Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Ins and Outs ...at Christmas!


Happy hanukkah, meshuggas!


The Ins and Outs Committee, novelty antlers akimbo, have polished off the last of the eggnog, formed a quorum and bunged out another diktat regarding the upcoming winterval festivities.

Want to know your plum duff from your Damien Duff? Your pigs in blankets from your pigs in lipstick? Unable to tell "It's a wonderful life" from a thunder-faced wife?

Well point your sleigh this-a-way 'cos dem Yuletide Ins and Outs am here!


In


Watching bank clerks from Nat West on their Christmas lunch sitting front and centre in the window of the Gurkha Kitchen with mournful expressions and paper hats whilst local urchins outside give them the wankers salute.
World's Strongest Man. The festive period isn't complete without the sight of European no-necks carrying massive boulders about and doing chin-ups in warm, sunny conditions.
Eschewing the hysterical vapourings of a meddlesome government bureaucracy concerning nutrition, e numbers and so forth for the more measured advice of working mum Kerry Katona, and spending one's entire Christmas food dollar at Iceland.
Genuinely preferring "Escape to Victory" to "The Great Escape".
Monging in a hungover state through the Royal Institution Christmas Lectures.
Bachelors spending Boxing Day preparing a princely repast of two Pepperamis and some Doritos, washed down with a cheeky Special Brew in front of a collection of Electric Blue videos, recovered from the shed for just such an occasion.
ODing on twiglets.
Christmas Day social club garish knitwear and pungent aftershave overload.
Half-cut dads playing with their kids' toys late on Xmas Eve.
Compulsively guzzling an entire box of chocolates in one sitting while watching a Carry On film.
Mince pies. Sweeter than bear meat.
Regrettable last-minute purchasing of really whorish, low-quality underwear for your lass.
Lalique tree decorations from Bloomingdales. To DIE for, darling!
Getting all boozed up at your work do and ending up making sweet, beautiful love with the fat lass from the post room. No possible scope for future embarrassment and awkwardness there, oh no.
Sniffing poppers at midnight mass.
Popping down the petrol station on Boxing Day for a packet of fags, then on a pure whim buying an oxblood leather sofa from DFS. Nil per centum on the vig and nowt to shell out until 2011? Nice!
Making joke funnies that hinge on the linguistic ambiguity intrinsic to the notion that Santa empties his sack/comes once a year.
The reassuring feeling one gets from knowing that nothing more weighty is happening in the world of news than the Queen going to church on chrizzo morning.
Sending the Dudley Do-Right in your life a card in which you've written "I was going to give money to charity this year, but I saw this kick-ass card and it's just SO you!"
Asking your lass for "A gam and a gram" for your present.


Out

Aled-up, scantily clad lasses from Friends Provident weaving their way down the High Street and giving a brother the skunk eye should his glance momentarily rest on their chests.
Waiting for the meat raffle in the Legion on Christmas Eve for one's turkey.
The recent tendency to incorporate shelling out on overpriced bratwurst as part of the Christmas experience.
Bucket-rattling bouncers.
Being pitied like a Romanian orphan because you live alone... ...at Christmas.
Telling all and sundry about the massive stock of bottled beer in your garage, including the various "deals" you got. It'll still be there at Easter, you boring bellend.
Getting the squits after excessive tangerine consumption.
New Year's Eve taxi tariff tubbyboohooing.
Being labelled a "Bah humbug" if you refuse to go along with just one facet of the suggested festive programme of one of your fatheaded work colleagues.
The unpredictable behaviour of a cracked nut.
James cunting Bond.
Grown men, well into their thirties, mark you, getting a Wii for Christmas. Unorthodox.
Pigs in blankets. You're cooking enough turkey and veg to sink a U-boat, why the fred funk do you need to bung some sausages and bacon in there as well?
Having a moody teen about the place who insists on playing their new DVD of "Funeral For A Cannibal Corpse's Fat Lass' Greatest Hits" on Christmas morning.
Wearing a Santa hat to the football.
Unimaginative office gals donning a pair of Christmas earrings and thinking it makes them as amusing as Dorothy Parker.
Scruffy American indie herberts and their wacky Christmas songs. Man, did that get old quick.
Mulled wine? More like a bastard!
Those wassocks that go swimming in the sea on Christmas mornings.
Elderly relatives with nothing better to offer to a guest than English sherry. You're alone with the cats and the smell of piss next year, tightwad!




Merry Chrizzo and a happy New Yizzo to you all!

Saturday, December 01, 2007

Ins and Outs: December '07




Eeeh, isn't it getting cold? In December too! Who would have thought it possible in this day and age? If you ask me, this global warning they're on about is a load of old tussie-mussie, and that's swearing.

Meteorological misgivings aside, hunker down for the latest bulletin differentiating the head honcho from the Stephane Henchoz, the Tip Top from the Top Shop, the heavy hitters from the Gary Glitters.

Drink your women, shag your beer, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


In

Not caring for someone's tone of voice.
Instructing your dreadful mates to "go to the mattresses" after a dispute at the local newsagents over the correct change proferred for 20 Bensons.
Breezily informing all and sundry that you are into chocolate, chick-lit and having your clit licked.
Peruvian pickpockets, purchasing pork pies.
Modish French perve-popsters The Teenagers.
Cashmere pashminas.
Buying an antique crystal cruet set at auction for an absolute steal of a price.
Getting more ass than a toilet seat.
Text messages off your lass, asking if you want Chunky Chicken for tea.
Wampum jeans.
Keeping an eye out for "ready to eat" treats.
Eagerly anticipating the bountiful creative fruits that will doubtless be borne from the reunion of the Spice Girls.
Broccoli.
Weaselling out of social engagements in order to stay home and watch "The Fall Guy".
Deploring the modern trend towards licentiousness.
Occasional nights in social clubs, marvelling at the ridiculously low cost of drink.
Espying a lady who has perhaps overdone the foundation make-up and muttering to your dreadful mate "Too orangey for crows!"
Giving serious consideration to taking out membership of the National Trust, mainly to get the car sticker.
Hearing voices in your head that tell you to keep your shoes well shined, rather than any nonsense about killing women.
Visiting a farmers market and buying some delightful damson preserve. Lovely.


Out

Becoming overly friendly to all and sundry following all day drinking binges.
Threatening to "totally kick off".
After a dinner date where boot-knockage does not ensue, getting all agitated and uncomprehending, finally stammering out the words "b-b-b-but I bought you a steak!"
Not having an out-shot.
Over-filling the washing machine, causing insufficient rinsing and, hence, residue-flecked garments.
Getting a job in a Muslim country, where there's also a war on, and not being EXTREMELY careful about anything even vaguely connected with religion.
Being somehow proud of having a rubbish mobile phone.
Lasses working on building sites. Are they insane?
Soft, rubbery baguettes.
Lifting washing machines.
Young lassies wearing "Playboy" fashion accessories. It'll be "Barely Legal" t-shirts and "New Cunts" clutch bags before long, mark my words.
Getting your haircut then deciding it makes you look supercilious.
Sucker MCs and wack DJs. No good to man nor beast, either of them.
Customer-centric selling.
Confessing that, due to a lack of a partner, you don't really have a "wank window", more a "wank patio door".
Being given the old heave-ho.
Eschewing the more orthodox "two eyebrow" strategy and just having one big, bushy one.
Feeling pressured into putting numbers on the domino card.
Dub-step. Shite-step, more like!
Single malt aficianados, all hoity-toity with their peaty undertones and that. It's only booze, no better or worse than Bacardi Breezer or McEwans Tartan.

Friday, November 02, 2007

Ins and Outs: November '07


Greetings, earthlings.

I believe it was the popular lesbian Billy Jean King who first proclaimed "I have a dream. A dream where white girls and black girls can hang out at the YWCA, smoke a thoughtful briar and discuss the works of kd Lang and Missy Elliot"


I'm not a militant lesbian civil rights leader, I will frankly admit this.

However, I too have a dream. A dream wherein the entire populace will be subject to the monthly whims and caprices of a frankly strange man. A world where orthodoxy talks and knitwear walks.

Help me, friends, help me make this dream come true by sharing in my vision for a brighter tomorrow. Now is the time, for at last Novembers Ins and Outs am here!

In

Dignifying a crafty afternoon bout of hand-to-gland combat by calling it a siesta.

On receiving your first class honours degree in politics, philosophy and economics from Oxbridge's prestigious university, throwing your cap in the air and yelling "A1 Skip Hire, here I come!"
Anything remixed by Claude Vonstroke.
Carrying out complicated soul brother handshakes (culminating in a robust bumping of butts) with the bloke who runs the dry cleaners.
North Korea's Kim Jong-il. Nobody fills out a polyester leisure suit better than this sour-faced little cockknocker.
Sashaying along the mean streets of town in a snazzy pair of oxblood wingtips.
Joe Tex. Thonky basslines, squonky horns and a firm but fair line with the gals.
Indulging in light petting in kebab shops.
"Bobbing".
Epic living-room putting competitions.
Hanging out of a speeding vehicle, bellowing "Sook mah boaby!" in the direction of an early morning Post Office queue.
French perves.
Rembrandt's portraits of beaming Dutch fellows in large hats.
Mario Puzo drinking ouzo with Rino Gattuso.
Consuming a simple dinner of guinea fowl and seasonal vegetables, washed down with some decent port, before retiring to one's study to watch the entire series of ITV2's "Katie and Peter: The Next Chapter" that you've sky-plussed.
Reciting ODB rhymes in the style of dear, dear Jonny Gielgud.
Constructing a darling little pin-cushion from scraps of bombazine and the collected shavings of one's baal hairs.
Staying within one's recommended weekly alcohol intake. Being a bleary-eyed, red-nosed toper is nothing to be proud of.
Affecting to have an in-depth knowledge of the "fight game" despite being an effete ponce who wouldn't know Rocky Marciano from Bullwinkle's mate.
Giving the bizzies some lip because you quite fancy getting Tazer-ed.

Out

Spanish Practices.
Using the Comic Sans font for any purpose other than a poster advertising a "family fun day", "bring and buy sale" or any other mums-and-biddies-friendly occasion.
Plastic pitches.
Teenage scratters attempting to touch a brother for a loan of 30p to facilitate a garlic sauce topping for their takeaway chips.
Phoenician galley ships. Fucking shite.
Herberts in their early twenties, getting all dressed up for Hallo'w'eeeen.
Fatsos "rewarding" themselves for losing two pounds in weight by ordering the set meal for four at the chippie because they've "got all week to burn it off".
A-Rod, the avaricious knacker. A-Hole more like!
Anyone who works in Personnel, Recruitment, Human Resources, Zeitgeist Harmonization or whatever they are calling themselves this month.
People who call pubs "bars".
Having "fun".
Buying a perfume, some say fragrance, that may or may not make one smell like a lumpy-arsed scouse lass who has a footballer in tow.
Considering yourself a cultural attache, when in fact you're a cunt with a 'tache.
Skanky-ass ofay bitches tryin' a steal my man.
Displaying a morbid and unwholesome interest in what you have just howked up into your handkerchief.
Men who wear cardigans.
Having a pet theory as to what happened to that bairn in Portugal.
Whining on about the clocks going back.
All that Facebook *Joe Blow is feeling well pleased with hisself this morning* /*Claire Gigglebiscuit has sent you a Murray Mint*/*Pete Fingersniffer has drawn a lickle kitten on your Wall* type of shee-yit.
Rather than an order for fast food, using the drive-through mouthpiece to deliver a blistering rendition of "My humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps" by Black Eyed Pea.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Ins and Octs: October '07



"Spinderella, cut it up one time!"

That's what Salt and, to a lesser extent, Pepa, used to "holler" back in "the day".

Now, I'm not a sassy female rapper, rhymin' and a-chimin' and looking out for my hymen. But what I will "cut up" for you is the meanest and leanest rundown of what constitutes the zeitgeist and what is merely the shitegeist.

To "break it down" so my homies on the street will be fully cognisant of what time it is, suffice it to say that
Ins and Outs am here!



In


Taking a picture of Chairman Mao to the barbers and asking for the same haircut but "a bit longer at the back".
Helen Bonham Carter in Planet Of The Apes Two. Monkey/schmonkey- G'dang G'dang Dang!
Ensuring that unwisely texted topless photographs of local gals receive maximum circulation.
Near-post headers.
Constructing a working "think-tank" in your potting shed.
Running amok.
Animatedly discussing the literary works of Sven Hassel with a chap who is hawking low quality polo shirts around local public houses.
Slaven Bilic, eating spinach.
Immediately deleting text message joke funnies sent by your witless acquaintances while frowning sternly.
Growing fat on the blood, sweat and toil of the oppressed underclass.
Handing in one's notice at a Roman Catholic seminary after one day, telling the man in charge "it's a bit of a sausage party".
Considering the director Ben Dover to be a cinematic auteur on a par with Hitchcock or Truffaut.
Irn Bru. The best caledonian girder-derived soft drink bar(r) none.
Big girls. You are beautiful.
Breathtakingly fabulous examples of rococo interior design.
Taking it back to the old school, like an old fool, who's so cool.
Gulping down Rennies with alarming regularity.
Claiming to have been on telly in the 1980s as part of your local "Why Don't You" gang.
Settling down for the night with some Bath Olivers, a good, strong piece of cheddar, a decent Beaujolais and a DVD of "Ross Kemp on Gangs".
The puffins of the Farne Islands.



Out


Driving round pre and post an England soccer match with St George flags hanging out of a battered Nova.
General Paulus' tactics and strategy to take Stalingrad in '42. That brother must have been on the pipe to think that shee-it had legs.
Watching the rugby world cup for a month and still being confused as to which one is the Gain Line.
Sourly referring to women as "snakes with tits" at every opportunity.
People telling you in great detail about their preparation and consumption of fruit smoothies, as though they were regularly imbibing the elixir of life.
Green Tea, as well.
The hench, the French, Kevin Mench, the wearers of "Bench".
Large numbers of small furry gonks, trolls and bears littering your car dashboard. Three's the limit, girls!
Scoring from free-kicks.
Misguidedly appending the fact that you "love cuddling up on the sofa with a bottle of red wine and a DVD" to a job application form.
Worrying oneself sick over whether Fall Out Boy are getting a bit commercial these days.
Men who watch soap operas.
Supercilious fellows driving Rentokil vans who give the skunk-eye to a brother waiting for his bus. The fucking rat-catching cunts.
Nostalgically going on about confectionery of yesteryear. To answer your question, they were rubbish and not enough people bought them.
The Black Forest. The cack forest more like!
Crocs. Orange plastic shoes ideal for strolling along the Way of the Fool.
Small girls. You are rat-faced little shrews.
Jabbering crones whose sole contribution to the debate on how the criminal justice system should best deal with sex offenders is to shriek "they want their bliddy baals cutting off!"
Leeks.
Moral relativism. It's just not right.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Missing Links

The Colonel, looking natty on the first tee.



Aloha, sports fans! How goes it, my jungle brothers and soul sisters? I trust you haven't been a-frettin' and a fussin' over my prolonged absence these past few weeks. Fear not, my pert young pretties, I have been in tolerably good health, I have merely been bitten by the golfing bug.

I know that you are probably thinking "Hold on there boy, what's a street tuff rock'n'roller like yourself doing playing an ould man's game like golf. Surely that's the way of the fool, no?" Well, I appreciate your concern, but you couldn't be more wrong. Golf is cool, hip and dudey, and that's that. Not only does one get to swank around wearing garish, far out clothing (see picture above), one also gets plenty of fresh air and sunshine as well as the many opportunities to advance socially due to a healthy network of corruption and palm-greasing.

As everyone knows, in this meritocratic society of ours, the only way to get ahead in life is via who you know rather than what you know. The three prime routes to becoming a fat cat, some say big cheese, others say head honcho, are the Freemasons, the Gays and the Old Boys Network.

The first two options are clearly non-starters. For one thing, I don't want my rear end violated by some moustachioed pervert. Neither do I fancy becoming a practicing homosexual.

Badoom-tish, what?

This leaves us with the third option of taking up golf, donning a smoking jacket and cravat, and cultivating the society of Important Dignitaries in the local golfing clubhouse. Quite a machiavellian scheme, eh? Also, it is good to have a sanctuary where one can wear diamond-patterned knitwear without fear of scorn and being "happy slapped".

To bidness. The first step on the road to golfing nirvana is to buy some clubs. The best way to proceed is to consult a golf professional who will be able to advise on the best equipment to suit your build and ability. However, this will cost a fucking fortune, and since I am neither Bill Gates nor the Sultan of Brunei, I took the route of buying a set of battle-scarred clubs from a bloke in the pub.

Thirty quid, since you ask. In your face, Tiger Wood!

This week saw my first game on a full-sized course, my preliminary skirmishes having been confined to the local municipal par 3 course, a plague spot habituated by knackers, spivs and splay-legged fools who hit a driver off the tee when going for a green 119 yards away.

Anyhow, like a small boy on his first day at Big School, I turned up in my new outfit, armed with my new equipment. Thankfully, none of the older boys ragged me for wearing a Primark polo shirt, or having a bag of clubs that brought to mind the popular music hall toe-tapper "Any Old Iron".

This new world is not without it's pitfalls however.

One of my dreadful mates and fellow newcomer to the beautiful game, committed the faux-pas of entering the clubhouse bar while wearing his golfing hat. He was coldly requested to remove the offending headgear by the old buffer behind the counter, in a manner suggesting that my friend may be better suited to an East End cockfighting bar rather than the dignified environs of a golf club.

However, the reason we had rapidly attempted to master the basics of this baffling pastime was that another pal of ours was hosting a company golf day (tax-deductible, I believe) and there was free scran, free golf, free willy, aal kinds.So it came to pass that sixteen assorted builders, electricians and loafers were gathered in the sunshine to trough bacon sandwiches and coffee while watching the Senior Members Society teeing off before us.

A more depressing collection of spavined old coffin-dodgers you couldn't hope to encounter. Lyle & Scott coves knocked greying Titleists forty yards down the middle, while elsewhere syrupped-up liver-spotted old geezers shanked Seven woods into the right rough.

A grim prospect.

Eventually, the time came for our group to get going. Having watched a series of agricultural-looking swings get the job done, it was time for your correspondent to step up and bust some shots off.

A nerve-wracking ordeal. Simultaneously remembering to keep one's head still, to grip the club lightly and to draw back the club in a smooth, leisurely manner, before bringing it down in a precise arc and applying plenty of wristy follow-through is a task more difficult than anything encountered by chess grandmasters, SAS recruits or contestants on "The Krypton Factor".

Fortunately, I managed to hit the ball. Cheg on, Andy McNabs!

Unfortunately, after that promising start, I then proceeded to play, and apologies for the strong expression, like an absolute cunt.

I won't bore you any more than necessary by recounting the entire round, that would take longer than the five hours we eventually got round in. Suffice to say that this golfing lark is a sight more difficult in real life than it is on the Sega Megadrive that today's teenager finds so addictive.

However, redemption lay in wait after a mainly embarrassing afternoon. As part of the "fun" there were two spot prizes on offer. The first of these, for the longest drive on the seventh hole, eluded me due to my tee shot slicing right into some trees. There was also a prize for nearest the hole on the short par three fourteenth.

As we neared this hole we were informed by the group in front of us that nobody had managed to find the green yet, a prerequisite for winning the prize.At this point, all those hours of toil and sweat on the par three course paid off and I slammed, I say slammed!, a six iron which stuck on the green a mere eight metres from the hole.

Dear reader, your humble correspondent was a winner.

After a boozy dinner of roast beef and yorkshire pudding, followed by treacle tart and chocolate ice-cream, I was presented with a Ping golf glove and a rather nice bottle of white wine. (Semillon, which, as I remarked, was what I had after hitting the winning shot. I am amusing, what?)

There were some other minor awards for best score and longest drive, but as all true golfing cognoscenti know, it is the man who can flukily hit one decent shot on a short hole who is the real golfing master.

Then we all got pissed mortal. The End.






Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Ins and Outs: September '07




Konichiwa, sports fans!

As we drift into the last remaining days of what has been a truly memorable summer, let us pause to remember just a few of those lazy, crazy days of sun-boiled good times.

The absence of major sporting tournaments, the persistent bad weather, that camp fellow off Corrie getting a chat show, "it's all good" as the young people say on their portable telephones.

"Random" as well, that's another one. You can pretty much construct a fifteen minute conversation with just those linguistic portmanteaus. Have fun with them.Anyhow, enought curmudgeoneering, let us spit on our hands and grapple with the apple. Without Freddy Adu, I'm here to tell you that Ins and Outs am here!


In


Amy Winehouse's dad. He was bliddy right, you know. A few early nights, a good feed of ribs and cabbage and she'll be fine.
Worrying whether Lulu's cholesterol levels are still satisfactory.
Building an orgone accumulator in one's garden shed.
The Rebel MC. He's street tuff, are you?
Buying cheap golf clubs.
Australians. Just because your grandpaw was hauled down there chained-up in the bottom of a leaky hulk for touching up a goat in Spitalfields does not necessarily mean you are a crim yourself.
While relaxing in a gentlemanly manner, pounding on yo' mo-foing dick like the sumbitch owes you MONEY, knowwhatI'msayin?
The bombastic militaristic stylings of the Russian Red Army Choir.
Bachelor dandies, drinkers of brandies.
"Bluetoothing" every fucking thing.
Bruce Lee.
Knocking around the town wearing an Alpine hat, feather akimbo.
Adopting the kind of Scotch vernacular only ever used in Broons and Oor Wullie comic strips.
Chips.
Fiddler Crabs.
Sharing a thoughtful hubbly-bubbly pipe with the fellow who fixed your toilet, eulogizing over the late Tony H. Wilson.
Radley's latest range of stylish grab bags. Functional yet luxurious.
Photos of fruity young lasses celebrating their exam results.
Dancing bears. Good, clean family fun in these dark days of text votes, binge drinking and celebrity noncemanship.
Drinking plenty of milk.



Out


Anybody who, in this era of Nokia handsets and polyphonic ringtones, still uses a public telephone box.
Taking too many touches.
Female stars of so-called "Mature" niche pornography. What's particularly mature about shagging any of your son's friends who turn up at the house, eh?
Referring to any workplace machinery as "a serious piece of kit".
Taking umbrage at being told you bear a strong resemblance to French crooner Charles Aznavour. Get over it you wizened-faced dwarf.
Babies. Dreadful little drooling pluguglies.
Owning hi-spec headphones.
Low-quality disposable razors.
Circulating ill-advised textual phone messages.
The five wood. The wood of the fool.
Modern day safari trips. You don't even get to shoot anything.
Gustave Flaubert. A bit of a misery-guts, by all accounts.
Travelling half the world to visit New Zealand. Mountains, sheep and rugby, that's New Zealand. Just go to Wales.
Kate Nash's stupid, gurning face.
Kate Nash's vapid, snidey, unpleasant music.
Democracy. Let's be honest, it doesn't work. A strong man who doesn't mind getting blood on his hands is needed in these trying times.
Young weirdos in massive clumpy boots, with all metal accoutrements and that.
Jackdaws. Beady-eyed knackers.
Attempting to conjure up an image of Virginia Wade engaged in the act of lovemaking.
Grown men with ponytails.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Ins and Aoûts: August



You want the best, you got the best.
Hotter than a peppered sprout,
it's time to see what's in and what's out.





In

Breakfasting on hot buttered pikelets.
Trapping one's enemies with a well-timed pincer movement.
Going on holiday dressed like an airline pilot so as to get a "good seat".
On the rare occasions you push the vacuum cleaner round your hovel, do so while belting out the "Shake 'n' Vac" song at stupendous volume.
Observing how the heart approaches what it yearns in Doncaster's Hurdy Gurdy's Nitespot at 1am on a Sunday morning.
Xylophones
Sending e-mail and text messages in the style of ye olde telegram stop.
Giving a large, inviting stone an almighty boot.
The ladies bras, the ladies bras, the ladies knickers and the ladies bras.
Repudiating one's calumniators.
Club Tropicana. Free bar (until 9.30pm).
The current spate of racist, slap-the-missus funnymen fatalities. Fingers crossed it's Old "Nick Nick" next!
Hot dog, jumping frog, Albert Luque.
The Go! Team.
Picking a nosegay, some say tussie-mussie, of fragrant summer blooms for one's lady love.
Claiming to be a Papal Emissary when being escorted from licensed premises after urinating in the sink.
Lindsey Lohan. A hard-working gal trying to make it in a male-dominated world.
Watching green bowling while pished. It's minter!
Reading up on the crisis in the Middle East before concluding "They're aal a bunch of dicks".
Chatting online with a fellow Runescape enthusiast regarding the new Dali exhibition at the Tate Modern.


Out

Grappling with stevedores after a public house disagreement.
Making undignified efforts to get all of the crumbs and similar detritus from a bag of crisps. It's over, greedyguts, deal with it.
Referring to an asterisk as an "asterix".
Finishing with your woman solely because of her inability to help you with your mind. Try a clinical psychologist.
Bothering air stewardesses.
Taking the huff because you aren't in your mate's MySpace top eight.
The greedy, the needy, the weedy, the David Speedie.
Mean-spiritedly giving away the ending of the Harry Potter book. Creepy adults who invest far too much emotion in children's books are people too, you know.
Howling banshees. Give it a rest, pet.
Our glorious nation being swamped with foreign sharks who come over here and eat all the plankton.
Describing the shameful practice of self-abuse as "podcasting".
Being faced with a long-iron to the green, with the ball lying below one's feet.
Airshows. Hordes of camcorder-sporting ghouls hoping there's a crash.
Young females unaware of the crucial difference between "bling" and "a load of shit from Claire's Accessories".
Post-smoking ban griping about the smell of pubs. Oh for the good old days of carcinogenic fumes being blown in your face, eh?
Sport bras. Spoilsport bras, more like!
The Belize Barrier Reef. Fucking shite.
Ibiza types quacking on about being up until 10am at Bora Bora or somesuch place. Some of us booked half board and have to be up for our breakfasts.
Going on about the special effects in the Transformers film if you are older than 13.
Ants.

Friday, July 27, 2007

The Latest Story Ever Told

Now at last it can be told. The synapses have healed, the memories have flooded back, the positive spin has been applied to unorthodox behaviour. Contrary to popular request, here is the unexpurgated, no-holds-barred acount of Ibiza 2007: Stag Do 2 - Electric Boogaloo. To gain the full multi-media experience, set the video away as you thrill to the hard living, hard loving exploits of twenty-six northern louts on tour.

Day One - Saturday



Two of the lads are getting married. Not to each other, to their respective lasses. To celebrate the forthcoming nuptials, they were going, with twenty-four of their closest friends for four days of heavy drinking in Ibiza.

On Saturday afternoon at four o'clock I arrive at our local pub, the air fervid with anticipation and Lynx. Our bus to the airport is late and there is grim talk of the folly of entrusting travel arrangements to such a numpty as the stag.

Such unworthy doubts are exposed as foolishness when two, count 'em, two stretch limousines pull up outside the pub. Twenty six radgies pile in and tuck into the complimentary champagne as the cavalcade takes a spin around our hometown, wowing the easily-impressed local yokels.

An excellent start to the trip ratchets the feelgood factor up to eleven.

This is immediately ratcheted down again with the news that our flight has been delayed for four hours.

The prospect of a six hour sojourn in the airport bar is not the greatest thing in the world. However, we are stoic in the face of adversity and quickly settle down for a session of lager, fast food, crisps and flatulence. Also, there is an excellent televised boxing match to liven things up a bit.

The look of disgust and incomprehension on the faces of newcomers to the bar on being overwhelmed by the nauseating stench generated by twenty-odd knackers farting out Burger King flavoured marsh gas was something to behold.

Eventually we boarded our flight and headed to the Balearics. The plane was soon reduced to a trash littered bombsite as the wine and Pringles were devoured. Special thanks go the clumsy twat who barged past my seat and knocked a bottle of red wine over my beige slacks. Good work, sir.

We landed at Ibiza airport at four in the morning, the anticipated Saturday night out in the finest hot spots of San Antonio's busy West End was gone, but there was still a chance to salvage something from the wreckage. After dumping our luggage at the hotel, it was off to the classily named Tiffany's for some Spanish lager.
Our group were soon moved on after one of the stags was admonished for dancing on a table. Honestly, these foreigners and their stuffy rules, eh?

We made our way to the West End, where we managed to get past the numerous African chaps attempting to sell low quality jewellery and sunglasses and carved a path throug the aggressive distributors of flyers to our chosen destination of Play 2, which stays open until six o'clock and pumps out grinding hardbag techno music.

Five euros for a tiny bottle of Heineken, since you ask.

One aspect of the trip was a competition for an imaginary trophy of Ibiza Superstars. This combined the three traditional holiday disciplines of five-a-side football, Go Karting and swimming. An arcane scoring system also awarded bonus points for such feats as Underpant Karaoke, Being Thrown Out of a Bar and Shagging a Lass. The latter achievement carried a particularly hefty twenty points and was therefore more desirable than usual.

However, since we had arrived at the arse end of the night, there was a distinct paucity of poontang in the bar, the "quality flap" presumably being long gone. Of our crowd, only one lad got anywhere near notching up twenty points, getting on famously with an Amazonian beauty who was, depending on who you asked, either Danish or Finnish.

He got nowt, mind. Un-lucky!

After the club closed at half-six, several chaps went off to procure some cans of beer, to be consumed on the beach while watching the sun rise. However, the older wing of the company, myself and my two room-mates, decided to make a strategic withdrawal and get some much-needed sleep. This wise course of action came slightly unstuck when we got lost and spent an hour making the journey home which, by rights, should only have taken ten minutes. The best laid plans and all that, what?

As the day ended and we climbed into our respective beds, we knew there would be even better times ahead over the next few days.



Day 2: Sunday



"How lads! There's load of fanny stopping here! They've aal got their tits oot!"

These are the words that I awoke to on my first morning in Ibiza. They were spoken by one of the lads from the room next door, who had climbed onto our balcony and strolled in through the french windows. An unorthodox mode of entering a chap's hotel room but his words interested us strangely. We quickly donned shorts and t-shirts and proceeded to the poolside area to sample the atmosphere, soak up the vibes and, more importantly, check out the knocker situation.

The knocker situation was good. Very good indeed.

Whatever your preference vis a vis breasts, there was something for everyone on show. From slim girls with pert ones with perky nipples to larger ladies with pendulous gigantic jugs of joy, they were all there, naked as God intended. To the left there was a surgically-enhanced pair that stood out and looked you in the eye, to the right there was a really long pair, as seen in National Geographic magazine photo stories about villages in Africa.

In short, there were lots of topless women, you've probably noticed this yourself if you've ever been on holiday. While it may just be an English thing to treat this phenomenon with such giddy excitement, for most of our party it was like being six years old on Christmas morning, the only downside being that, as humans, we only had two eyes each. At times such as this one wishes one were a housefly, possessing compound eyes able to look in all directions at once.

Even the best things in life don't last forever. Soon the gladiator spirit returned and it was off to the ping-pong table to dish out some lessons in table tennis to a young street punk who was after my crown.

How did he go out? He went out like a bitch.

Once the last ping had been ponged we repaired to the tennis court for the keenly-anticipated football tournament. Our team was not greatly fancied for this prize, as it contained two fatties and two gingers, both groups that tend to fare badly in hot conditions. However, our opponents may have allowed themselves to become complacent, fancying themselves the tournament favourites. Such pretensions were soon exposed as we played them off the park, judicious defending, well-timed movement and crisp passing enabling us to comforably see them off 2-0.

Modesty forbids me from mentioning the scorer of the crucial second goal, so I will quickly draw a veil over the sweetly-struck left-footed shot that gave the keeper no chance.

The football contest was off to a flying start but it was also over and done with. An irate member of the hotel staff took exception to our unauthorised dismantling of the tennis net and wasn't best pleased about their court being used as a football pitch. Opinion was divided as to whether our solitary win was enough to constitute an outright win in the tournament. The rest of the group considered the event was null and void, but our team contained both of the stags and their adjudication was final so we were named official Best Footballers On the Holiday.

In your face, Cristiano Ronaldos!

As the tennis court reverted to being used for tennis, some of the chaps had a bit knock up with racquets and balls. This attracted the attention of a well-built cockney lass, clearly under the influence of mind-altering substances. She challenged one of our group to a game of tennis, during which she told us stories of taking pills at Space, writing off hired cars and purchasing cocaine. She had clearly played a bit of tennis in the past, but her drug-addled state was slightly impairing her reflexes.

In the end, our mate beat her. Proof, if proof be need be, that men are better than women.

Accompanying the dope fiend cockney lass were another, even fatter lass and a good-looking, thinner woman. They were later joined by a dark-haired woman with massive silicone breasts and a baldy bodybuilding fiance. Remember these characters, they may appear later in our story.

Ibiza is apparently famed for the quality of its' sunsets. Large groups of people assemble by the shore and watch the sun going down to a soundtrack of downtempo, relaxing "chill out" music. What makes Ibizan sunsets better than the ones we get home I don't know but that's the young people for you. We all schlepped down to the voguish Kania cafe bar to "take in" the sights and sounds of this Balearic dusk.

To be honest, in the opinion of this late-twenties thrillseeker, it was a bit of a spunk-drinking festival. A load of herberts sitting around all slack-jawed just because it's getting dark while a DJ plays Sting records isn't my idea of a cosmic experience. In the end I missed the actual sunset because I went back to the hotel for a shit.

Back to my fighting weight, I donned my legendary red disco dancing trousers and rejoined the company, who were headed down the West End for more thomasfoolery. After a few pints in different bars we settled on a place called Ground Zero where we would spend the vast majority of our time. Having chosen to go to Ibiza, which you may or may not know is famed for it's variety and quality of dance music clubs, it was considered preferable to stay in a bar where they play Oasis and Kasabian every other record.

Essentially, we were in our local pub, listening to the same tunes they have on the jukebox, but in the middle of San Antonio. Fantastic.

Now, I bow to nobody in my admiration of The Fratelli and their "Chelsea Daggers" heavy hit, but after a third airing in an hour a few of us thought it was time for something a bit more, how you say, Ibizan. Four of us headed off to get a taxi to the modish Space nightclub, where Belgian brothers in beats 2 Many DJs were playing a set at 2am.

Here come the Belgiums!

While queueing for a cab, we met two mad-eyed clubbing girls from Brighton who quickly arranged a lift with an unofficial taxi driving Spanish woman. She then showed us to her Fiat Punto which six of us managed to squeeze into. One girl was in the boot and another was laid across three chaps in the back seat. In the course of a hair-raising journey we managed to hit several potholes, causing the girl in the boot no little disturbance. Possibly more disturbing was the insistence of one of the lads in the back (not me) of trying to slip a cheeky finger into the knickers of the other girl. Not really playing the game, that.

Still, we got to the club in the end, where the doorman quoted us a jaw-dropping fifty-five euros to get in. In fairness, he did point out that the bar over the road would sell us tickets for thirty-five, so we took a quick trip there and saved twenty euros each. Bargain.

Those of you of a sensitive nature may wish to skip past this next bit, it's rather gruesome. Inside the club I was charged ten euros for a bottle of San Miguel. One of the lads paid thirteen for a Jack Daniels and coke.

El Robdog!

Petty pricetaggery aside, the club was a hugely impressive arena and the boys from Belgium certainly rocked the bells. (ie, were good).

Also, it was a welcome change from listening to Feeder and Shed Seven at Ground Zero.



Day 3: Monday



Monday was the last full day of our too-short break. This was an excellent chance to see a bit of the island or to do something memorable and life-enhancing that every man in the group would always remember.

FTS.

Another day swilling ale around the pool was the plan of action. As plans go, it was successful in every way. However, unknown to me, there were darker, more malevolent schemes afoot.
It is always my policy, when travelling abroad, to stay away from the water. Perhaps this is the result of one too many frightening Public Information films in the seventies, perhaps it is just innate common sense recognising that intoxication plus water isn't a good combination. Another theory is that I don't go in there because I am a big fat beached whale of a fellow, but frankly that seems a little far-fetched, don't you think?

Whatever, Trevor, the fact remains that I usually eschew the delights of the lido and shun most aquatic pursuits. This cut no ice with one member of the group, who had made his mind up that The Fat Guy Was Going In.

I was strolling amiably back to my seat, ambling past the pool when all of a sudden I was set upon, like a wildebeest meeting a hungry lion for the first time. "You're ganning in the pool" he airily informed me.

However, he had reckoned without a store of cunning and a willingness to fight dirty accumulated over a lifetime of knife fights with Mexican guys and drinking in pubs in Blyth. It was the work of a moment to allow my legs to buckle, dragging my assailant to the ground with me, where he was dealt a vicious John Fashanu-style elbow to the face.

Undaunted by such resistance, the felled assassin began dragging me towards the pool, in the manner of a crocodile who has happened across an American tourist. Here, fater intervened as my shoe came loose, he lost his grip and fell backwards into the pool, while I made good my escape, minus a shoe.

It was with a warm glow of having done one's duty and fought the good fight that I tucked into a celebratory San Miguel. They had signally tried and failed to snuff the rooster.

Of course, this was a mere setback for the forces of darkness. An hour later, two of them caught me in a pincer formation, picked me up bodily and chucked me in the pool, creating an almighty splash. I felt I had made my point, though, and the water was surprisingly bracing. I think I may pack the old Speedos for the next foreign expedition.

Further poolside entertainment was to be had from the fat cockney lass from the previous day.

We encountered her sitting at the bar, nursing a king-sized hangover and sucking a thoughtful tooth. It transpired she had engaged in a threesome in her hotel room the previous night. The lucky recipients of her generously proportioned bedroom smorgasbord? The dark-haired cockney bird with the silicon knockers and her 'roid abusing baldy boyfriend. Her verdict on getting down and dirty with a chap and a lady at the same time: "Oh my gooood! I am, like, so fucked. I'm never doing anything like that again. I gotta stay sober today."

So, a lesson learned and a new leaf turned over then. Splendid.

However, mark the sequel. Not twenty minutes later, a group of chaps from the Liverpool/St Helens area were ordering drinks, swapping stories and generally being agreeable chaps. One of them happens to mention that today is his birthday. Up pops Fat Cockney Lass with a generous proposition.

"It's your birthday, yeah? Do you want to come upstairs and fuck me?"

Pausing only for a moment to take in the full majesty of the lasses bulky frame, our brave scouser accepts the challenge and off they go.

This is what's it's like on tour, as Ice T once mentioned.

An hour later, the happy couple, by now re-branded as Rough and Becks, return to the fray with faces shining like glazed doughnuts. By getting them alone and having frank face-to-face discussions, two disparate stories emerged. The female half of the sketch reported that they had taken turns going on top, that her beau was quite a good lover and that she had thoroughly enjoyed herself.

The chap, on the other hand, was able to disclose that she was the fattest lass he had ever schtupped, that he had considered asking her to break wind in order to give him a clue, and that he had nobly "taken one for the team".

In an age of love-rats, rips and roues, such chivalry is a wonderful thing to encounter.

Hats off too to the lad from our party who, on being told that the lady in question had taken part in a threesome one night and had sex again the next day, asked incredulously "Fucking hell, your fanny must be right sore?" while clearly unable to imagine a female body able to cope with the rigours of having sexual activity on two consecutive days.

One suspects that his relationship with his good lady isn't exactly a ball of fire in the bedroom department.

The night time saw the familiar pattern of West End, indie rock, cold drinks, dirty sanchez, projectile vomiting, getting lost, staggering home. Just another day in paradise.




Day 4: Tuesday





The final day dawned and everyone had to be up and out of their rooms by midday, some say noon. Inevitably, the inmates of our room rose from our slumbers rather late, scratching a thoughtful knacker and blinking away the daylight at the crack of one pm. After three swift showers and a frenzied bout of bag-packing, we alighted from the room just in time to prevent the cleaners from kicking in the door.

As we weren't heading off to the airport until six o'clock, this left an ideal window to grab a spot of lunch and do a spot of last minute gift shopping. Horrible sticky sweets for your fat-arsed office co-workers, a straw-titfered stuffed donkey for your beloved, some dirty playing cards to use when gaining associate member status of the Mile High Club, you know the shiznit.

F that for a game of s, I thought. This is the time for heads-down, no-nonsense daytime, too-much-sun, boozing.

Launching into the San Miguel with little regard for personal safety, it was time to catch up on the gossip from the previous evening. The front page headlines were all taken up with the sensational news that two, count 'em, two, of our party had gotten lucky, knocked boots, bumped uglies and eventually emptied their bins up two lucky ladies.

Nice shootin', Tex!

Close cross examination of one of the participants, who shall remain nameless, revealed details that are somewhat less than romantic.
"So, Andy, where did you do the business?"
"On a building site."
"Classy. One more question, Mr Doyle, what was the name of this star-crossed lover of yours?"
"Erm... I didn't quite catch her name."

"No further questions, your Honour."

Needless to say, both chaps got the full Shabba Ranks treatment for the remainder of the holiday. Any appearance by either of the dynamic duo was greeted with a bellowed "Mister Loverman... ...shagger!" from this mid 50s high-diving enthusiast. They bliddy love it.

The other chap, also a single lad and perfectly entitled to engage in such shenanigans, probably had similar lo-jinks to report, but this reporter had drinking to attend to.

As the cold ones began to work their magic I fancied I could feel the spirit of deceased American rapper ODB enter my body. What other explanation could there be for the irresistable urge to mosey around the pool bar hollering "OOOH NIGGA, I'M BURNING UP!" into the unsuspecting faces of companions and strangers alike?

More worryingly, something of lanky scotch professional gay Mika had entered me as well. This elicited itself in a compulsion to sing the entire chorus of "Fat birds you are beautiful" at intervals throughout the remainder of the day.

Unorthodox.

Eventually though, it was off to the airport for more cold ones and a quick photograph of an amusingly-named shop. While drinking aforementioned COs we chanced upon a charming group of young scotch lasses. From Dumfries, if you please, there's posh. It turned out that the gorgeous foursome had all been classmates of soaraway chart-topper Calvin Harris of "I get aal the blart, I get aal the blart" fame.

Apparently, he didn't get all the girls at all when he was at school. The lying disco-pop sod.

Fortunately there was no gargantuan delay at the Ibiza end of the operation and we boarded the iron bird in good time. Once we reached our cruising altitude no time was wasted in endeavouring to buy up the plane's entire stock of overpriced tinned lager, two at a time. After two hours of high-octane refuelling and loud, oafish banter the supply was suddenly cut off. Due to some trifling misunderstanding the air stewardesses would no longer sanction the sale of alcohol to myself, instead offering a refreshing can of pop.

Between ourselves, I rather think they believed I was intoxicated. The reasons for this misconception are numerous. Perhaps they detected a little unsteadiness in my gait as I barrelled down the aisle, cans akimbo, high-fiving well-wishers as I passed. Perhaps the constant witless jabbering throughout the entire flight gave them the wrong impression or maybe, just maybe it was when I requested that they perform a lapdance for me that tipped the scales.

Also, attempting to drag two of the to the cockpit to re-enact the video for "Dancing with the Captain" can't have done me any favours.

The shame and ignominy of being refused drink on a Sleazyjet flight!

Eventually, we touched down at Newcastle airport, picked up our bags and headed off to waiting loved ones and dads in brown Audis. Having neither of those I managed to cadge a lift with one of the chaps' parents and we headed back to civilisation.

I ended the evening by weaselling my way into my local alehouse a shade before midnight and cajoling a last pint out of the landlord before stumbling home in the wee small hours.

It's good to go away, but it's good to get home.

On that cliched bombshell, I'll bid you a good evening.

Adios amigos!

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Going to Ibiza

The Colonel, larging it inna de area.




Word up, dawgs. I trust you all be gettin' plenty stank on you hang-lows, what?


Anyway, as Alan Sugars might say, to bidness:


You've probably noticed the glorious summer weather we've all been having. The sunshine splitting the stones, sales of Funny Feet lollies through the roof, the Sun photographer who takes picture of "stunnas" in bikinis on Brighton Beach on call twenty four seven. All good stuff, the very thing that summer was made for, I trust you will agree.


Just one tiny flaw in all of this: British people.


A dreadful shower of rat soup-eating oiks, aren't they? Whether it's shaven-headed thugs clad head to toe in Lonsdale and Bench, corpulent single mothers with vast expanses of hanging stomach flesh unwisely exposed before a cringing world or their dreadful offspring getting under one's feet, all snotty noses, half-eaten pasties and foul-mouthed attitude.



Not the sort of company a refined boulevardier such as I enjoys mingling with. The answer? Head off to the continent for some sophisticated good living.


With this in mind I shall be shortly be leaving for three days in the salubrious San Antonio district of Ibiza. In Spain. Pretty darned swanky, eh?


Yes, it's a jet-setters life for me. Relaxing with a cool drink and watching the sun go down, chilling out to the strains of some vaunted DJ johnny playing downtempo heavy hits, trying unsuccessfully to persuade some Dutch eurobabes to "get their rat out", stuffing my fat maw in Kentucky Fried Chickens, all that. Such modish european cultural exchanges are what this mid-20s trustafarian was built for.



I know some of you who read this aren't exactly as well-travelled and worldly wise as I am, so here is a quick rundown on the dos and don'ts of foreign travel.



  • Do as the Romans do. I don't mean build roads and aqueducts, that would be the way of the fool. I mean try to harmonise with the social and cultural mores of the place you are visiting. Visit the local shops and buy some of their rustic peasant artefacts. Obscene playing cards, flick knives, high-powered water pistols and t-shirts with amusing slogans are always present, so make sure you try at least most of them.

  • Music sounds better with you. Wherever you go in your holiday resort there will be all kinds of sweet, sweet music being pumped out. However, most of it will be emetic foreign boyband monkeyshine, dull, grinding trance bollocks and tacky holiday novelty megamixes. Not the thing at all. With this in mind, you will be carrying at all times a masseeve boombox/ghetto blaster of the type carried in 1980s breakdance movies. Whether it's round the pool at 10am, on the beach in the mid-afternoon, or in your hotel room at four in the morning, never be without your trademark soundtrack of foul-mouthed gangsta rap, early 90s cheesy house, ironic soft-rock anthems and The Greatest Hits of Living In A Box. Select-ah!

  • Try the local food. The British abroad have come a long way since the bad old days of the 1970s and refusing to eat "foreign muck". These days Brer Englishman will try all manner of exotic cuisine. You can now get pizzas, kebabs, curries and Big Macs in Spain, so be adventurous.

  • Vive la difference! Take advantage of the more relaxed pace of life overseas. You can drink around the clock thanks to the enlightened licensing laws and simply drive home when you've had enough. This is because there is no law against drink-driving away from fuddy-duddy old Great Britain. Also, all drugs are legal so get on one and have it large!

  • The early worm catches the birds. Never mind this "chilling out in the apartment, going out about midnight" tommyrot that seems to have become en vogue in recent years. What are you, some sort of cockney metrosexual, eh? Ask yourself, what would a Geordie do? It's a little known fact that if you go out on the town at half-past seven, the only people you will see are Geordies, dressed in their finest Bigg Market tapping uniform of horrible shirt, stonewashed jeans, black shoes and chunky gold jewellery. Oh, there will also be a smattering of bleary, unshaven Glaswegians who haven't changed out of their football shirts and bermuda shorts since their plane arrived a week ago and who will remain drunk throughout their entire stay. Who has more fun than Geordies and Weedgies, eh? Nobody, that's who. Get yourself out early before they drink all the beer and shag all the women.

  • Get jiggy with it! Go on, you're on holiday! A bit of no-strings adult fun will always be on the cards wherever drunken northern slatterns gather to eat chips and drink suggestively-named cocktails. No need for intrusive birth control measures either, as you will never ever have to see them again. Bareback mountin'!

  • Have fun with it! International travel is a great way to meet new people and broaden one's horizons. What better way to achieve this than with a bit of playful banter with John Q. Foreigner? Whether you are breezily reminding some squared-headed krauts about their dubious head-to-head record in World Wars and World Cup finals against England, airily reminding Dutch fellows that they are all druggies, perverts and wearers of unorthodox wooden footwear or making snide remarks vis a vis cuckoo clocks and Nazi gold in the direction of Swiss fellows, feel free to explore the broad spectrum of customs and traditions in today's Europe.

  • Live on the edge. You're away from home for the first time, it's a rite of passage, a trial by fire, if you will. Take some risks, you only live once, right? Express your individuality and renegade status by getting a tattoo. Who cares about the risk of hepatitis B? You're going to have a great big Celtic band round your arm, angel wings on your back and "Sham 69" across your knuckles. These aren't just examples of tasteful body art, these are fanny magnets! Get stuck in there. Once you're all inked up, show off your tatts by hiring an incredibly noisy moped and fleeing around on it, wearing only shorts and flip-flops. Did Carl "Foggy" Fogarty die in vain? Of course not, rev it up and show those donkey-eating dagos how to give it some welly!

There we have it then. Wherever you go, whatever you do, remember that you are representing your country.



Make us proud.



Adios, hombres!

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Ins and Outs:July '07


As sure as Spring is followed by Rainy Season, so the beginning, some say advent of each new month is preceded by the rundown on what's hot and what's not aimed particularly at the chump, the plump, the humped and the dumped.

Raise your glasses, shake your asses, because, my huckleberry friend, Ins and Outs for July am here!



In


Ruefully nursing your pint before turning to the stranger at the next table and announcing: “Of course I lost millions when the dotcom bubble burst. Millions.”
Telling the lasses that you can out squat-thrust Brian Jacks.
During a game of five-a-side football, shouting "Sniper!" when one of your fellow players falls over without being fouled.
Asking waiters/serving assistants "Can I get...?" No, they'll get it for you. What you need to ask is "Can I have...?"
Ould gannies at the library, getting eight Mills and Boons out at a time.
Briefly discussing the works of Karlheinz Stockhausen with the chap who fixes the fax machine at work, who professes to be "more of a Genesis fan, myself".
Assiduously cleaning your nets on a regular basis.
After-hours sessions singing Boney M songs in the local pub.
Being the duck.
Being prepared to risk catching a dose, just to be with the one you love.
Feeling a little adventurous and purchasing curried beans rather than your usual common or garden baked ones.
Doing one of those gangsta rapper/Ali G clenched fist, hand-shaking deals while saying "West-liiiiife!"
Wine bottles with screw-top lids. Much classier than that whole cork palaver.
Strutting about the place in really short Glenn Hoddle-style shorts.
The Bible. Never mind this internet tingle-tangle. All your lifestyle advice is right there in the Good Book.
Getting some new stank on your hang-low.
Brazilian baile funk.
Papa Smurf. That cat had it going on.
Igneous rock. It, like, totally rocks.
Playing neat one-twos.


Out


Online poker. Get yourself down the pub you sad twat.
Constantly bragging that you never wear a watch, like that's deserving of some sort of accolade.
Tindale & Stanton pastry products.
Grinding, hitting Brazilian dimes from behind.
Referring to meeting up for "a beer" or "beers". The correct term is "a pint".
Burettes. You can stick your parallax error in yer arse.
Menu references to "all the trimmings". Does one ever receive just half of the trimmings?
Goitres.
Voguish American rock group The Killers. The Cunts, more like!
Coming back from Weightwatchers and proudly telling folk you lost a pound this week. Don't book the photographer and the lifesize cardboard cut-out just yet, eh?
Lichens.
Claiming to buy the Daily Sport solely for their excellent horse racing coverage.
Killing men in Reno, just to watch them die. Not really playing the game, that.
When helping oneself to a cheeky apple or orange, doing that cockney barrow boy, bounce-it-off-your-forearm thing.
On espying a great many women in a hostelry, muttering to your dreadful mates "Lotta 'tang in here. A whole lotta 'tang"
Peter Snow and his lad spending my tax dollars on a glorified game of soldiers.
Being considered a blot on the family escutcheon
Hungry-faced, chicken-leg snaffling buffet slayers.
Blokes with umbrellas – You may as well be draped in a rainbow flag mate.
Claiming to have done a bit of cage fighting in the past, when you are obviously as soft as claggy toffee.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Beni on the loose! Beni on the loose!

The breathtaking grandeur of the Costa Blanca coastline





Hola amigos! Que pasa?


As you may have guessed I have just returned from the continent. The continent of Europe. Fifteen of us visited the picturesque Spanish town of Benidorm for a long weekend of cultural activities. Street theatre, exhibitions of flamenco dancing, a spot of chamber music, that type of thing.


Imagine our dismay when we realised that the place has sold it's soul and gone all touristy. Every other establishment is a frightful alehouse replete with gaudy advertisements for lesbian shows, "blue" comedians and ladies who propel ping-pongs balls from their vaginas.


Not my cup of tea, but one has to go with the flow when in foreign parts, yes?


Firstly, a word regarding John Q. Spaniard ideas vis a vis hotel arrangements. If I was to let a room to four guests, do you know how many beds I would provide in said room? That's right, there would be four beds. Not so Carlos X. Kickaball, he thinks that two beds is plenty, the paella-munching fool.


Anyhow, having gambled on the spin of a coin and lost, I was allotted a camp bed in the sitting room area of our cramped luxury suite. Ironically, despite the fact one is probably allowed to pick up and swing cats in confined spaces in Spain, there wasn't the room to do so in our studio apartment. Pick the bones out of that one, Alanis Morrissettes!


Mithering aside, it was straight out into the midday sun for some cold drinks and hot ladies. Most of our chaps, being manual workers and well-used to strutting about with no shirt on, were soon parading around shamelessly like bantam cocks, albeit bantams cocks that smelled of coconut oil.


I, on the other hand, resemble a pale sack of blancmange that has been filled to bursting point, so I eschewed the topless look in favour of a more modest black t-shirt.


By jingo, it gets hot in Spain. Who knew, eh? I had been lead to believe there was a lot of plain-based rainfall there.


After a turn along the seafront and some overpriced bottled lager in a foul bar where a chap played excruciating fret-wanking guitar rock, it was into the main town to attempt to "get into" any of the young ladies with suspect morals from one of the many hen parties in town.


That didn't happen.


I don't know if this has happened to you, but the combination of a 4am start, baking heat, too many long, cold ones and the constant hassle of having to let down those chaps that tug at your sleeve and inform you that their cabaret is just about to start, tends to rather befuddle a chap. One slips into the habit of talking utter rot to anyone one meets, including scary prostitutes patrolling the seedier streets of a strange town.


This was probably a tactical error. I was pursued for about three blocks by a scary black lady who, while claiming that she wanted to "suck my cock" back at my hotel, probably intended to stab me up and rummage through my belongings for currency and valuable items. Even the fiendishly clever tactic of stumbling into a bar and barreling through the crowd and leaving by the alternative exit couldn't shake off my wily pursuer (or should I say willy pursuer!!!LOL!!1!!!1!!!!!€50!!!!!)


Eventually, the masterstroke of telling her to "fuck off, you mentaller!" and hopping into a nearby taxi did the trick.


Unfortunately, such unconsumated whoring shenanigans meant that I was in the shameful position of being first back at the hotel room on the first night. This is the unmistakable mark of the lightweight, the putz, the two-pot screamer, if you will.


This in turn leads to much sport being made of a chap for the remainder of one's holiday. Solicitous enquiries as to whether one is feeling a little tired at 9pm and suggestions that mammy's little soldier gets himself home for a little nap, that sort of thing. Quite right, too. I'd have doled out exactly the same treatment had the situation been different.


I expect it builds character.


Days two and three were pretty much a repeat of the first day, with the exception that I was directed home by a group of Scottish lasses on the second night, who knew better than I did where my hotel was. My offer that any one of them would be welcome to accompany me to my room for the night were met with a polite but firm refusal.


The third day, in a dreadful bar with a mechanical bull, my attempts at wooing were foiled by a belligerent Manchester United fan intent on preserving the honour of all and sundry. I was having a pleasant chat with a charming young lady when our Manyoo loving chum leans over my shoulder and tells me "She's my sister and she's only sixteen!".


Somewhat taken aback, I quickly reminded him that sixteen is perfectly legal and that having a conversation with her didn't make me Gary Glitters. Though this spiked his guns momentarily, I made a tactical withdrawal and went to talk to a more mature looking blonde woman who I imagined for some reason had been giving me the glad-eye all evening.


As we were getting on like a house on fire, matey boy appears again at my shoulder and exclaims "That's me mam!". A little exasperated by now I take him to one side and inquire whether he could point out any women in this bar that weren't blood relations of his, as I would quite like to have a conversation without him breaking it up with his accusatory mutterings.


The atmosphere having been ruined irretrievably, I finished up my drink, drew myself up to my full height and bellowed "Ronaldo's a diving little cunt" at him before scuttling out the nearest door.


That's him told.


Another thing about Benidorm is the Sticky Vicky phenomenon. This hard-working titan of the vaginal gymnastics scene seems to be booked to appear in about every third bar in town at different times of the evening. Now I'm as broadminded as a Dutchman, but it appears that a very mainstream audience of all ages goes to see these frankly filthy shows which, if one was to visit them anywhere else would see one labelled as a porvort, a finger-sniffer or a puppy-squeezer.


However, a few jugs of sangria down the line, a fairly vanilla crowd of grans and granddad, couples with bairns and regular Joe Sweatsocks will happily roll up to see an old lady firing table tennis balls out her blart or Sexy Barbra (her main rival, as far as I can tell) smoking cigars in an unorthodox fashion with her "Magic Minge" as the flyers would have it.


Dashed odd, I call it.



Also, what's the deal with the upside down question marks these Spaniards use? Call me old-fashioned but I'm English and I like my question marks the right way up.


I'll bid you buenos noches.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Ins and Outs: June '07


Back once again like some sort of renegade master, it's the monthly visitor that won't have you weeping uncontrollably, throwing hissy fits and using the family Wedgewood as frisbies.
It's the style guide that sorts the trite from the bit of alright, the six chips from the roast parsnips and the knackers from the crackers. Ladies, gentlemen, residents of Cramlington, Ins and Outs am here!!!!!!!111!!!!
In
Walking into work bright-eyed & bushy-tailed on a Monday morning, grasping the receptionist firmly by the shoulders & singing 'Eidelweiss' in it's entireity to her.
That strange moonman language that only men from the moon speak
Interrupting a ladies darts fixture, claiming that an area of wall slightly north-east of the double-one is infested with woodworm.
Getting mildy aroused by Miss Scarlett from Cluedo
Duetting Mark Morrisson's 'Return of the Mack' with a tramp on the bus
Waiting in the post office queue with an obvious & glaring hard-on
Nicknaming yourself & your three best mates after the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles at the age of 38
When asked how you, are responding that you are a beautiful black sister, no matter that the evidence is to the contrary.
During a tense game of pool, leaning over the table, peering at a ball hanging over the pocket and opining "I think that will just cut, actually".
Bitchee Bitchee Ya Ya Ya
Owning a small but rather lovely collection of Limoges porcelain.
Attempting to join the Fabian Society under the misapprehension there is a yearly outing with free beer.
That whole Princes vs Fray Bentos tinned pie debate.
Re-enacting key scenes from the motion picture "Zulu" in the pub.
The Maasai Mara game reserve.
Kidney beans.
Young lassies dressed in full "droog" regalia.
A propos nothing, yelling "I'm here, I'm queer, deal with it, ok?"
Sleeveless knitwear.
Attempting to produce ammonia via the Haber Process in one's garden shed.
Out
Playing Chess with Tess, Jess and the ghost of Rudolph Hess.
Having a bigger moustache than Tom Sellecks.
Acting in a goatish manner around the chicks.
Arguing until you're blue in the face that "Manimal" was far superior to "TJ Hooker".
Omnibus re-scheduling that incorporates a detour through a village of scratters and knackers.
Strikers who "do a lot of work for the team".
Airily informing a brother that his lass appears to be "carrying a bit of timber these days".
Going on and on about the time you swam with dolphins. It's only a fucking fish.
Neglecting to shave prior to a five-a-side match with the intention of getting one's "game face" on."
Trying a little Freddie"
Forwarding mawkish e-mails about that missing bairn.
Clotted cream. The cream of the fool.
The McEwans cavalier.
Extended slap-bass workouts.
Turning up for work very much worse for wear.
Low-quality raffle prizes.
The pyloric sphincter.
Leaving it until far too late to reveal that you are "up on blocks" this week.
Darcy Bussell and Jack Russell doing "the hustle".
Anaïs Nin. A roundheels who was no better than she should be.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Happy Monday, Gloomy Tuesday

This season's "to die for" outfit, apparently.


You there! Fix up look sharp, I don't have all day.


Dear reader, today finds this late-teens raver in a fairly beleaguered state. The noggin is fairly pounding, the old bones feel weary and, most distressingly, the right eye is bright red and has been weeping like a teased vagina all day.


Quite the heart-rending predicament, what?


Yes, yes, all the brouhaha about that missing bairn and, to a lesser extent, the threat of it all kicking off in the environs of Korea, but really, let us not overlook the big picture here. Mammy's lickle soldier has a bit hangover and a sore eye. Tubbyboohoo.


Yesterday was a Bank Holiday in England, the third in the space of just over a month. To mark the end of the monday boozing season until August, there was a large music festival in Newcastle's busy Quayside area. This featured the likes of Maximo Park, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Enemy, Dumpy's Rusty Nuts, Chromeo and many, many more playing their rousing, foot-tapping rock music to thousands of thrifty music lovers.


However, nearby Whitley Bay had loads of pubs playing cheesy dance music and were absolutely full to bursting point with tidy boilers, some say blart.


A simple decision, I feel you will agree.


After an enjoyable cab ride enlivened by the driver's tales of debauchery in Prague - "One of the lads paid for twelver hoo-ers in a swimming pool for two hours. They did aal kinds!" - we alighted at the fashionable Bedroom four ale bar.


On the way to Whitley there had been much discussion of the ugly lass bus that comes and collects the less attractive females and presumably dumps them in a field somewhere. It is a common phenomenon that after a few hours swilling ale in the sunshine, all the girls are lovely girls. The only practical explanation we could think of was the ugly bus hypothesis, but if you can suggest an alternative reason do get in touch.


I am a man of science and facts are my stock in trade.


Surveying the assorted fauna in this bar, it was clear that there was no requirement for beer goggles today. There was nothing but attractive lasses as far as the eye could see. As I remarked to one of my dreadful mates "If a chap can't score in Whitley Bay, he's either a puff or a weirdo. I know which one I am*, what are you?"


As it turns out, he ended up hoying it up an ex-girlfriend at the end of the night so the question never arose.


At the next bar we encountered the drunkest woman in the world. A young lady who, through pluck and honest endeavour, had managed, by three o'clock in the day, to get so intoxicated she was incapable of standing unaided and proceeded to pinball around the crowded bar, bouncing off folk, spilling drinks and generally providing first-rate entertainment for all and sundry. Although she was eventually ejected by a door staff professional, she popped up in another pub about an hour later, still as gravitationally challenged as before.


What a triumph of the human spirit.


Another bar had a cheap drinks offer which involved us having to drunk orange or lemon flavoured alcopops. It's not as easy as it looks, you know, this getting drunk bidness. This bar also featured the disturbing sight of gangs of muscular straight men dancing to that awful Mika record about "trying a little Freddie".


Unorthodox.


Further down the road we met up with some of the famed Bedlington Ewok posse and an already drunken day kicked into overdrive. Bottles of poppers akimbo and expensive bottled imported lager in hand, we checked out the various female factions out on the dancefloor.


A gang of french maids were taking turns to dance suggestively with, and in one case fellate, an inflatable male doll with a fairly intimidating looking pipe on him. Meanwhile in another corner a party of bunny girls were positively foaming at the lips trying to get into some laid-back looking black men.

Elsewhere, a bunch of female construction workers in high-visibility vests and helmets were necking blue WKDs as though it were about to be outlawed.

That's what it's aal aboot.


We ended up at the bottom of the street in a particularly grimy place, even by Whitley Bay standards. However, while not the most chic of nite spots, it does have a raised stage where drunken lasses get up and pole dance, so we decided not to be too snooty about it's other perceived shortcomings. It was in here that we met three lovely and charming ladies from Seaton Sluice, who were clearly in the mood for fun.


Well, fun is just what they got, so long as you define "fun" as dirty dancing with a load of sleazy fellows with busy hands. In fairness, the touching-up tomfoolery was not a one-way street. As one of the group exclaimed "How lads, she's trying to wank us off on the dancefloor". Another chap, seizing the moment when two of the girls were rubbing their ample chests against one another, stuck his face into the midst of the mammaries and gave it the full "wubbawubbawubba" face-wobbling thing.


Clearly delighted with himself, he turned to me and said "Put that in your blog!" So I have. Don't dare a fool.


In another part of the same bar, another of the gang had found a pneumatic young lady in Daisy Duke shorts, vest top and thigh high boots, who was dancing a lascivious dance on a tabletop, while her even more well-developed mate stood by, distractedly tweaking at her prominent, enlarged nipples.


No wonder I've got sore eyes today. The only wonder is that they didn't pop clean out of my head yesterday.


Only three months until the August Bank Holiday. Giddy up!





*The correct answer is b) Weirdo. You probably knew that one.