Thursday, December 28, 2006

Christmas Etiquette

"Alreet, pet? Do you like stuffing?"





What ho, groovers. I trust you all had a "cool yule" as the Nathan Barleyesque youngsters say in fashionable Stourbridge these days.

Personally, I have had a tremendous time, although the body is starting to feel the pace a bit now. Honestly, it's almost as if I had just spent the last seven days pouring outlandish quantities of strong drink into my system, pausing occasionally to greedily chow down on a vast amount of rich food.

Who would have thought that aching kidneys, throbbing temples, bad skin and a torn arse would be the upshot of such Michael Winner-esque indulgences? Go figure!
(Another Stourbridge expression, you square-ohs probably wouldn't have heard it yet).

Anyhow, I haven't gathered you round to tubbyboohoo about a little indigestion and a mild hangover like some grizzling old putz. I'm here to drop a bit of etiquette advice on your asses.

I know, it's very generous of me, but that's what I'm all about. I live to give.

Firstly, there are rules that decent minded folk should all observe when they are a-visiting. If you are a guest at somebody's house for Christmas dinner, for example, there are certain dos and don'ts that apply.

Why not check them off yourself as you read, if, like me, you have recently imposed on the holiday spirit of any of your friends.


* Do compliment the host or hostess on the quality of the food. (Check. Half a point off for drunkenly mumbling "Eeeh, that was bliddy lovely, that" after each course)

* Don't bring the language of the saloon bar or the billiard hall to the table. Coarse expressions have no place at a genteel family gathering. (Would "Hey, look at you, you're sweating like a fat dog's balls!" be considered untoward, these days, I wonder? Ahem.)


* Do bring something to the table other than a healthy trencherman's appetite. An amusing anecdote or an interesting opinion can add sparkle to the conversation between courses. (Check. A graphic recounting of the recent Sunderland roasting footballers episode can certainly be relied upon to liven up proceedings)


* Don't just sit there when it's time to pitch in and get the dishes done (Oops!)


* Do know when to leave. A suitable time might, for instance, be when your host's family have all left and his girlfriend has turned up, eager to spend some quality time with him. (What? Even if you're right comfortable on the couch and it's freezing outside?)


* Don't hang around for a further three hours, making increasingly thinly-veiled and unwelcome insinuations that a sexual threesome might be a suitable modern-day alternative to charades. Comments regarding the Chuckle Brothers "To me, to you" catchphrase, playing cards over a lady's back and Christmas being a time for sharing, know what I mean, are not appropriate behaviour for a guest. (Listen here, we aren't really carrying on with this keeping score deal here, are we? Isn't it warm in here, eh?)


Christmas Day, eh? It's a modern day manners minefield, what?


Which brings us, with a pleasing inevitability, to Boxing Day. Again, ruthlessly exploiting the generosity of my friends, I pitch up a party and proceed to eat before and after me, all the while a-swilling on their best booze.

Now, the host of the party has a rather mischievous sense of humour. It can only have been this that led him, when issuing invitations to the party, to inform one couple that guests were expected to attend in Fancy Dress. Knowing the psychology of this couple and their love for getting all dressed up, no resistance to this suggestion was expected or encountered.

It's possible there are more enjoyable sights than two poor unfortunates entering a crowded house-party during the day, he dressed as a Mexican bandito, complete with outsized sombrero, colourful poncho and stick-on moustache, she wearing a charming, if a littl infantile, red-nosed reindeer outfit.

It's possible but unlikely. Further spice was added by the fact that half of the guests were strangers to the couple, being visiting members of the host's family. Bemusement all round was the order of the day to all but a few of us.

A rather cruel trick, one feels, but a dashed funny one. Totally beadled, as my fashionista chums would probably say.


Although I have since learned that the aforementioned media ponce-infested district is in face Shoreditch and not Stourbridge, as I may have erroneously stated.



I am a cowing fool and no mistaking. Have a bostin' New Year, me ducks!
PS Since so many of you seem to be looking for it, the Sunderland roasting thing is here.
You dorty porvorts.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Ins and Outs: Christmas '06

Opinions were divided, as ever, by the latest from the Ins and Outs Committee



Dearly beloved, we are gathered here, in the refined air of the internet 'blogosphere, to spout tommyrot vis a vis pornography, popular music and behaving like a schmuck when intoxicated.


Verily, that is what this holiest of seasons is aal aboot and lo! shall it come to pass.


That said, what better to put the mull into your wine and slip a shiny sixpence athwart your figgy pudding than a winterval-related rundown that differentiates betwixt what's Cool at Yule and what is, conversely, the way of the tool, the fool and the Hassan Kachloul.


To boil it down to one word: CHRISTMASINSANDOUTSAMHERE!!!!!!!!11!!!!OMG!!!!!!!



In

Talking to the bus driver about the legacy of Enzo Bearzot, concluding that it was "Pretty Good".
Mexican lightweight pugilists.
New potatoes.
Advising married women to get their husbands a half'n'half off a pro for his Christmas present. "I think he'd love it!"
Playing five-a-side in really manky, tatty old trainers
Lapis Lazuli Jewellery
On observing any display of feminine physical dexterity or gracefulness, exclaiming "Shee-it! That's hoe-etry in motion!"
Mount Chimborazo in Ecuador. It is skill.
Arabs and their diet of Snickers and Diet Pepsi, as seen on dodgy pub Sky
All the Dipset lads
Ensuring your workmates receive a daily update on exactly how long it is until Christmas. They love it.
This year's relative dearth of houses with garish over-the-top Christmas lights.
Taking a little time out to resolve one's financial affairs.
Young women who work in proper chemist's shops, smart and attractive in their white coat/overall get-up.
Buying sweet, beautiful booze online.
Antoine Sibierski
Christian Karembeu's pet Caribou
Implying you served time in the French Foreign Legion, but declining to elaborate when pressed.
Tutting furiously at fools
Saying "What's my name? My name is "Fuck you!"" to a bemused leisure centre receptionist trying to take your booking



Out

Having cosmetic surgery done on your nutsack as "you don't like the way it looks".
Adopting a Glaswegian accent when in your cups.
Big dopey sods.
Nitwit females trying to cajole a chap into participating in an office "Secret Santa".
Knackering one's badminton racquet.
Young women who work in Savers/Superdrug/that lot. Slack-jawed gawkers in hideous polo shirts.
Being served a warm bottle of lager in a pub.
Grown-up men queueing up overnight outside some shop for the latest games console. For themselves, not a child of theirs.
Tubbyboohooing about having to write a few Chrizzo cards.
Claiming that just about every saturday afternoon scorer is "in your Dream Team"
Disrespecting the larger lady.
"Passing the ball into the net". Lash it, man!
The joyless collection of bonestrokers and baloney smokers who regularly attend pub quizzes.
Bouncers outside pubs who try to make conversation with you, as if they're real people and not hired goons. Step aside, no-neck!
Returning from Christmas shopping complaining about the crowds. Oh aye, what were you doing there, like? Making a documentary?
The Caspian Sea. The fucking twat sea, more like.
Anybody who plays fruit machines.
Referring to any dreadful mate in absentia as "Old Dog's Mess".
Chewing the ends of pens. Ink infested mouths are a turn-off, foo'!
Folk who act as though you have pissed in the crib of the real baby Jesus just because you won't wear your paper hat from the cracker.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Plug

Christmas isn't Christmas without a Festive Hit Parade, is it? Of course not. So put down your glasses and get your asses across to our bukkake, booze and bullet-riddled Yuletide broadside over here.

Have fun with it!

Sunday, December 03, 2006

I'm Getting Mint!




Evening chaps.

Forgive me if this instalment is a little brief and I seem distracted, I have been overdoing things rather a bit lately.

On Wednesday I visited nearby market town Morpeth for Norses Pay Neet (nurses pay night), a traditional monthly event that sees the public houses jam packed with up-for-it males and females, noisily getting wrecked, much copping off, that type of thing.
Personally, this isn't my type of thing, I'd rather be curled up in an armchair with the latest unputdownable novel by Emile Zola, but one of my oldest and dearest pals had his heart set on it so along I went.

It was an odd sort of an evening that ended up with me making laboured small talk with an attractive nineteen year-old who was staying resolutely faithful to her absent sailor boyfriend while my chum was eagerly getting to grips with her infinitely more compliant fat mam. Not the first time that my good friend and I have been confronted with a
mother and daughter combination but perhaps not the ideal way to be spending one's time.

Being there for a chap though, that's what true friendship is all about, yes?

Friday was another booze up, this time with my dreadful mates from five-a-side association soccer. As the event was being held in Jesmond I bravely negotiated the Tyneside Metro system and alighted at Jesmond.

A mistake.

You have to get off at West Jesmond if you're going to Osbourne's. Don't you even know that? I do now. Having been issued instructions via mobile telephony - "Gan to West Jesmond and ask a student which way to go" - I eventually met up with the fellows and a good night was had by all.

An unusual thing happened on Saturday morning. Having taken it to work prior to going straight out on Friday night, there was no toothpaste in the house. This posed a problem since, like most decent folk apart from Shane McGowan, I never leave the house without brushing my teeth.

I am quite the metrosexual, what?

However, I attempted to get around this impasse with the aid of a bit of lateral thinking.

I have a bottle of expensive mint-scented shower gel by the bath. That's what I'm all about, by the way, high end male grooming products. I'm worth it, you see. Anyhow, calculating that as long as it was minty, Brer shower gel would just about do the job as a makeshift dental hygiene agent.

It is quite a curious thing, cleaning your teeth with shower gel, not an unmixedly pleasant experience, to be honest. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, a strongly soapy taste, that sort of deal.

Still though, what doesn't kill a chap makes him stronger, they say. Not sure that Stephen Hawkings would agree with them, but what does he know, eh?

Well, he knows about shagging nurses, which is more than I do.


Tickle it you wrigglers, I'm audi!