Monday, December 01, 2008

Ins and Outs: December 2008

I believe it was William Shakespeare, in his seminal work "A Christmas Carol" who said "You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, happy Christmas your arse".

Wise sentiments indeed. Christmas is, unless you are a child or afflicted with water on the brain, a right royal pain in the hole.

Still, as long as there is strong drink, the prospect of inappropriate Christmas Eve touching and the dearest of festive countdowns, it may just be possible to salvage something from the wreckage.

Charge your glasses, kiss your lasses and smother your nuts in molasses, for, lo! the Christmas Ins and Outs am here!


Claiming to have a mate who saw active service as part of a Bosnian death squad and declaring him to be a "bloody good bloke, actually".
Saying the most banal of things, such as 'I think I will take a shit', in the style of Alec Guinness in well known bairn's fillum 'Star Wars'
Watching 'Loose Women' and reckoning you'd stand a chance with at least three of them.
Habituating down-at-heel watering spots frequented by cow-punchers, minge-munchers and liquid-lunchers.
The good people at Cancer Research and Barnardo's, catering to the nation's disposable pen and refuse sack needs in these trying fiscal times.
Turning up drunk, claiming to have been "getting busy with the fizzy".
Capering with delight.
Solemnly confiding to close friends and family that you will have no truck with the remainder of "X Factor" since they got rid of that "sort with the big cahoonas".
Generous teenage mums who dump a baby in a phonebox near Christmas, enabling hospital staff to give it a festive name such as Robin or Eve and providing TV and print journalists with a heart-warming Christmas story which doesn't take them too far from a pub.
Pairing a button-down collared shirt with a round-necked sweater.
Stockpiling carrier bags ahead of the awful day when those pricks at Asdas try to chisel you out of 5 pence a pop for them.
A Christmas list that asks for "a kite, Beano and Oor Wullie annuals, remote control car, Humbrol paints and an eighth of Moroccan hashish".
Telling a lass in a bar that you were once in Heartbeat and revealing exclusively that Nick Berry was "a bit stand-offish".
Sour-facedly turning down invitations to four, count 'em, four Christmas "dos".
A propos nothing, prefacing one's remarks with the phrase "As Minister Farrakhan says..."
Spending the entire holiday period holed up in one's home, surviving only on Dundee cake and Advocaat.
Being frankly unable to muster much optimism regarding Co Stompe's prospects in the forthcoming Darts world championship.
Vapouring on airily about the ski-ing at Chamonix despite your experience of mountain sports extending as far as sliding down pit heaps in a black bin bag.
Repairing to one's study with a large balloon of fine old armagnac and the new "Man About the House" DVD box set.


Any reference to the time you spent behind bars, wearing a ballgown and a blonde wig and peddling your tush to your cellmate and protector, a white supremacist skinhead named Eric.
Worse yet, any mention of the fact you were only serving a 28 day sentence for poll tax non-payment.
Woolworths. No more piss covered fingers grasping for the pick 'n' mix as if getting a heroin fix.
Sporting on the green.
Any foo' who be saying "Don't Stand Me Down" is a better album than "Searching for the Young Soul Rebels". They trippin'.
Waggishly referring to the Queen's Speech as The Regina Monologue. Repeatedly.
Sick sex sects that slay six.
"Embedding disabled by request".
That telly advert with the dispiriting version of "From me to you" on it.
Momo Sissoko dissing Moloko.
Mistakenly presuming that what your work colleagues really, really want is a daily progress report vis a vis your Christmas shopping, decorations, trees, lights, cards et al.
Spending a valuable couple of hours of one's life sifting through the festive television schedules and picking out likely looking shows, all the while knowing in your heart of hearts that you will be out drinking.
Those little pots of yoghurt that are supposed to stop your turds from stinking. No dam' good.
Tiresome salad-dodgers relating the unexpected news that their Wii Fit reckons they should lose weight. Surely a mirror would have been a cheaper, yet similarly accurate diagnostic tool?
Anyone wearing those spoddy mountaineer type trainers rather than the fine products of Messrs Adidas and Nike.
Constantly adjusting your tie and jerking your neck like an ill-at-ease member of the "Ready Steady Go" audience.
Earthy Christmas dinner table references to sprouts and their effect on the digestive system. Keep it clean, there's a love.
Naked calendars. Put it away, you fat biffer.
The Wise Man who brought gold to the manger after the three of them had agreed not to spend too much on their gift for the saviour. Flash prick.
Going on and on about your Gap Year Travels. You had the shits, got fucked on a beach, saw some sunsets and your feet hurt. We get the picture.

Happy hanukkah, suckas!

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Ins and Outs: November '08

Here we are then, Remembrance Sunday, what? A time for giving, a time for getting, a time for forgiving, not forgetting.

Now, there is always a lot of finger-pointing, harrumphing and recriminating around this time of year, much of it to do with wearing a poppy and how much or how little we honour our war dead and surviving ex-servicemen and women.

I don't know about you, but I'm damn sure my dear old grandfather, who died in the war, would not give a tinker's cuss about people wearing poppies and that. From what I have learned about the man, he was rather more upset about being ordered by Hitler to commit suicide.

Still, on this day of days, what better way of differentiating between wearing your poppy with pride and getting stroppy and snide? If you want to know who's laying wreaths and who's laying cables, if you can't tell your Anzacs from your Aztecs, your Somme from your Josh Homme, your Ruperts Brookes from your Garth Crooks, then fear not, my pretty, because Ins and Outs am here!


Whiling away tedious bus journeys by silently assessing and awarding marks out of ten to the various old blokes' ears, giving bonus points for particularly thick, dangling lobes.
Insects. Head, thorax, abomen? Marvellous!
Making thinly-veiled references to the (entirely fictional) time you spent as a member of the Tonton Macoute.
Joey Barton. The nation's favourite footballerer puts his demons behind him and hits the goal trail. Play up, Joey!
In this era of crunched credit, the pleasing rush of cloth-eared types eager to fork over 45 large to see the remnants of Oasis going through the motions at minor football stadia.
Flight of the Conchords.
Engaging in a foul-tempered argument regarding Heike Drechsler and whether she was on performance-enhancing drugs while in her prime.
Having a lively, informed discussion regarding the music of Ornette Coleman with a fellow attendee at your Drink Driving Rehabilitation Course.
Attempting to outfox the grasping energy companies by wearing a big Russian hat around the house to keep warm.
Rejecting the offer of an end-of-date coffee on the grounds that you want to be home in time for "Vinnie Jones' Toughest Cops".
On the occasion of a fat person going past, turning to your dreadful mate and observing sententiously "The pleasures of the table have taken a heavy toll on that one."
Secretly longing for a renaissance in the position of inside-forward in professional Association Soccer.
Barack Obama, Lewis Hamilton, Theo Walcott: the same barber? Very straight fringes, what?
Having a sound knowledge of the lyrics to Gala's 1996 hit "Freed from Desire".
Adopting the mode of dress and mannerisms of Peregrine Worsthorne.
Spending your precious spare time stopping up til three in the morning watching Boney M videos on YouTube.
Going on "Dragons Den" to try to get money to open a chain of jewish theme pubs called, with crushing inevitably, Bar Mitzvah.
Joe Calzaghe. He's nails!
Attempting to swear less often and using "dagnabbit" as a replacement.


Any foo' pronounces the word "something" like it got a "k" on the end.
Charlie out of "Charlie and Lola". The guy's a pussy.
Echinoderms. Shithouses!
Workplace toilet miscreants. Never mind being Al Gore, just flush the bloody thing.
Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. What happened to that, then, eh?
Mr Kipling's French Fancies. Too effeminate by far.
Aunt Bessie, of ready-made Yorkshire Pudding fame. If she didn't spend so much time painting her nails, smoking cigarettes and going with sailors, she'd have time to make proper puds.
Claiming to have been into the Satanic Sluts aaages before they got popular.
Mermaids. Got no vagina and you wear your hair draped over your breasts? You ain't gonna get you a man like that, honey child.
Oafishly claiming to have spent the preceding evening "Knocking the LINING outta that pusseh!"
White-water rafting.
The ideal of returning to a pre-industrial agrarian society. Not gonna happen, wurzel-munchers.
Sarah Palins. Eighteen month tops before she's hawking her moth-eaten mutton in "Playboy".
Standing up for your love rights. Siddoon!
Laughing boy Lou Reed and his shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather. We get the picture, Lou, they're shiny, yeah?
Smokers of roll-up cigarettes.
Concluding the "Education and Qualifications" section of one's CV with the phrase "I consider myself to be one low-temperature motherfucker".
The Uzi 9mm submachine gun. Nine millimetres? I'm not Action Man, you know?
Chicken satay sticks. A waste of bleddy time.

Bonus Beats:

Friday, October 31, 2008

I Smell a Rat!

It is always the intention of this proud organ that we treat everyone with respect and even-handed justice.

In the matter of the Radio 2 telephone call scandal that is rocking our nation to its core, it is possible that the casual reader may have inferred that blame lies firmly and squarely in the lap of the two sniggering, well-paid celebrities leaving offensive messages on an old man's answering machine.

A vapid and fatuous conclusion to come to. What are you, some kind of Dail Mail reader, eh?

To keep it real and simultaneously boil it down to brass tacks, then.

First of all, this is the grand daughter in question.

Now, I realise that the good people reading this are not the readership of "Nut" or "Zoo" magazine. However, I put it to you, sir, and even you, madam, that if you had schtupped the young lady pictured above, you would be letting EVERYBODY know.

You'd be on the phone to your dreadful mates, you'd have updated your Face Book status, contacted the local press, the whole shebang. Don't deny it, I know what you're like, you filthy pig.

Indeed, I would probably have investigated the feasability of having the salient information inscribed on one of those billowy advertisements that light aircraft used to drag behind them in comic strips in "The Beano".

Among gentlemen of the world such as we, Brand's indiscretion is surely pardonable, if not particularly becoming.

There has been a lot of Tommy and an equal amount of rot spoken about the so-called "victim" in this affair. To wit, national treasure Andrew Sachs.

Much play has been made of the fact that the silver-haired old dear is almost 80 years of age, as though this somehow makes the whole affair infinitely more terrible.

Well, forgive me if my views are those of a hidebound old fogey, but surely in the whole arena of "fucked-granddaughter-disclosure" phone calls, older is better, no?

Would these politically-correct Guardianistas prefer it had Brand been intimate with the granddaughter of some sprightly young fellow in his early forties? Is this the society we live in today?

They should bring back National socialism. I'd gladly pull the lever myself.

A final thought on Anthony Sachs. It is all too easy to bandy around terms like "respected actor" and "legend of tv comedy", but what is this towering legacy based upon?

Playing a comedy foreign waiter in a sitcom OVER THIRTY YEARS AGO, that's what. What has he done for us since then?

I can sum it up in one word for you: Jack Shit.

Some voiceover work, a couple of tiny film roles and a few plays.

Well, far be it from the likes of me to moralise, but if that's all he's been doing for the last thirty years, the least he could have done was take more of an interest in his lickle granddaughter. Maybe if he'd played more of an active role in his family life, she wouldn't be cavorting around on stage in fetish gear, performing unnatural lesbotic acts with pros in low budget movies, getting scuttled by harry rampesque funnymen and generally acting like a painted harlot, some say WHORE.

There we are then. I've said my piece, I'll bid you a good evening and a merry hallow's eve.

RB: Original Prankster

Russell Brands!

Russell Brands!




Whether you love him or think he's an over-rated squeaky-voiced cornhole, you literally can't ignore him.

Regardless of whether you think he's really, like, funny and that or think he should stick to hanging out the back of impressionable, star-struck young lassies, then gibbering excitedly about it in his shit stand-up act, you can't deny that the fellow ruffles feathers wherever he goes.

What is less well-known is that, prior to Manuel-gate, Brands, 33, has a long and inglorious record of playing off-colour tricks on minor celebrities.

Indeed, it is often said of crafty-combing, tight-trouser enthusiast Brands that he is never happier than when unleashing some sub-Beadle lo-jinks on an unsuspecting member of the showbidness fraternity.

Today, we list them so that you, the reader, can attempt to fathom the mindset of the man they're all calling "that fucking knacker with the hair".

Top Ten Russell Brand Pranks am here!

10. Ordered loads of pizzas to be delivered to the house of Eagle-Eye Cherry.

9. Left a message on Ken Dodd's answerphone informing him that his father's pet dog had choked to death on a jam butty.

8. Punched the former bassist from These Animal Men quite hard on the upper arm, reportedly "getting me right on my BCG scar".

7. Hockled on Peter Snow's Airedale terrier.

6. Pestered Kate McCann for her phone number at a "Find Maddie" press conference, then put the word around that he had gotten his "tops and fingers" off of her.

5. Really shitted up Jilly Cooper's gravel driveway by doing handbrake turns and "doughnuts" in his Subaru Impreza.

4. Got Bob "the cat" Bevan all hepped up on milk stout and made him dance for coins in front of jeering Soho clubmen.

3. Every single day for a year after she had her baby, texted the single word "Thunderthighs" to brave olympian pants-shitter Paula Radcliffe.

2. Duped Dexter Fletcher into believing they were bringing back "Press Gang" for an adult audience and he'd get to do Julia Sawalha on screen.

1. Pissed the words "Wrinkley Titts" into the snow outside the home of "Calendar Girls" actress Celia Imrie.

Russell Brands. Tchah!

Saturday, October 04, 2008

Ins and Octs: Outober '08

You want examples of things that are "In" and that are "Out"? Well, dang it, I'll try to find you some and I'll bring 'em to ya!

A little American political "humor" for y'all there. In stark contrast to such colonial cornholery, the meetings of the Committee are, if anything, reminiscent of the Ancient Roman Senate, where Cicero and Luca Brasi would trade witticisms across the floor. This way alone can one differentiate the Gangsta Style from the Rob Styles, the Sonny Liston from the Sunny D, the John McClane from the John McCain.

Ready for the floor and in town to get down, lads and lassies, get out your seats 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Chilling out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool and all shooting some b-ball outside of the school.
Tight orange vests. Hello boys!
Kneading your ballsack, knocking back Prozac.
Laughing uncontrollably when presented with a photograph of somebody's new baby or significant other.
Branding any of your dreadful mates with fingernails that aren't cut right down to the quick as "Flo Jo".
Having a full and frank exchange of views regarding the Rothko exhibition at the Tate Modern with the young lass at the grooming parlour who shampoos your Bichon Frisé.
Accepting with good grace that the Lord, in his wisdom, has rather put you behind the 8 ball when it comes to looks.
Giving colleagues and acquaintances the impression that you are a crazy, "out there" sort of a chap by stating your intention to go out for "a pint... ...or ten!!!"
Ice cream. Yummy!
Unplugging the phone, uncorking a decent Malbec, lighting a fat old cuban and settling down to an evening watching an entire week's supply of Sky-Plussed "Sexcetera".
Anything that has been remixed by Soulwax.
Taking a certain grim satisfaction in rejecting Facebook friend requests from shithouses.
Prolific, yet intermittent, use of the phrase "Usually drink, usually darnce, usually bubble!" in a fake B-Boy accent.
ClO- (aq) + 2 H+ (aq) + 2 I- (aq) ---> I2 (aq) + Cl- (aq) + H2O (l)
The pleasing post-credit crunch prospect of Jeep-driving property developer dilettantes being left potless.
Counting the days until the next issue of "OK" magazine hits the news stands as you are worried sick about the state of Jordan and Peter's marriage.
Ageing pub doley types, pairing their raggedy old suit with the latest white Lonsdale daps for an elegant yet sporty look.
Larger ladies who proudly thumb their noses against society's narrow-minded prejudice against exposing vast areas of fat back flesh.
Going for a coffee enema and asking the woman to put two sugars in it.
Telling your elderly grandparents that they have to rewind the film they've just watched on their new DVD player all the way back to the start.


Being written out of the will.
Any gentleman who, despite the experience of thirty summers on this earth, chooses to appear in public clad in a t-shirt bearing the legend "G Star Raw".
Referring to your car as "the old jalopy"
The X Factor. Karaoke for cunts. Karaoke, then.
Ill-advisedly purchasing a CD from pan-pipe toting faux-Peruvian Inca types on the High Street.
Haberdashery. The worst kind of dashery.
Inviting your mates back to your bothy for some nourishing stovies and neeps, before remembering that you aren't a scotch shepherd and, moreover, you are currently residing at the YMCA.
Maxillary palps.
Glassy-eyed fellows, shopping on a Saturday with their lasses, while wearing an ironic Mr Men t-shirt. Mister Pussywhipped, more like!
Laborious conversations regarding the paucity of televisual entertainment on a Tuesday evening. Here's a suggestion from left-field: Don't watch the cornholing telly every bastern night.
Home-made pornography. Has anybody ever sat back and watched one, critical faculties akimbo, and concluded "Yes, that's some good work right there. Mother, the red tube!"?
Bandy-legged busty bints bingeing on brisket and Bacardi Breezers in a Bristol brasserie.
Armchair food critics, whose breezy opinions on the merits and demerits of the TV master chefs are only slightly undermined by never having tasted a morsel of their food.
Any single thing whatsoever to do with Hal O' Ween, or Guy Fawkes Night, as our stateside cousins style it.
Playing "air guitar", ironically or not, to soft rock. The province of the "necktie-as-rambo-headband-at-wedding-do" type of wassock.
Dishevelled public transport users, prone to soliloquising.
Complaining to anyone who will listen that "I ain't no gynaecologist, but I work with a load of cunts".
The novels of George Eliot. A lass could have written them!
Getting all foamy at the gash at the prospect of eating a "Wispa" or some other re-launched confectionery product. It's only a chocolate bar, pet.
Notoriously slippery prison issue soap. They should install wall-mounted liquid soap dispensers in the showers instead. Far more sanitary.

Friday, October 03, 2008

I Pee Freely

Holler atcha, homes, it's your boy. You good? Splendid. I currently have water on the brain, so I have to pass it on to you, so to speak. Today's posting is brought to you by the letter "P" and the number "5".

It is an undeniable fact of life that, when drinking heavily in public houses, you will eventually need to pass water, hopefully in the confines of the lavatory.

If you are a member of the distaff side of the species, this will take the form of a minor jamboree with one or more of your closest friends. Once ensconced in the smallest room, you will re-apply cosmetics, replenish your drinks from the Roller Cola bottle of bacardi in your handbag, bitch about the fat arses and loose morals of the other members of your party and, time permitting, even have a wee. A pleasant and fruitful interlude in the evening.

However, the male is a solitary, roaming creature, unwilling to share this private moment with even his closest bosom companion. He goes it alone on matters micturational and any expedition to the WC is therefore a solitary venture.

Notwithstanding this pioneer spirit, it is still vital that your compadres are kept fully informed of your movements. There is always the chance the unscrupulous round-buyer will attempt to lighten his fiscal outlay by claiming that he thought you had gone home. Thus you must tell your friends of your plans to visit the gents.

As with most male behaviours, there is a tiresome, blokeish procedure to follow. In this case, we shall refer to it simply as the "Pub Post-Pint Piss Progression". The five pees, if you will. Utter the relevant phrase to one of your dreadful mates as you depart for each "comfort break".

P1 - "I'm going for a piss"
P2 - "I'm going for a piss, out me cock"
P3 - "I'm going for a piss, out the end of me cock"
P4 - "I'm going for a massive piss, out the end of me cock"
P5 - "I'm going for a massive piss, out the end of me massive cock" (A little boastful, but we've all had a drink by this point)
P6 - There is no P6. What are you, some sort of lass or a heem? Eh?


The five Ps. Learn them and stay safe.

Now, if you'll pardon the vulgarism, it's time for this gaucho to piss on the campfire and hit the trail.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

Ins and Outs: September '08

As unquenchable as the Olympic flame, as enduring as the Herpes simplex virus, we bid a warm welcome to an old huckleberry friend as the dearest of lifestyle solutions returns in a new revitalised, re-modelled guise with added zeitgeists!

Ladies and laddies, mammies and daddies, Ins and Outs am here!


Referring to one of your dreadful mates who has unwisely opted to appear in public wearing an item of camouflage gear or any quasi-military apparel, as "Dead Man's Shoes".
Despite all evidence to the contrary, believing deep down that most stress/depression/mental illness/all that could easily be remedied by a few pints and a good ride.
Knowing a good field for mushroom picking.
Arriving at work in a foul temper.
Andrea Dworkin. A tireless crusader against the evils of pornography, despite being the mutant progeny of a dwarf and a munchkin.
Positing a theorem that could revolutionise the way physicists understand the behaviour of leptons, then realising that it's shite.
Bandying around tiresome poker terms, despite having the merest knowledge of, and indeed interest in, the game.
Being a bit handy with a sand wedge.
Turning up to your grandfather's funeral wearing a balaclava and sunglasses.
Replying to enquiries as to how you are with a cheerful "Box fresh. Pure box fresh."
Brendan Foster's oxters.
Being of the mind that a favourable critical re-appraisal of the work of Boney M is long overdue.
Having a rather intense conversation regarding the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder with a tattooed cove in a sleeveless Wolfsbane t-shirt while waiting for the dog-fighting to start.
A winsome octogenarian nostagically recalling to his extended family over Sunday dinner that "It was your grandmother's gargantuan tits that first attracted me to her, you know?"
A clip off the legs just in front of square for a comfortable three.
When being asked what the problem is by your Doctor, pull your best Jimmy Cagney face and in a strong New Yoik accent tell her "'s my Johnson."
Holding AND giving, but, crucially, doing it at the right time.
After a particularly facile or pointless query or remark from a companion, giving a weary sigh and saying "It's a worry". (For best results pronounce "worry" as though it rhymes with "quarry".)
Sitting out in the sun with a big old jolt of heroin surging round the body. First rate.


Any numbskull suffering from possum/opossum confusion.
Andrei Arshavin's auntie's arsecress.
When visiting a sophisticated gentlemen's club, jokily refusing the girls' offers of a dance by saying "Sorry, I've got two left feet". Every Single Time. They love that.Brian Barwick's stupid fucking pudgy face.
Erwin Rommel's grandstanding tactics in WW II. There's no "push on to Arras" in "Team", you know?
Having a deep-seated fear of flying. Puff!
Men under fifty wearing "magnetic" copper bracelets. The pseudo-medical wristwear of the fool, my friend.
Sagely advising a friend to formalise their relationship with a female friend by urging him to "Hit it. Hit it like it owes you money".
Middle-aged ladies who have no qualms about giving a brother the full, unexpurgated inside skinny on the gyp they suffer with their feet in warm weather.
Amateur Mike Mechanics who know how cars work when all you really need is where the petrol & windscreen washer go. Those supermodels hanging out in the pits at Silverstone are banging the drivers mate, not the Kevin Websters topping up the brake fluid and adjusting the carb.
The hoi polloi in their Gio Goi.
Feather-brained acquaintances who find the concept of leaving a brother alone to enjoy his pint without having a camera in his face all too difficult to comprehend.
Coves riding a titchy fold-up cycle around the city, wearing the full cycling shorts and helmet caboodle.
Somehow convincing yourself that there is a long-standing tradition that if you see a dwarf, you should go up and rub their head for good luck. With disastrous consequences.
Harridans and do-gooders getting all het up about Gary Glitters. Yes, yes, the unsavoury pictures and the vile crimes against innocent children, but "Leader of the Gang", eh? There's a tune you can hum.
Paying a visit to the ruins of Castle Acre Priory, near Swaffham. It's shite.
Horror movie enthusiasts. The film genre preference of the weirdo, the nonce and the online gamer.
Young shavers in the employ of a firm of funeral directors, attempting to spruce up their rather sedate work attire with the addition of a baseball cap emblazoned with the slogan "No Fat Chicks!"
Inebriated bar-room debates over the burning issue of who was better: Baltimora or Falco.

Monday, June 16, 2008



Any enterprising zookeeper who gambles on games on the basis of dressing two chimps in the colours of the competing teams and backing the teams whose chimp is first to fling its shit around."

"ANIMAL KNOCKOUT: It's all over for Germany — if you believe the animals at the zoo in the city of Chemnitz, Germany.
Baileys, a Goeldi's monkey, has picked host Austria to beat Germany in its final Group B match on Monday. That outcome would consign the former champions to their third straight first round exit.
The monkey chose between raisins representing Germany and Austria. Scientific it isn't, but Baileys' fellow zoo dwellers have a 2-0 record so far.
Leon the porcupine correctly picked a German win over Poland, while an Arctic fox forecast Thursday's loss to Croatia."

As the respected author, journalist and political analyst Richard Littlejohns would have it, "You couldn't make it up!"

Friday, June 13, 2008

Group D

Group D


The quiet one.


Surprise winners last time make a return to major competition, having missed out on qualification for the last World Cup. Lacking the element of surprise, having a difficult group and an ageing squad, it would appear that the odds are against the moussaka-munchers having to fork out for new crockery in 2008.

Five Famous Belgians

Alexander the Great - Ancient Greek king who was descended from a long line of top blokes. His father was Alexander the Skill, his grandfather, Alexander the Lush and his "great"-grandfather was, of course, Alexander the Fucking Gent. One of the good guys.

Plato - philosopher, mathematician and all-round brainbox from the olden days. Hung around with Socrates and Aristotle, coming up with doctrines and playing pool. Also invented the Platonic relationships, wherein a woman who doesn't want to have sex with you can borrow money off of you and generally moan about stuff. You can also watch "Friends" with her.

The Duke of Edinburgh - not a scotch, as the title implies, actually a consort/husband of the Queen of England, Elizabeth II:Electric Boogaloo. Has now been married to the boot-faced old sourpuss for over sixty years, so fair play to him for that, although there were rumours that he was banging bitches by the dozen back in the day behind our glorious monarch's back, possibly while she was out at the bingo. As well as his numerous charitable works, Phillip is best known for his small-minded, prejudiced bigotry with regard to people from other nations and his casual use of insulting epithets for those that cross his path.
(Thank you, Mr Pot - Glass-house Stone-throwing Ed).

Zeus - the king of the ancient Greek gods and therefore the best and most holy of their deities and the one that all Greek people want to be most like. Spent most of his time playing away from home, shagging young laddies and getting women pregnant. A notable progeny of such an affair was Perseus, whose mother, Danae, is said to have conceived after being visited by Zeus, who materialised as a shower of gold from a cloud. Brushing aside Danae's rather floral interpretation, it seems most likely that Zeus deposited his seed in the normal way then concluded the proceedings by hosing her down with his sticky golden god-piss. The dorty bastard.

Archimedes - another famous mathematician. They loved their hard sums, the Ancient Greeks. They must have had some great scores on "Countdown" in them days. Archimedes is best known for the store whereby he discovered the principle of displacement when he got into the bath and a load of water overflowed. He then ran naked through the streets shouting "Eureka!". What is less well-known is that his wife called him a "Fucking twat!" for ruining the bathroom carpet and a little old lady called him a "Pervert!" for running past her with his lad out.

Showreel Shorthand

Charisteas getting the winner in 2004, some coves smashing plates and that, John Travolta giving it laldy.


Fortuitous qualifiers after bottling it against Israel only to profit from Steve McClaren's brand of ginger uselessness. Their efforts will be hampered by the fact that their best player, Arshavin, is suspended for two games. Having played in numerous tournaments as the USSR, and English pundits constantly referring to them as "the Russians" it is good to see David Pleat now refers to the Russian team as "the Soviets", the muddle-headed old kerb-crawler.

Five Famous Belgians

Stalin - man of Steel and leader of the USSR during World War II. Played a key role in the military defeat of Hitler, then set about his work of killing jews with an even greater ruthlessness and efficacy. A bad egg.

Rasputin - mad monk and lover of the Russian Queen. Reportedly Russia's greatest love machine. Following an attempted assassination by poisoning, his enemies eventually shot him until he was dead. Which is the correct amount of shooting to do when killing somebody. Oh, those Russians...

Yuri Gagarin - cosmonaut, first man in space. Unlike the American space missions, Gagarin did not stop off at the moon for a game of golf and a picnic, he just flew around for a bit, possibly mooning out the rear window of the spaceship and flicking the Vs at Mars.

Boris Yeltsin - pisspot politician. Ousted the progressive, liberal Gorbachev by making him appear in front of the nation having just escaped from a military coup, still with drool hanging out the side of his mouth and wearing a scruffy old jumper with all egg down the front. Yeltsin took over the presidency of Russia and embarked on a twenty year drinking binge. The ongoing conflict with Chechnya reportedly started after a drunken Yeltsin appeared on Chechen TV and offered the whole nation outside, slurring "Come on then, you wankers, I'll tek the fucking lot of you". Another diplomatic row was sparked when, on visiting Buckingham Palace, an intoxicated Yeltsin requested that the Queen should "get her rat out", while making a suggestive "jiggy jiggy" gesture. In summary, vodka.

t.A.T.u. - teenage lesbian lust! Or rather not. Despite the heavy lesbian overtones in their pop smash "All the things she said" that caused moral panic and outrage among tabloid newspapers, the girls, Lena and Yulia, are not, in fact, in the lesbians. The group later finished third in the Eurovision Song Contest and also recorded an ace version of "How Soon is Now" by The Smiths.

Showreel Shorthand

Oleg Blokhin's square heed, That 4-3 game against Belgium, Van Basten's volley, tanks rolling past the Kremlin, Rooney's daft tackle on the plastic pitch.


Perennial achievers of the "perennial underachievers" tag. Can this be the year the paella-munchers finally cast off the tag of "perennial underachievers" and become "achievers"? Hmm, the jury is still out on that one. At least they have finally kicked Raul's arse to the kerb, the Real Madrid striker, while seeming a nice enough chap, never gave the impression that he was the man to cast off the... (Fuck off - Perennial Underachieving Ed)

Five Famous Belgians

Don Quixote - Fictional eponymous hero of Miguel Cervantes novel, this lovable old barmpot had the queer notion that he was a knight so bold from days of old and went off to save damsels and have adventures. In the days before "political correctness gone mad" it was generally considered a good thing to write novels where the mentally ill are mocked and bully-ragged for the entertainment of the public. Today we just have "Big Brother". Right, kids?

Phillip II of Spain - War-mongering King of Spain who got his nose bloodied and his arse kicked by Frannie Drake when he tried to start bother off the south coast of England with his so-called Armada (trans. rubbish navy). Our man Drake was busy playing a frame of bowls at his local alley when the news came that the Armada had been sighted in the vicinity. With "admiral" coolness, he finished his pint, completed his game, which included four strikes and three spares, changed out of his mod-father style bowling footwear and trotted off to give Johnny Foreigner a proper licking. A beaten man, Phillip slunk off to pick on someone his own size, starting a war with France.

Pablo Picasso - Twentieth Century painter and sculptor who, according to art historian Jonathan Richman, used to go down town and pick up girls without being called an asshole. However, british expert Adam Ant makes a more outlandish claim, namely that Picasso regularly visited the Planet of the Apes. Perhaps he used to pick up female chimps on his many visits to the fictional simian-ruled world. The dirty monkey-fucking porvort. Anyhoo, his "Guernica" was well regarded by those in the know, so hats off to the old boy.

Julio Iglesias - super-smooth crooning star and ladies man. A promising goalkeeper in his youth, the teenage Iglesias vied for a place in the same Real Madrid youth team as Pope John Paul II (see Poland). Eventually, a car crash and a three-year lay-off, convinced him that his future lay with the production of sickly-sweet, oleaginous love ballads and banging hot chicks rather than Association Football. A global heart-throb throughout the seventies and eighties, Iglesias is reputed to have slept with over three thousand women, as mentioned in his autobiography "I shagged over three thousand women, me! How you like them apples, Nastase, eh?"

Seve Ballesteros - golfing genius of the 1970s and 80s. First came to widespread attention when winning the 1979 British Open, with his trademark blend of wild driving and miraculous recovery shots. Always a favourite with crowds in Britain and Europe for his cavalier playing style, cheeky smile, the natty way he filled a Slazenger pullover and, most notably, the way he would regularly shit up the Yanks in the Ryder Cup. He stuck it right up them!

Showreel Shorthand

Arconada spilling the ball in 1984, Arconada spilling it against Norn Ireland in '82, Butragueno storing five against Denmark in '86, some dark horses.


Will be in the unfamiliar position of attending a major tournament and not having a dull draw with England as part of their schedule. Sure to pose a threat to any defence with their strike partnership of mercurial Juventus goal-getter Ibrahamovic and ageless Old Firm legend Larsson. A little simple fun will no doubt be had by TVcameramen by picking out fresh-faced, pneumatic blondes in the crowd, possibly clad in tight yellow t-shirts, their firm scandinavian breasts jiggling prettily as they writhe in ecstasy, breathy words of nordic delight escaping their perfect ruby lips... Sorry, drifted off a bit there.

Five Famous Belgians

Abba - quintessential Scandinavian perfect pop quartet. Who can forget their Eurovision winning performance of "Waterloo", as they effortlessly combined a potted biography of M. Bonaparte with a whizz-bang pop sensibility and some hotpants. While we all have our favourite member of Abba, this correspondent was always a big fan of the blonde one. Giddy up, what? Benny, I think his name was.

Alfred Nobel - chemist, inventor and founder of high-falutin' awards ceremony. Having made an absolute fortune inventing dynamite and gelignite, our hero decides he wants a better legacy than as the brains behind some of the most dangerous explosives known to humanity. Leaves part of his vast fortune to setting up awards for Physics, Chemistry, Physiology, Literature and Peace. Initially quite a prestigious award, today's metrosexual society now ranks an NME Brats Award or a Heat Magazine "Minger of the Year" title as a more noteworthy accomplishment.

Jens Lekman - musician and godlike genius. Despite the similarity of his name to that of tousle-haired Germany and Arsenal goalkeeper Jens Lehmann, Lekman is in fact a singer-songwriter with no known feud with long-time rival Oliver Kahn. All nonsense aside, if you take one thing from this cornucopia of cock that you are reading, seek out and listen to the great man's music. He is skill.

Bjorn Borg - the Red Rum of tennis. Seemingly won Wimbledon every year in the late seventies and early eighties. Ok, he "only" won it five times. Had a laid-back, cool playing style that was in marked contrast to the fiery, temperamental game played by long-time rivals Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe. Possibly this is down to his reserved, northern-european personality, maybe it's because he didn't do as much coke as them. Who can say? His autobiography "My Life and Game" sheds little light on the number of women he schtupped. Disappointing.

Sven Goran Eriksson - unpopular football manager. The former manager of England became increasingly unloved by the tabloid press and ill-informed football supporters for his disgraceful record of qualifying for every major tournament and usually getting to the quarter-final and his associated crime of being A Foreigner. Once a proud John Bull Englishman was appointed to the job, the national team went on to unparalleled success, qualifying from an easy group at a canter and entering Euro 2008 as firm favourites.
Hang on, that didn't happen! The Sun and The Mirror must have been wrong! Eriksson met with the same relatively success away from the pitch, bedding a bevy of borderline boilers such as fellow Swede Ulrika Jonsson, Faria Alam and long-standing blind-eye-turner Morticia Dallaglio.

Showreel Shorthand

Fatty Brolin lashing home in 1992, Pele and co. doing them 5-2 in '58, Ravelli's mad post-shootout face in 1994, two blondes jumping up and down in the crowd.

Johnny Two-Feathers' Verdict

This update has been delayed by Mr Two-Feathers recent hospitalisation for a "stress-related illness".

(makes drinky-drinky gesture).

Johnny wishes to place on record his thanks to his family and friends and also the staff at Um Priory Medicine Lodge.

Um journey of many steps can only begin once a brave admits there is um problem. With this in mind, Johnny sees Spain as nation on path to recovery. For too long reliant on um crutch that was Raul, the Spanish can now forge um new trail with Torres and Villa up front. As for rest of group, rattlesnake does not return to bite squatting squaw twice on same spot. Greece will do fuck all. With regard to Sweden or Russia, they will both no doubt be some dull old prairie-shit.

Have you got any fire-water on you? Johnny Two-Feathers is how you say, gasping for um shot of the good stuff. I can give you land if you want it, or um share in um Casino that is coining it in? Come on, paleface, do not hold out on a brave, I'm jonesing here, capiche?

Ah, that is hitting um spot! Spain and Russia to go through. Now get off my reservation!

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Ins and Outs: June '08

Hola, muchachos!

As you are no doubt painfully aware, the Euro 2008 Futbol Gala Tournament has pulled up to our collective bumper, with it's euro-house "dance" music pumping from its stereo and a whiff of garlic in its wake.

What better way to maintain a stolid British isolationist stance than a hardline reactionary manifesto handed down by a cabal of bloodstained refuseniks, nationalists and bunco-steerers, or The Ins and Outs Committee, to give them their correct title.

Stick this up your junta, Monsieur Delors, you can straighten our bananas when you pry them from our cold, dead hands.

Ins and Outs am here!


Thailand's King Bhumibol Adulyadej. A fan of Hardcore Rap, he always includes respect to
Dr Dre in his State Address to Parliament.
On being asked to do the slightest bit thing, replying "No way. Jose!" in a vehement Rab C Nesbitt style accent.
Donning your best suit and shiniest shoes to attend the "black parade".
Grinning vacantly at people and informing them, a propos nothing, "Ah'm just doing my own dang!"
Taking risks by cooking and eating chicken meat long past its sell-by date. Sometimes you've got to live on the edge.
Turning up late then claiming to have been "sitting in the back seat, kissing and a-hugging with Fred"
Anything that has been remixed by Van She.
In a Gorbals four-ale bar, loudly asking the barman "Here, mate? Do Scotch transvestites wear trouser suits then, or what?"
Leopard-skin dungarees. This season's must-have item.
Making a silent vow to oneself to use more tarragon in the kitchen.
Laying the blame, not on the sunshine or good times, not even the boogie, but squarely at the door of the Special Brew.
Using the Beano cartoon "Little Plum" as your primary source of reference on the cultural mores of the Native American tribes.
Pitching up at antenatal classes while not being pregnant, just because you like the music and doing breathing exercises.
Affecting the mode of dress of a 1950s birdwatcher; shorts, hiking boots and field-glasses akimbo.
Getting into an unseemly brawl with the pizza delivery man over which was better, "Falcon Crest" or "Dynasty".
Embarking on a spiritual quest, a voyage of discovery, if you will, wandering alone in the desert, taking psychoactive mushrooms and that, then returning home thinking that you really fancy getting a Daihatsu Sirion.
Avoiding deranged females like the plague.
Amusingly referring to to Cock-a-leekie soup as "Leaky Cock soup". Sophisticated!
Shots that hit the bar.
Claiming to be able to dismantle and re-assemble an SA-80 Assault Rifle in under a minute when, in fact, you wouldn't even have a clue how to switch one on.


Bhutan's King Ugyen Wanschuck. The mofo digs Mariah Carey!
Sporting a short sleeve shirt/tie combo. The office attire of the fool.
Ersatz blob machine erectile dysfunction solutions. "Golden Root" my oxter!
The Mississippi Delta. Fucking shit.
Breezily excusing any workplace underperformance by explaining that you have been "hittin' it from behind" all night.
Dancing with tears in your eyes. You'll look a prize chump.
Alway making specific reference to the fact that your pork chop or chicken breast was prepared using a George Foreman grill, like this makes the least bit fucking difference.
Drafting a job advertisement for a senior management post stating that the ideal candidate will be "a lady in the street but a freak in the bed". It's not the 1980s, fellers.
Woefully short approach putts from just off the green.
Tipping your head right back and desperately chugging on your can of soft drink to get the last few drops from it. Have a bit of dignity, there's a good chap.
Wolf Blass wine. Regardless of quality, he sounds like a war criminal or a wrestler, not a vintner.
The tendency among sufferers of colitis to believe that people want in-depth accounts of the symptoms and treatments associated with this unfortunate condition.
Proudly informing people that you have every episode of "The Prisoner" on DVD as though this makes you a notable collector in the same league as Nelson A Rockefellers.
Getting over-excited about the dressing gowns when staying at an hotel.
Telling anyone who will listen that you don't believe in office romances, when they all know you work in a slaughterhouse.
Gleeful tabloid reporting of prison-based nonce-bashing.
Any local band type musician wearing a waistcoat.
Fuel protesters.
Buttonholing a brother in the pub and vapouring on about some Facebook group of which you're a member. F that S, F it in the ass!
The Parable of the Talents. One of the disciples should have telt him. "Jesus, I'm loving your work, bro, but that's a shit parable, my friend."

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Group C

Group C


Die gruppe des todes!


Frenchmen! In shorts! A terrifying prospect, I'm sure you will agree. With his onion breath and wandering hands, Jean-Pierre Frenchman is a fearsome foe. Boasting a galaxy of stars such as Thierry Henry, Franck Ribery and Lilian Thuram, the gallic masters would be among the favourites to claim the title, were it not for the Group Of DEATH! factor. It is far from overstating the case to suggest that the three best teams in the competition are to be found in group C. Add to this the fact that England will not be in attendance and only then can one fully comprehend the folly in allowing not one, but two, nations of mountain-dwelling, feather-hat wearing, Nazi-collaborating, cake-for-breakfast munching nations of footballing dunderheads to host the tournament.

Five Famous Belgians

Serge Gainsbourg - frog-faced, pint-sized pervert of pop. Despite having the appearance of something that should be sporting among the lilypads, mateyboy managed to "collaborate" (schtupp) many of the world's most beautiful and desirable women throughout the sixties and seventies, all the while getting them to sing his innuendo-laden pop ditties about oral sex, incest, puppy-squeezing and hitting it from behind. He was quite a guy!

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec - another sawn-off porvort. A nineteenth century artist cove, Mother Nature had not smiled on our Henri. The top half of his body was normal-sized, his legs were teeny-tiny and apparently he had a huge schlong. Actually, put like that, it doesn't sound too bad a deal. Anyhoo, the Wee Man, as Ally McCoist would no doubt have referred to him, spent most of his working life painting the portraits of prossies in Montmartre, then getting drunk and shagging them of a night time.

Napoleon Bonaparte - another great Frenchman who was diminuitive in stature. As one of the last people to find out that it was raining, Bonaparte made up his short-arsedness by ruthlessly acquiring power, eventually winding up as Emperor of France. Much like England's Steve McClaren, a disastrous campaign in Russia sowed the seeds of his destruction. However, it is unlikely that the Battle of Borodino took place on a plastic pitch, soaked to saturation point by a frankly crooked groundsman.

Antoine de Caunes - suave, leering television presenter. Hosted Channel 4's flagship european cultural show "Eurotrash" on British TV. This most important of late 20th century programmes was instrumental in giving British audiences exposure to the brightest and best in continental arts and media. Especially that blonde lass who died because her tits were so big.

Pepe le Pew - fictional animated amorous skunk. A frustrated lover, his unfortunate aroma constantly thwarted his attempted romantic liaisons, which for some reason were usually with black cats who'd had an imbroglio with some white paint. Some critics would have it that this american cartoon unfairly depicted the french, all of them, as malodorous, incorrigible sex pests. A completely untrue national stereotype which our comprehensive sample here has shown to be utterly without foundation.

Showreel Shorthand

Battiston getting his head taken off, Platini doing the biz in '84, Deschamps getting the cup in 1998, Zidane howking his guts up before beating England from the spot, Zizou sticking the nut on Materazzi.


The World Champions will be looking forward to playing France again, having faced them in the final in Germany 2006, they were drawn against them in qualifying for this tournament, before meeting up again in the tournament proper. Italy have been rocked by the last-minute injury of inspirational defender Fabio Cannavaro, but will probably kick and scrape their way through to the final like they normally do.

Five Famous Belgians

Benito Mussolini - baldy-heided fascist Italian premier and one of the leaders of the World War II Axis Powers, where he was known as The Shit One. As if being a fascist wasn't bad enough, he was also a known railway enthusiast. Fittingly, he was executed outside a petrol station. Watch your back, Gordon Browns!

Leonardo da Vinci - quite simply, an absolute genius. As an artist, he painted the most famous picture, like, ever: La Gioconda (or The Mona Lisa as you plebs probably call it). In addition to his painting, he was also a scientist, engineer, sculptor, mathematician and anatomist. He must have been beating the ladies off with a shitty stick, yes? Well no, actually. He was in fact a gay man. Conclusive proof therefore, that all gays are better and cleverer than straight people. A bit of a turn up for the books, eh? Still, you live and you learn, what?

Michelangelo - another renaissance man, a contemporary and rival to da Vinci. His most famous works include the statue "David", who is clearly no Toulouse-Lautrec when it comes to filling a pair of Y-fronts, if you catch my drift, and the painting job he did on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. A bit overly-ornate, if you ask me, what's wrong with a simple white emulsion, eh? Another gay, of course. Not for him the distractions of going down the hippodrome to watch the Polish Dance, he was too busy getting some fit young twink to sit for him while he got that sculpture just right. Fair play to him.

Gino Ginelli - another creative genius was 1980s fictional ice cream designer Gino Ginelli. His groundbreaking, delicious flavours included Mint Chocky-Cheep, Toffee-Foodgee and Tutti Frutti What a Cutie. Marvellous stuff and a bit of Peter Kay style nostalgia-as-comedy-replacement for the slackjaws among you. Italian verve indeed!

Michael Corleone - fictional war hero turned gangland overlord. Took over the family bidness after concluding a meeting with trade rival Sillozzo by placing a bullet through his skull, then offing his bent pig mate. His wife was a bit of a pain in the arse, mind.

Showreel Shorthand

Kicking lumps out the Koreans in 1966, getting a shoe-ing off of Brazil in 1970, Paolo Rossi's hat-trick and Tardelli's mad face in 1982, Baggio's poor penalty in 1994, Materazzi discussing Zidane's family in 2006.


Pornography, prostitution, drugs, pint after golden pint of beautiful lager. That's the type of thing that a down-market, gutter weblog may witter on about when mentioning the Netherlands, but not this clean-living bachelor boy. Oh no. Moving on to the Dutch football team, Marco van Basten seems to have forged a decent enough team spirit among what is traditionally the bitchiest collection of back-biting, preening, self-regarding egomaniacs outside the cast of "Sex in the City", eh ladies? PS I know it's "Sex and the City". The loss of Ryan Babel may prove a loss to the Hollandaise, but there are still bags of goals in their side and if Arjen Robben can re-discover his best form they could potentially do very well.

Five Famous Belgians

Vincent Van Gogh - prominent 19th century artist who love colour and who let it show. His artistic prowess was all the more remarkable given the fact that he was blind, having cut off one of his eyes one night while hepped up on absinthe following a tiff with his lass.

MC Miker G and DJ Sven - genius 1980s songwriting and performing duo who shot to fame with their seminal hip hop pop classic "Holiday Rap" wherein they informed us of their impending travel plans, stating their intent to "ring-rang-a-dong for a holiday". Forget your MC Hammers and your Vanilla Icecubes, this is the true voice of the ghetto.

William III of England - not actually English. A dutch fellow, formerly known as Prince of Orange, he won the English, Scottish and Irish crowns and is surprisingly popular with certain elements in the latter two countries, where coves dressed as Be-Ro men wear orange sashes in his honour and parade past Catholic people, playing flute music. Unorthodox.

Raymond van Barneveld - the greatest ever sportsman to come from the Netherlands. A world champion darts player in both of the beautiful game's competing tournaments, "Barney" as his army of adoring fans know him, has been the only player to consistently challenge the unrivalled dominance of the world's number one, Phil "the Power" Taylor, an Englishman.

Van der Valk - tousle-haired fictional TV detective. The series of the same name is fondly remembered for its stirring, evocative theme tune. After which, most people turned off after about ten minutes because it was so bliddy boring.

Showreel Shorthand

Johann Cruyff, turns akimbo, litter on the pitch in Argentina '78, Van Basten thumping that volley in Euro '88, Koeman dinking it past Seaman, Shearer, Gazza, Sheringham et al showing them how to play in '96, various penalty shootout disasters, a training ground bust-up.


Gypsies, vampires, orphans. That's Romania. Despite being widely written off as makeweights in the Gruppo del Morte, it is worth remembering that Romania topped their qualifying group ahead of the Netherlands. Although, it would be understandable were one not to remember that. I just found it out by cribbing from the BBC's guide to Euro 2008. Fuck it, they aren't going to qualify, are they?

Five Famous Belgians

Count Dracula - vampire. Fictional, but where there's smoke, there's fire, no? Unless you count dry ice machines. Which were invented after the smoke/fire cliche was coined. Anyhoo, this Count Dracula, who did exist, used to spend his evenings sucking on the neck of young women, dressed mainly in black, didn't like sunshine and stayed indoors all day. Possibly a fore-runner of today's "Emo" kids, right Daily Mail readers?

Nicolae Ceauşescu - former Communist leader of the country and all-round bad egg. Executed by a firing squad following a popular revolt as communism was collapsing all over Eastern Europe. George Bush (the first one) liked him though, so there you are.

Elena Ceauşescu - wife of Nicolae and even more of a knacker than him. Lived in a palace and owned over 20,000 pairs of shoes and got her husband to give her a phoney-baloney government job, which she did badly. Supposedly cheated in her exams and faked her qualifications, like a communist harridan version of Jeffrey Archer. Not a big hit with John Q. Average-Romanian.

Nadia Comăneci - teenage gymnast of the 1970s and 80s. As Everybody knows, the so-called sport of gymnastics is actually a front for paedophiles to get together and exchange pictures and films while peering intently at some waiflike 12 year old lassie doing the splits in a see-through leotard. That said, our Nadia was ruddy marvellous in this most noble of sports, achieving the first perfect 10 score ever recorded during the Montreal Olympics in 1976.

Ilie Nastase - archetypal 70s tennis professional. Won 88 tennis titles but is probably better known for his claim that he had shagged over 2,500 women. This claim was made in his 2005 autobiography "Ilie Nastase: I've shagged over 2,500 women, me. No hoonds, either."

Showreel Shorthand

Gheorghe Hagi pinging them in at USA '94, Phil Neville dropping a bollock in Euro
2000, some bats.

Johnny Two-Feathers' Verdict

Um group of death. Heap bad medicine. Bad medicine is what I need. Spent last night on fire-water, got um splitting headache like um scalped paleface. Not really arsed about football. Will plump for Italy and France. Fuck King Billy. Ooh, um bastern heed is nipping. Do you have um Resolve, paleface?

Monday, June 02, 2008

Group B

Group B


Don't mention the war!


The second of the host nations has an even weaker team than Switzerland. An assortment of mulleted no-marks that are so clueless there were petitions in favour of withdrawing from the tournament rather than showing themselves up in front of Europe.

Five Famous Belgians

Adolf Hitler - mono-bollocked Nazi war-mongerer and reportedly a touch anti-semitic. Not much cop as a painter either.

Josef Fritzel - another wrong 'un. Imprisoned his daughter for over twenty years, raping her and fathering seven children with her. After her escape, claimed he had planned on releasing her soon as he no longer fancied her. That's alright, then.

Rosemarie Fritzel - wife of Josef and either an inhuman monster compliant with the crimes of her husband, or Europe's Daftest Cunt. Trips to Asda must have been a strange affair; "Josef, why are you buying all of these rusks for?" "Erm, I have been smoking joints late and I get the munchies, you know? A ha ha!" "Oh, ja, that makes sense when you explain it like that."

Falco - eighties pop star who scored a worldwide hit with his 1986 smash hit "Rock me Amadeus". Died in 1998 after being hit by a bus. It's not known if he was a heavy smoker or not.

Kurt Waldheim - distinguished Austrian diplomat and politican who served as President from 1986 to 1992. It probably comes as no surprise to learn that he served as a Nazi officer during the Second World War. Honestly, what are this lot like?

Showreel Shorthand

Disgruntled Algerians annoyed by the "Anschluss" World Cup '82 fixture against West Germany, Hans Krankl doing something or other, that cove in the Benny hat from The Faeroe Islands, footage of "So Long, Farewell" from The Sound of Music.

Fresh from ruining the summer for English lager enthusiasts and vendors of England-related tat, Slaven Bilic's gingham army make the short trip to Austria with their best side since the 1998 World Cup semi-finalists.

Five Famous Belgians

Goran Ivanisevic - beanpole mentalist tennis player. Good serve on him

Arkan - Some say warlord, others say war criminal. Either way, he killed a lot of chaps.

Monica Seles - grunting, stab-victim female tennis player.

Gavrilo Princip - political activist and hothead. Started World War I by assassinating Franz Ferdinand. If only somebody would shoot fucking Coldplay!

Tito - Communist President of Yugoslavia for about fifty years or something. One of the few Croatians to oppose the Nazis during WWII and, more importantly, kept the Yugoslavian nation together, thus giving the UK a sporting chance in the Eurovision Song Contest without all these moon-man countries voting for each other's rotten songs. Really, who can tell one of these countries from the other? Not me!

Showreel Shorthand
Bilic getting sent off versus France, Paul Robinson letting it bobble over his foot, Scott Carson letting it slip under his body, an ethnic cleansing.


What to say about Germany without descending into hackneyed cliches and national stereotypes? You can never write them off, as they play with ruthless efficiency while looking determined and well-organised. Towels on sun loungers, bombed chip shops et cetera, et cetera. Basically, after a creditable performance at World Cup 2006, they'll almost certainly get to the semi-finals here and could very well win the tournament.

Five Famous Belgians

Oskar Schindler - businessman and Dudley Do-right, saved a bunch of Jews in WWII by building a massive wooden boat or something. I didn't watch the film. A 1993 film I did see, however, is Body of Evidence. It's great, you see Madonna's tits, bum, fanny, the lot. Recommended!

Ludwig van Beethoven - possibly the greatest composer of classical music, like, ever. All the more remarkable given the fact that he was deaf, having cut off his ear when pissed up on absinthe after his lass chucked him.

Michael Schenker - hard rock guitarist, regarded by most as the natural successor to Beethoven. Has thrilled millions of rock fans across the globe with his balls-out brand of widdly-widdly guitar based rock. Rock!

Nico - glacially beatiful model and part-time singer with the Velvet Underground. Probably slept with more musicians than she had hot dinners. Having sampled the creative hothouse environment of Warhol's Factory, what could be a more fitting destination than a bedsit in Salford, shacked up with John Cooper Clarke, taking loads of smack? Died in Ibiza after falling off her bike.

Martin Luther - olden days churchy-type, famous for inventing the Protestant religion and encouraging people to burn down the homes of Jews. His most notable speech contained the oft-repeated "I have a dream" quotation, said dream consisting of a version of christianity with none of that shit about divorce and celibacy for priests, and the smell of burning synagogues on the morning breeze.

Showreel Shorthand

Geoff Hurst lashing home the fourth goal, Gerd Muller and his stumpy legs, Andy Moeller looking cunty after winning the penalties in '96, Lothar Matthaus looking strident in '90


Poles! They're everywhere these days, aren't they? Whether they're working damn hard on our building sites, administer sordid, dispassionate handjobs in squalid backstreet massage parlours, appearing in jokes by deceased funnyman Rodney Dangerfield or selling overpriced, fatty meat products on our high streets, you can't move without bumping into our Polack cousins. But what of their footballers? Well, despite being depleted by Germany nicking all their best players, they have qualified for their second consecutive major tournament. British observers may be most familiar with hun-baiting "Holy Goalie" Artur Boruc, infamous for crossing himself in a provocative manner in front of Rangers supporters and sporting a t-shirt with the slogan "Archbishop Rowan Williams can suck my fat cock".

Five Famous Belgians

Pope John Paul II - The original holy goalie, the former pontiff was a teenage apprentice at Real Madrid, before abandoning the game to try his hand at saving souls, not goals. Reportedly very good at handling crosses etc etc...

Lech Walesa - former trade union leader turned politician. His Solidarity union was a major thorn in the side of Poland's communist government, with their demands for legalised trade unions, greater social freedoms, free elections and longer tea breaks and soft toilet paper for shipyard workers. Was the custodian of one of Eastern Europe's finest moustaches, a luxuriant walrus-type effort.

Nicolaus Copernicus - astronomer from the 1400s who first scientifically showed that the sun is the centre of the solar system, not the earth, like the fools in the Church thought. A clever cove. Coincidentally, an answer on the quiz machine in the pub the other night, hence his inclusion here.

Marie Curie - double Nobel Prize winning scientist, famed for discovering two elements, polonium and radium, although it is probable that her husband Pierre Curie did most of the actual work, with Marie most likely limited to making cups of tea and writing down measurements on a clipboard. As well as her scientific achievements, Curie was a renowned slag, sleeping with married men and generally putting it about like a tupenny whore.

Ray Manzarek - keyboard wizard of Polish descent, Manzarek's tinklings are the sole saving grace of indulgent, overblown LA rock bores The Doors. Manzarek also managed to keep his cock in his pants while onstage, unlike the band's long-haired scruffy herbert frontman Jim Morrison.

Showreel Shorthand

Jan Tomaszewski keeping England at bay in '73, Lineker sticking a hat-trick past them in '86, Hitler invading in '39.

Johnny Two-Feathers' Verdict

Um heap tight group. Much history between rival tribes. Bad medicine ahoy. At end of um day, heap foolishness to write off Germans. Proud braves have they. Croatia may just have too much in um locker for Poland. Austria will stink up um tournament like buffalo shit on um moccasin.

Kemo Sabe!

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Euro 2008

Good greeting tides, sports fans.

As I'm sure you're all aware, the summer's sporting highlight is but days away. That's right, sixteen of Europe's finest footballing nations will come together in the soccer hotbeds of Switzerland and Austria (me neither) to compete for the UEFA European Championship 2008.

Normally, the world's favourite team England would be red-hot favourites to take home the trophy to put alongside their vast collection of World Cup. However, due to a combination of plastic pitches, UEFA skullduggery, brolly-wielding shitehawks and players from Aston Villa, the dearest of national sides will not be competing this time.

Fortunately, from a street-cleaning perspective, the Scotch army of red-headed incontinents won't be making the journey either.

This leaves, you, the hapless, parochial unsophisticate in the ways of the continental game, scratching your head, gaping maw a-dribbling, wondering "Who the blinking flip are aal these foreigners, eh? I've never heard of any of them, me"

Well calm your tears, my young fool. I am here to walk you through the whole process and explain it to you so even you can grasp it.

To assist me in this task, I have enlisted the assistance of my trusty Native American spirit guide Johnny Two Feathers.


With the mystical powers and traditional wisdom of the elders of his tribe and a fluent knowledge of the game picked up through a life-long subscription to "Shoot" magazine, our red-skinned chum will bring insights from across the Atlantic.

Pre-amble aside, let's get down and get with it, by looking first, as is traditional, at Group A.

Group A

The A-Team(s)

Group A

Czech Republic

Czech Republic

One-time inheritors of Spain's eternal "dark horse" mantle, an ageing side seems to have missed its best chance of glory. Again likely to go with the tried and trusted strike partnership of nine-foot bald giant Jan Koller and five-foot beaver-faced simpleton and Dave Hill lookalike Milan Baros.

Five famous Belgians: (A small cultural snapshot of eminent countrymen of the brave boys)

Thomas Skurahvy - gangling centre-forward and inventor of the mullet.
Vaclav Havel - so-so playright turned eminent velvet revolution politico.
Jarmila Kratotchvilova - bewildering manbird steroid-rumour athlete
Franza Kafka - half-author, half-cockroach
Eva Herzigova - massive-knockered Wonderbra model. Giddy up!

Showreel Shorthand (spotters guide to the clips they show on telly ALL THE BLIDDY TIME)

Panenka's chip penalty, Poborsky's chip in Euro '96


The fortuitous two-time spot-kick conquerors of England will be looking to win the tournament this time around, led by their main man and hottest property in football, Cristiano Ronaldo. Loathe him or despise him, you can't deny that the winking, twinkling, greasy-mopped wide-man is playing out of his skin at the moment. Dame Fortune also seems to be smiling on him, as he got away with a shocking shootout miss in the recent Champions League final thanks to the slapstick stylings of John "JT" Terry. The spawny cunt.

Five famous Belgians:

Baruch Spinoza - pointy-heided philosopher and ethicist
Tony Ferrino - singing sensation and ladies man
Eusebio - stumpy footballer of African origin
Ferdinand Magellan - olden days explorer, think Ellen MacArthur with more mates
Teresa Heinz Kerry - tidy wife of horse-faced US Presidential loser.

Showreel Shorthand

Eusebio banging them in against the Koreans, Butch Wilkins and all that at WC '82, Carvalho and Rooney baal-stamping, Ronaldo winking v England, crying like an iddy-biddy girl v France.


Co-hosts Switzerland will be hoping against hope to avoid embarrassing themselves and praying that they can scrape through their fairly easy qualifying group. Watch out for dodgy penalties and opposition sendings off galore as UEFA attempt to ensure that Swiss faces remain egg-free. The dull Swiss have NO players of note and frankly, are taking up a precious finals place that could much better be filled by a team with a richer footballing tradition, such as England, to choose an example entirely at random.

Five famous Belgians: Erm, hang on... just off to Wikipedia.

Right ye are, here we go.

Le Corbusier - Nazi collaborating architect
Sepp Blatter - football visionary and stranger to any form of corruption
Roger Federerer - useful tennis player and owner of whitest blazer since Alec Guinness
Theodor Tobler - triangular chocolate pioneer, inventor of unpopular airport staple "Toblerone" bars
Jean-Pierre Nazigold - prominent wartime financier.

Showreel Shorthand

Drawing 1-1 with England at Euro '96, Tits McCoist scoring a pointless effort, kung-fu fighting with Turkey in a play-off.


From across the Bosporus come the Turks, former international whipping boys come good, and ready to kick lumps out of anything that moves or ping the ball around like a Happy Shopper Brazil, depending on how the mood takes them. Much will depend on the form of pint-sized Newcastle United schemer Emre, a player who embodies the schizophrenic nature of his nation's side. Hopefully, their clash with the Swiss should see a decent tear-up if nothing else.

Five famous Belgians: Bloody hell, even thinner gruel here.

Croesus - moneybags monarch from back in the BC era
Ali Osman - fictional prossie-banging cafe owner in Eastenders
The Barbarossa Brothers - naval commanders cum musical hall act
Erkan Mustafa - child actor who played fictional overweight schoolboy, Ro-Land off of "Grange Hill"
Jean-Pierre Turkishdelight - jelly-filled chocolate pioneer, inventor of erm, "Turkish Delight".

Showreel Shorthand

England "stuffing" them 8-0 back in the day, getting to semi-final in WC 2002, kung-fu fighting vs Switzerland.

Johnny Two-Feathers' Verdict

The weakest of um groups. Switzerland, hoarder of the white man's gold, have much bad medicine to atone for and qualifying may prove heap big ask. Czech Republic grow long in tooth and have many old braves, happy hunting ground is next stop for them. Portugal and Turkey to progress to um quarter-finals.


Saturday, May 10, 2008

Ins and Outs: May '08

Come ye pleasure seekers, new seekers, Mr Majeikas, Flame Trees of Thikas, gather round and listen up good.

The Ins and Outs Committee are fresh back from a bracing holiday in Skegpool-by-the-bye and have a bulging case of soiled wisdom and crumpled insight to bung into your whirling twin-tubs.

If you wish to know your Kire te Kanawa from your Louis Donowa, what's skill and what's trill, who rocks da bells and whose cock it smells, then follow your nose this-a-way, cos those sunburned, candy floss-chomping Ins and Outs am here!


When having to make introductions, always always introducing the person in question as "my brother Tom Hagen".
Having a nice roast dinner on a Sunday, the leftover meat cold with pickles on Monday and shoving any remaining roast potatoes up your arse on a Tuesday.
Going up to every fat lass one encounters and asking when the baby's due and isn't being pregnant awful in this heat?
Referring to anybody with the merest hint of a long face or an unhappy countenance as Cheerful Charlie Chester.
Nodding along appreciatively to the music of Leonard Cohen, all the while musing "I bet he got a lot of fanny back in the day".
Visiting Blackpool and eschewing the titty bars and rollercoasters for an afternoon of wurlitzer music with a load of biddies. Marvellous.
Any girl with 9/10 pants and a very big bra.
At the first sign of any tiresome conversation tending to drift towards confectionery of the past or children's TV in days of yore, rising swiftly to one's feet, telling those present "Fuck 'Spangles', fuck 'Chorlton and the Wheelies' and fuck you!" before leaving in a marked manner.
The euro dance musical stylings of Kraak and Smaak. Sikk beatz!
Visiting a local hardware store and attempting to purchase Elbow Grease.
Getting your hands on a pair of Red or Dead Lolitas for a song. A song, I tell you!
Agonising for ages over whether to buy a t-shirt with the legend "Body of a God - Shame it's Buddha!!!1!", before concluding that it would indeed be a sin to miss out on such a mirthsome garment.
Hitting the pin.
Lesbians. Fair play to them.
Drinking cut-price Cheeky Vimto in a social clubs and bellowing along drunkenly to Petula Clark's "Downtown".
The flügelhorn. Brass at its best.
Due to workplace relocations, no longer having one's eye caught by numerous photographs of a colleague's frightful children.
As a would-be humorous story concludes in stony silence, solicitously patting the failed raconteur on the shoulder and encouraging them to take a good swig of beer.
Serving your guests mixers created in the Soda Stream machine rather than their expensive brand name counterparts. They'll never know the difference!
Round-heeled ladies excusing an uncharacteristic lowering of their standards with the words "There was no-one else out and I had shaved my legs"


Omnibus journeys in the company of the lower orders that resemble "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" with wardrobe by Lonsdale.
Female co-workers who constantly have the air of being about to launch into a story about something darling that their cat did.
Any grown-up eating Haribo sweets. You fucking knacker.
Screaming "Hit it, wind! Hit it, wind!" on a perfectly calm day, as an overhit 9 iron flies over the green.
Constantly folding and twirling your hands like you're a fucking Bond villain revealing your heinous schemes.
Interminable discussions regarding exactly how many free minutes and text you receive per month and the fiscal requirements for said service.
Constructing an improvised warm weather back-scratching device with the aid of several drinking straws and a plastic chip fork.
Preparing snacks to be enjoyed later while watching some eagerly awaited television programme.
Portly schoolchildren noisily eating crisps on the bus to school.
Sending an alcohol-fuelled SMS, offering a female acquaintance the opportunity to have her "pastie smashed off". This approach is not exactly one from the Fitzwilliam Darcy playbook.
At the opticians, asking the assistant if these frames make you look "like a paedo. 'Cos I'm not one, right!"
Stopping in of a friday night playing low quality word games on Facebook. Mother, the warm bath and razorblades!
Trying to "big up" welsh chanteuse Duffy as the second coming of Dusty Springfield when she clearly sounds more like Lulu.
Austrians. Rum coves, that's all I'm saying.
Breaking out the vest tops and short trousers at the first sign of the sun getting its hat on.
Anybody under forty who is member of the National Trust or who enjoys visiting old churches. Personally, I would be informing the compilers of the Sex Offenders Register.
The fact that, due to Political Correctness, you can't even refer to "Political Correctness Gone Mad" these days. You have to refer to this very real state of affairs as "Political Correctness with Mental Health Issues".
Asking the server at a down-at-heel pizza shop if you can get a 14" Mexican Meat Feast Special, but with pimento chillis rather than bell peppers.
Bullfinches. Fat-faced fucks.
Pronouncing the tasty foodstuff "tongue" as "tong", like some sort of 1960s kitchen sink drama Lancastrian.

Hats off to Jando for her words of encouragement and, more importantly, contribution towards this months bunfest. Peace!

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Radio Head

Now, I'm sure you have trenchant opinions regarding people who constantly plug their tiresome radio programmes, rightly regarding them as a blight and a menace.

Indulge me if you will for the following snippet, some say excerpt from the other week. Picture the scene: We are approaching the end of a harum-scarum two hours of high octane beat pop and top-notch small talk. However, if we eschew the news broadcast we can still squeeze in one more eight-minute guitar instrumental.

Why not simply precis the latest headlines and plough on with the strumming and drumming fun?

Because of the modern tendency towards flippancy, that's a why. The result, some distasteful "joke funnies" and one chap almost having a seizure.

Be careful out there, folks

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Radio Therapy

Alreet, big feet?

The latest installment in the continuing saga of the Unknown Pleasures chronicles am here!

Le Menu

Handsome Boy Modelling School - Rock 'n' Roll Could Never Hip Hop Like This
Fridge - Comets
Flowered Up - It's On
The Fiery Furnaces - Egyptian Grammar
Boris - Woman On The Screen
We Are The Physics - You Can Do Athletics
Gorky's Zygotic Mynci - Face Like Summer
The Unit Ama - Plastic Bertrand
Wubble-U - Petal
The Albany - So Long/Too Long
Oneida - The Adversary
Jens Lekman - Julie
Stephen Fretwell - William Shatner's Dog
Lambchop - New Cobweb Summer
SL2 - On A Ragga Tip
Kling Klang - Heavydale
Death in Vegas - Aisha
The Moldy Peaches - Anyone Else But You
The Smiths - I Want The One I Can't Have
British Sea Power - Canvey Island
DJ Funk - There's some hoes in this house
Bright Eyes - Weather Reports
The Ramones - Judy's A Punk

All told, some fractured opinions on life and the universe and a rather spicy mix to this week's musical smorgasbord.

Have fun with it!