneself for the rest of the day. 

Weeping salty tears of regret as the credits rolled on the final BBC episode of 'Bake Off'. Televised baking contests will never be the same again. Inspiring times to be alive. 

Having decided it may be time to get one's golf clubs out for a knockabout, performing this act with all the reverent ceremony of a retired gunslinger strapping on his holster and six-shooters. 

Getting your daft cow friends on social media to collect the wire hoods from their prosecco bottles on the pretext that they can be sent to the starving Africans for use as dental braces. 

Smiliingly telling the GLW that her trip to the beauty parlour to get her eyebrows done has left here with a very fetching resemblance to Rossy de Palma. 

The realization that you never see blokes with centre partings these days. Back in the 90s you couldn't move for them. Not now. 

The Housemartins. A Great Band. 

When a public house blowhard finishes telling you a lengthy, self-serving anecdote, solemnly telling them "You're really quite the man!". 

Informing friends and family that you aren't sending Christmas cards this year, and that you will be spending the money saved on drink. 

Teachers who refuse to be disheartened by their school's poor showing in the Government's league tables, instead hoping for a good run in the cup. 

Walking through a newly opened, posh, Lidl store, thinking that this must be what the shops in Heaven are like. 

Voguish Scandinavian drama "Modus". Championship fare when compared with the Killings and Bridges of this world, but enjoyable enough. 

Seeing somebody on telly who has become famous for making YouTube videos. Fair play to them, they must be really good videos. 

The vast majority of former dart player Tweets. Yes, by all means, Eric Bristow, but where are the plaudits for Leighton Rees' incisive coverage of Brexit, Cliff Lazarenko's insights into the recent US Presidential election, or Bob "Limestone Cowboy" Anderson's frank opinions on 'Weather Girls Who I'd Give One To'? #warmfront 

Drinking too much on a Sunday teatime and finding next day that you've tried to vote twenty-eight times for that bird-eating Catfish to win X-Factor. 

Hardworking stay-at-home mums, finding time in their busy schedule to share informative memes from TheTwistyCowBlog,, and, while her bairn has been despatched to the corner shop with a note requesting Tampax and ten Regal. 

On the occasion of one of your mates turning up dressed smartly in shirt and tie, referring to them continually as The Chicken Connoisseur and asking them to recommend a good place for 'wings'. 

Cordially inviting Debra from Business Support to "hit me up on my pager, maybe I'll break you off sumt'n" before realising that i) You aren't a 1980s rapper, and ii) your workplace Charity Bake Sale is not an ideal forum for attempting to catch you some poontang. 

Stating that you will later on be going out for a drink. "OR TEN!" You fucking legend. Ten pints? That's a crazy amount of drinks. 


 'Game of Thrones' enthusiasts. Into swordfights, battles, dragons, and the possibly ill-advised depiction of sexual violence? Not for nothing, but people like that were bullied in the 80s and 90s, and made to drink in greaser bars with the other weirdos. The world was a better place for it too. 

 People who highly rated the new material of The Stone Roses. Proof positive that having a daft Herman's Hermits haircut or a flowerpot hat on your head impairs one's hearing. 

Friends and family members who were straining at the leash to vote for Brexit, outraged that the EU is trying to prevent them using off-colour racial epithets when describing their choice of takeaway meals. 

Eateries that have 'slaw' on their menu when they actually mean coleslaw. 'nts'. 

Acquaintances who are shocked - shocked! - to find that not every game in the Championship is televised and analysed in the same painstaking manner as every EPL Premier League of Soccer fixture. 

Being firmly of the opinion that we are living in a golden age of big-tit pornography, yet having nobody with whom to discuss this weighty matter. 

Nationwide's adverts with poems in them. Shit poems. Grown adults acting excited over their advent calendars. For shame. 

"Bridget Jones' Baby". One low quality film, right there. Spoiler alert; unfortunately, she doesn't die during childbirth. 

Anybody using the ghastly internet phrase "said no one ever" in real life. 

Excessive and unnecessary use of away kits. 

Any use of three 'crying with laughter' emojis. The deployment of these gurning pictographs only highlights the disparity between the perceived comedy gold being proferred and the banal reality. For example an, at best, moderately diverting picture of a surprised pet. 

Taking hipster beard shitcuntery to another level with the introduction of an 'ironic' waxed RAF moustache into the mix. 

Killer Whales. Not really whales, not really killers. Two-bob pretend hard cunts of the sea, that's what they are. 

Online end of year "Best of" music lists. A set of middle-aged cunts pretending to like Drake. FTS. 

While verbally jousting, telling your adversary that at B & Q, their mother 'would be found under Outdoor & Garden, Garden Hand Tools & Equipment, Rakes Weeding and Clearing. i.e. she's a hoe!' Far too unwieldy. 

Driving while full of drink. Not only socially unacceptable, but there's an ever-increasing risk of running over some dimwit in the road, tanked up on Jaegerbombs and gawping at smartphones. 

Mingebags driving around in big-ass Audis, but too tight to get their headlight fixed. more like! 

The fool, who describes any task as having been 'smashed' when it has, in fact, been 'completed satisfactorily, more or less'.

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.


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!


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.


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!

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.
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.

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.
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.

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.
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.

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.
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.

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.
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.

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!


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".


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?