Sunday, November 09, 2008
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.
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!"
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.