Sunday, October 29, 2006

Ins and Outs: November '06

Look who's back on the motherfuckin' blog,
with a fat list for your motherfuckin' gob.

First things first, as Deng Xiaoping would have it. For maximum infotainment pleasure, fire up the official "Ins and Outs" theme tune from here.

Only move on to the list proper when this is done and the frou-frou Teutonic plinky-plonk pop tune is playing nicely in the background.

Do it!

Sitting comfortably? Then let's grip it and rip it.


Getting in for nowt
Making terrible conversation with a taxi driver when all boozed up and strongly believing that there is some sort of fraternal bond between you
Taking a quiet 10 minutes to speculate what a little executive hand relief off Shari Lewis and, more importantly, Lamb Chop might be like.
Being firmly of the opinion that the work of reggae artist Shaggy is due a massive critical reappraisal
Having the kind of body that'd shame Adonis.
Chaps in their "late twenties" grinning like simpletons and jumping around like loons in the pub to that Fratellis record
Lesbians from Dudley
Being able to recite the entire lyric to Warren G's "Regulate"
Smiling like a Werther's Originals grandpa and saying "I don't think so" to a Harry Ramp when asked for spare change.
Having long conversations discussing the respective merits and qualities of female Sky Sports News presenters
Middle aged women
Claiming to know what's "going down a storm in the clubs"
Selling your clothes when you're out on the town
Those hazy, crazy marimba rhythms
Bending one in with the outside of your foot
Reading from the Good Book before retiring to one's bed chamber.
Cheating on the Bamber Boozler quiz by pressing another button when you know you're wrong.
Having a goodly selection of herbs in one's provisions cupboard.
Commenting to your dreadful mate that the alehouse you are in seems to be hosting the regional heat of "Odd-looking Cove of the Year" tonight.
Being able to balance a pint pot on one's head


Females who attempt to tell you stories about their cats.
Claiming that you "like to work hard and play hard"
Joining the Territorial Army purely on the basis that "they give you a new pair of boots".
Leaving the disco alone
Gangs of scratters in pubs, itching for it to "aal kick off"
Having photos of cleavage/old chaps/that type of thing on your mobile phone
Tantric onanism
Finding the all-night garage closed.
Telling lasses you're a property developer.
Pavel Nedved's bedspread
Lily Allen, the Happy Shopper Althea or Donna
Cheerily informing your opponent "That's Numberwang!" as you pot the black at pool
Caesar the Geezer
Crying off from a night in the pub, claiming you're going to tabernacle
Going to bed with Fearne Cotton, waking up with Fran Cotton
Taking an active role in local politics
Glakey, slack-jaw types draped over their trolley as they trundle the aisles in Sainsburys
Cormorants. Cunts more like.
Pipe smokers in pubs.
Telling acquaintances you've had "a right good clear out" as though you expect a park to be named after you for such an achievement.

Baked potaters!

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Who's Got the Craic?

A bridge, in Dublin, last week.

Top o' the mornin' to you, space cadets. I'm just back from the ould Emerald Isle, so I am, to be sure, in a very real sense, faith and begorrah.

Check out the camera work, eh? I am a regular Beverley Goodway, yes? A career in chocolate box and postcard photography surely awaits, what? If you behave yourselves, I may even bung a picture of a country cottage up later. Yes, it is a big wow, actually. Don't take that sarcastic tone with me, or I'll box your lugs for you.

Let us move on.

If this were a report on "The Holiday Programme" or "Wish You Were Here, Do You?" there would now follow a cavalcade of cliches regarding scenery, the craic, the black stuff, fishing, a relaxed pace of life and really small pubs with folk bands playing within. Well, I'm no Judith Chalmer, so F. that S. I'm giving you the real dillio.

Yes, there are all manner of good things in Ireland. Yes, there are a number of fine chaps and good-looking colleens with whom you can have a fine and dandy time. But there are drawbacks too.

Transport. The flight from Newcastle to Dublin took forty-five minutes. The bus journey from Dublin Airport to Dublin Heuston Railway Station took an hour. Then a bone-shaking, slow-moving train took three and a half hours to get to the west of the country. This journey, until recently, took over four hours before the advent of some new rolling stock. In your face, the Tokyo bullet train!

From what I can gather, the roads are no better, with the country having to share one motorway which gets you at a good old pace to the logjams and bottlenecks of the Dublin traffic chaos. The rest of the country has to make do with converted bridle paths with the attendant ever-present threat of some country buffer barrelling into the road in his tractor with no thought of signalling or checking what's coming.

"Ooh, tubbyboohoo! Does the poor baby not like the nasty old infra-structure, then? Diddums!" I hear you chide. Well, yes you may have a point there, but try this one for size.


We've all occasionally leafed through the Daily Mail or the Express, shaking our heads disapprovingly at the half-baked xenophobic tommyrot therein, I'm sure. Recently, there has been much gnashing of hair and rending of teeth regarding the Foreign Hordes from the Eastern Bloc who are going to Swamp our Once Proud Nation.

Some of them are even worse in Ireland. You can't ride a bus or enjoy a pint without some oaf sounding off about the Poles or the Nigerians coming over here and "bleeding the system dry". The general consensus among such lackwits is that they should "send them feckers back where they came from".

Unskilled labourers from Romania or Ghana get equally short shrift.

This, I feel, is a bit rich from a country whose principal exports were, until recent times, burly navvies, nuns and teenage girls seeking abortions.

However, there is a more serious canker that makes the Irish Republic a place where the traveller should beware.

I am referring to Commercial Radio.

There is no BBC in Ireland.

The first "B" stands for "British", didn't you even know that? This means that every station is blighted with radio advertisements, the worst form of advertising in the world. Yes, worse even that spam e-mails for phentermine and viagra. Worse even than the Crazy Frog thing.

Whether it is jabbering mobile phone salesmen or culchie businessmen doing their own voiceovers, the Irish radio advert is the world's worst. All of this is before we get to the radio presenters, or "jockeys of the disc" as they style themselves.

These no-goodniks make Terry Wogan sound like Tim "the big dawg" Westwoods or one of those Radio 1 Xtra urban fellows in comparison. Their links go on forever, they read stories out of the paper, they host vapid phone-ins where the political views of some redneck farmer's wife in Ballyhaunis are sought, they give their nitwitted opinions on music when they eventually get around to banging a tune on.

They are cunts.

On that sour-faced note, I'll bid you good night.

PS It was €3.80 for a pint, since you ask.

A mighty oul' drop o' the black stuff in a lovely country pub it was, fiddle band a-gogo and twinkling-eyed ould ones and Corr-esque Colleens left, right and centre. The craic was mighty, so it was.

Aha! the old Colonel double-bluff! You fell for it, didn't you?

Ireland is skill, really.

But know this. In Ireland, a lot of them still listen to Heavy Metal music. Think about that.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Whitley Gay?

Cowabunga dudes, y’all been peachy? No? Too bad, go tell it to the marines, I ain‘t got taaame for that bull shee-id.

You’re probably here expecting my forthright opinions about the Turner Prize nominees, the number of levels on which voguish US TV drama “Lost” works or a gushing review on the latest best-seller from Baudelaire.

However, I am going to go against type by waffling on about getting pissed up on booze in Whitley Bay again. Consider your expectations subverted, suckers! I’ve gorn and thrown you a curveball, what?

You’re probably aware of the drill by now. Some chaps birthday, ten assorted losers, boozers and jacuzzi users squashed into a taxi, waal-to-waal tidy boilers, all that. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose, as our dutch comrades would have it.

The fine tradition that exists whereby the DJs in all of the pubs in Whitley Bay only play two records all night was being upheld in noble fashion by the denizens of the steel wheels, particularly the cove who looked like Sam Allardyce sporting a handlebar moustache.

The two records in question being the techno stormer "Put your hands up 4 Detroit" and the camp disco bitch floor filler "I don't feel like dancing, me" by The Scissor Sister Band. The latter was the subject of much derision from the more conservative wing of our party, hidebound reactionary sorts who still listen to Oasis. Personally, I like it, I think it's good, but not everyone is as liberal as I am in regards to our "pirates of mens pants" brethren. A shame, I think.

The reason for this expedition was the birthday of one of our group, a notorious hellraiser and ladies man. Hats off to him for the assiduous and painstaking manner in which he ensured the adherence to the practice of buying drinks for the birthday boy. I'm sure he produced a clipboard and checklist at one point, proving to be a very organised fellow where getting gratis grog was concerned. Good work, longshanks.

However, something seemed to be not quite right. For a start, it wasn’t a Bank Holiday Monday, the traditional date for a jaunt up the coast. Secondly the pubs, normally chocker to blocker, weren’t as busy, the empty spaces exposing the threadbare, down-at-heel nature of some of the less exclusive premises. The hot topic on everyone's lips, however, was The Mystery Of Where All The Smart Blart Was!

It was with a sickening sense of comprehension that it dawned that the town seemed to be filled with big gangs of knuckle-dragging blokes and raddled old women choking for a bit of Tyne Dock. No place for a bunch of fresh-faced sophisticates such as we. It seemed that an unheard of bad night in Whitley was unfolding.

The town was so quiet that not one single cackling woman had invaded the gents toilets in a bid to avoid the queues at the Ladies and glimpse some cocks.

Long faces abounded and there were mutterings of jumping ship and heading for Newcastle.

However, the deus ex machina was waiting for us in the next bar. I forget it’s name but they have a raised stage with railings around it for lasses to get up on and dance. And get up and dance they did.

In the words of Eric Burdons, there were long ones, tall ones, short ones, brown ones, black ones, round ones, big ones, crazy ones. It was skill.

In addition to the ladies on stage entertaining all and sundry, there were lasses out on the floor, scornful of those who got up but intent on proving how dirtily they too could dance. As one of our party commented “She let us put me hands up her skirt and everything!”

The action hotted up further as two of the chaps had their shirts stripped off by amorous lovelies. Elsewhere, another fellow and a chunky lass from the Midlands got down to some heavy petting in the corner while our resident papparazzi style photographer was getting everything captured for posterity in a series of stills and moving images that the little pervert has probably knocked one out to at a later date.

That said, if you're looking in, bung any good photos of lezzing up this way, you hear?

By the time we made it to a nightclub the whole company was in high spirits and up for some dancefloor rug-cutting. The scene resembled one of those rap videos you see with all big booty hoes giving it plenty with asses akimbo, while chaps in white trainers give you the lowdown vis a vis bitches, brews and the electric boogaloo.

A capital time was had by all and there was even a bit of time to talk to women, which is always a fraught and potentially-embarrassing enterprise.

Now they may charge you the earth for a pot of booze in Whitley Bay but they clearly put something in it that warps the mind of the fairer sex.

What other explanation can there be for a large-bosomed blonde of twenty-one summers to not only talk to, but appear to enjoy the attentions of, a sweaty-faced shaven headed thug who won’t see thirty again?

Furthermore, it was surely the after effects of smoking crack cocaine are responsible for the same female being of the opinion that I looked about the same age as her.

Still though, giddy up, eh? A bit of a boost for the old ego, eh?

Also, there is the possibility that it was a combination of my dancefloor twinkling toes and cavalcade of stinging lines that I laid on her that she liked.

In a chimp’s cock! She must have been on the pipe. Or a mentaller.

The proceedings broke up around half two and a taxi ride back to civilisation ended up with empty pockets all round and complex bartering with the driver as seven drunken blokes attempted intoxicated arithmetic with ten pound notes thrown about like rice at a wedding.

The snoozers in the party crashed out almost immediately, drooling out the sides of mouths or repeatedly banging heads against radiators while the more alert of us knocked back bottled lager and white wine while monging in front of music TV and talking pseudo-chav nonsense about "whiteys", "bewers" and "cabbage".

It had been a long night.

Get down and get with it, pop kids. I’m audi, y'all.