Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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!
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.