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