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!


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.


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!


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.
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.


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.