Monday, February 04, 2008

Ins and Outs: February 2008


The Ins and Outs Committee on tour.


Splundig vur thrigg, petrolheads!

After a much-needed month of R and R, the Ins and Outs Committee have been applying the nose to the grindstone, pulling out fingers and leaving no unturned stones with a vim and a vigour that would melt the flintiest of hearts.

So, Lords and Ladies, raise your glasses, shake your asses, and give it up so sweet for the indispensable guide that distinguishes the Six Nations from the Six Chips, the Superb Owl from the Lame Duck and the Amir Khan from the Amir Can't.

Start your engines, cos Ins and Outs am here!

In

Announcing your arrival at a venue by singing 'Cooo-eee!' shrilly.
Not letting no one talk trash about your man, no matter what he done did.
Asking the harrassed rail ticket seller what price options are available for a one way ticket to Palookaville.
Envying the rough cameraderie displayed by garbage truck operatives.
In polite company, when any cultural phenomenon is being discussing, limiting one's input to simply muttering "It's shite".
Troughing stale sausage rolls when heartily refreshed after a social evening out.
Whenever the situation in Darfur is mentioned on the news, loudly pronouncing it "Daaah-fah!" in the style of Olive from "On the Buses".
Gorgonzola. Good cheese.
Giving a cold, baleful glare to any attempt by checkout girls to engage in cheery tittle-tattle regarding one's purchases.
Singing a cod-reggae version of the "Shake 'n' Vac" song in the shower, occasionally encoring with "Kwik Fit Fitter".
Being called Frank.
Insisting that you aren't lactose intolerant, you just wouldn't want one marrying your daughter.
Ludacris.
Banging your fists into the askminster carpet and shouting 'damn you! damn you all to hell!' because you're not in the Top Friends on Facebook of someone you've never met.
Endeavouring to keep it crunk wherever feasible.
Boastfully claiming to have the pelvic floor muscles of a twenty year-old.
During an interminable dinner-party discussion of the quality of local schools, interjecting "How 'bout that netball team? Some right little crackers there, eh, eh, eh?"
Being shit-hot on double eight.
On seeing a stranger entering your local boozer, turning to your dreadful mate and demanding to know "Who Hell He?", to be met with the reply "Me Not Know!".
Sticking by one's pet theory that all that Sylvia Plath needed to sort her out was a bloody good shagging.


Out

Tennis - a couple of heems who always got picked last at footy nancying a fluffy ball to each other over a 3ft net. What kind of sport is that?
Pronouncing 'Superb' as ' See-oo-purb'.
Pronouncing anything 'Superb' under any circumstances.
Whilst making smalltalk with the cashier at the supermarket checkout, proudly and loudly declare to her "I've had some tremendous wanks in my lifetime you know?"
Searching for the hero inside yourself. Frankly, a waste of time.
Coarse acquaintances harshly and inaccurately characterising your courtly attentions to a local female as "sniffing roond her".
Claiming to be something big in the field of malachite mining.
Any filmic entertainment featuring Vince Vaughan.
Going on and on about your fucking dog.
Over-enthusiastic goal celebrations by goalkeepers. Know your place gloveboy, you're not a real footballer.
Poshos in Jesmond hostelries, braying excitedly about "seriously fit totty" and "crashing the yoghurt truck on her tits". Scarcely the kind of talk to make mummy proud.
Ill-advisedly mentioning that she has "tits that don't quit" on the end of year appraisal form of one of your employees.
Keeping up a running commentary on the various text messages you are sending and receiving. Your friends will be truly grateful.
On the unhappy occasion of a friend's marriage breaking up, steaming in there before she's even got used to sleeping in the middle of the bed.
The Galapagos Islands. Yes, yes, turtles and finches, but try getting a decent full english or finding a pub with Sky Sports.
Being constantly disappointed that real life isn't more like pornography.
Anybody who, even once, refers to orange juice as "OJ".
Extensive and painstaking alehouse conversation regarding the relative merits and demerits of one's Fantasy League Football Dream Team squad.
Blokes over the age of thirty using the terms "bigging up" or "dissing". Catch yerselves on!
Voluptuous? Nope. Curvaceous? Sadly, no. Rubenesque? Nice try, sister. Honey, you is fat! F, a, double t, fat!