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!


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.


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?
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?
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!!!!
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.
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.