Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Ins and Outs: December 2009

Christmas: Six chipolatas disappointing

Wassail, chickabidees, wassail!

Christmas has literally come early this year! And, very much like the phenomenon of premature ejaculation, the Ins and Outs Committee will leave you with the same sense of feeling unsatisfied and, at the same time, somehow violated.

Get your stockings out, bite into a tangerine and spill your nuts in front of a roaring fire, at Christmas, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Underlining your claim to have Inca ancestry by wearing a tartan travel rug and bowler hat to the pub.
Claiming to be unsettled by a wholly imagined 'strangeness in the air'.
When in a meeting about information technology strategy and implementation, choosing your moment to parrot "Garbage in, garbage out!", then looking around the table with a shit eating, triumphant grin as though you've just come up with a bon mot of startling originality.
Zaytoven. His beats be tighter than a gnats chuff.
Feigning a lack of interest in "I'm a Celebrity" when in reality you record Dave Berry's trenchant analysis on "This Morning" .
Preparing for an evening tapping fine ass in town by spending an hour meditating in the lotus position repeating the mantra "Hound dog gonna eat that pussy" in a resonant Leonard Cohen voice.
Rustu Recber, rollerblading in Reykjavik with Royksopp.
The Elin Nordegren rescue wood. This year's must-have Xmas gift for the lady golfer.
Getting into a protracted doorstep discussion of Cartesian dualism with the lady who has come to collect the Avon catalogue.
Dabbing one's fevered brow with a handkerchief and informing the boss that you need to go home early, as "all this inky-fingered bean-countery enervates me sorely, old top".
Playing some wistful bluesy harmonica while engaged in a lengthy session on the toilet.
Chorizo. Spicy Spanish splendour.
Confiding to friends that it "churned you right up" watching that poor Katie Price having to eat kangaroo arseholes every night on "Jungley".
Wondering exactly when standing around in the cold eating German food and overpriced olives became synonymous with Christmas.
Being genuinely impressed by someone who is wearing clothing from M &S' Collezione range, being strictly an Autograph/Blue Harbour man yourself.
On matters tinned pie, slowly coming to the conclusion, following years of scepticism, that Fray Bentos is indeed the superior of Prince's.
Assuring the good lady wife that her new Touche Eclat concealer lends her the sultry, sophisticated sheen of a young Candy Darling.
While having a slow afternoon at work, having a bit tamper and changing the company's hold music to "Dead Flag Blues" by Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
Judging a book by its cover. It's a good way to judge a book, particularly as details of the author and title are contained there.
Just before everyone is about to tuck into a groaning plate of turkey, trimmings et al, making a prating little speech about those people in Cumbria with no homes, the starving marvins, all that, effectively ruining the meal for all concerned. You can get a lot more roasties this way!


The ablative absolute in Latin. WTF?
Anybody over the age of eighteen indulging in the consumption of "Monster Munch" corn snacks.
Loving The Range, hating on Bruce Hornsby.
The Limpopo River. To quote Wikipedia, the waters of the Limpopo are sluggish and salty. What a fucking liberty, the salty, sluggish shower of shit!
The appalling prospect of your lass returning from a "pre-Crimbo shopping trip with her friend Debbie", pissed up on chardonnay, maxed-out credit card akimbo, face caked in complimentary makeover cosmetics like a tinsel-bucket-chucking employee of the Billy Smart organisation.
Slacked-jawed gawkers who pitch up to see their town's Christmas lights being turned on. Not for nothing, but they're going to be there for a month, you know?
Claiming to be a big noise on the Allotment Growers Committee. Whoop de whoop!
Following cold drinks having been taken, attempting to get your drinking buddies to join you in massacring the town's Huguenots, but, heeding the counsels of cooler heads, deciding to go for some chips instead.
Spending a small fortune on a conservatory. Why not just sit in your fucking sitting room, yeah?
Whenever grown-ups are attempting to discuss the world economic crisis, desperately attempting to shoehorn your dreadful "Dubai now, pay later" joke funny into the conversation.
Having a keen interest in the industrial history of former coalmining communities. Pictures of chaps with smuts on their faces, massive banners, stories of folk getting suffocated and brass bands. There's a party.
That whole string bag of assorted nuts/effing about with nutcrackers palaver. Get a big bag of KPs. You do the cost-benefit analysis!
Club sandwiches. Fancy putting a chocolate biscuit in a sandwich. The dirty beggars.
Going to the supermarket and getting a trolley with one wheel which seems to have a mind of its own. Honestly, what's that all about?
Claiming that you intend to "catch" a "movie". No, you're going "watching" a "film"!
Abu Hamza and Tony Danza asking Yahoo! Answers about the theme from "Bonanza".
Having run out of small talk after about fifteen seconds, asking people what their favourite letter of the Greek alphabet is.
Getting an advent calendar for your dog.
Any fooling be wishing he was back in Carrickfergus. Frankly, it ain't all that.
Seaweed and ginkgo biloba-munching health food enthusiasts. You not heard of carrots, like?

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Nation's Idiots to have "Nothing to Talk About"

Experts have warned that Britain's idiots could be left with literally nothing to talk about as early as this weekend following the dual demises of TV's Jedward and Jordan. Since the eviction of Dubliner twins John and Edward Grimes and the withdrawal from the jungle of large-breasted void Katie Price, it is feared that drooling, asinine viewers of ITV's "X Factor" and "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here" will simply run out of fatuous booby-babble regarding their favourite shows.

For weeks now, offices and saloon bars across the land have echoed with the empty-headed tittle-tattle of mean-spirited ninnies of both sexes, eagerly discussing how much they hope "them twins" and "that Jordan" meet with a timely comeuppance.

"With the departure of both of their betes-noir in rapid succession, there is a yawning chasm where previously reality-show enthusiasts would project all of their ill-willed negativity towards people younger, richer and more attractive than themselves" commented pop psychologist Dr Carl Rackemann.

Although many fans of the successful karaoke show will find some relief in discussing the less controversial vocal stylings of remaining X-Factor contestants such as The Lass, The Geordie One and One of The Others, it is thought that many erstwhile Jedward-haters will find themselves unable to re-engage with the show and will be reduced to blowing saliva bubbles out of their gaping bovine maws or simply gawping at the wall in front of them through vacant, unseeing eyes.

Elsewhere, with the dramatic departure of permatanned pneumatic renaissance woman Katie Jordans, millions of celebrity-insect-eating-humiliation enthusiasts will be forced to subsist on a diet of non-entities about whom they have no strong feelings making the best of things and rubbing along together in an air of strained, unconvincing camaraderie.

In an attempt to gauge the mood of the country's morons, we asked the first people we found in the street eating Gregg's pasties for their thoughts. "At first, I wanted nothing more in life than for Jordan to get evicted off of 'Jungle-y'" wheezed one tracksuit-clad bloater. "Now though, since she's left it, I just feel a yawning sense of emptiness inside, as though I'm being crushed under an inexorable landslide of monumental, soul-destroying existential angst, yeah?" continued the tattooed shaven ape of indeterminate gender.

However, it wasn't all doom and gloom on the nation's high streets. Shop assistant Jan Tearson, 22, was still managing to remain optimistic. "Oh my God, I was like sooo glad when Jedward got kicked off of X-Factor, right, but then I was like kind of sad, know what I mean? Like I had nothing left in my empty, pathetic existence. But like I'm now so over that, yeah, and I hope that all their hair falls out or they get scabies or they're like in a car crash or something. Yeah, I hope they die in a mangled mess of twisted metal debris, the cunts. They were rubbish".

Monday, November 16, 2009

Peter Kay to Unveil "New Material"

Some old rope, yesterday

The nation's favourite rotund Lancastrian funnyman is set to unleash an avalanche of laughter this winter, with speculation rampant that he has, at long last, been working on some new material. Sources close to the roly-poly comic have refused to confirm the scope or nature of the new material, which is set to be unveiled at next month's Royal Variety Performance, a mere five years after the last confirmed sighting of a piece of fresh comedic gold in the Bolton gag-merchant's live routine. The comic will also announce details of a live stand-up tour on this Friday's "Chris Moyles Tabloid Breasts Appreciation Breakfast Show" on Radio 1.

Comedy fans were understandably delighted at the momentous news, with fans of ultra-short-term northern nostalgia breaking down in the street and weeping tears of slack-jawed mirth at the memory of the comedian's incisive analysis of the quiz show "Bullseye" and his extended riffs on something slightly foolish his mother had said to him when he was eight.

The new material will be eagerly anticipated across the length and breadth of the country, as speculation raged in the nation's workplaces.

"I hope he says some funny things about the programme "3-2-1", with Ted Rogers and Dusty Bin", 47 year old clerical assistant Connie Plank, of Rochdale, told our reporter. "What was that all about, eh?".

However, plasterer Dave David, 24, of Hunslet was hoping for "Mock incredulous pronunciation of some fancy dan foodstuff, possibly as delivered by one of Peter's daft uncles at a family gathering or something. Maybe couscous. Yeah, I'd like to hear Peter Kay repeatedly saying the word "Cous! Cous!" in the style of a bemused older man. He should do that. I would definitely pay as much as 25 quid for a ticket if I thought he would be saying "Cous? Cous?" over and over again. I mean, couscous, what's that all about, eh?"

However, not everyone was as enthusiastic at the prospect of fresh joke funnies from the porridge-skinned end-of-the-pier entertainer. Simon Joyliss, of online comedy site notcomdotcom, feels that the public's tastes may have changed in the time that Kay has been busy re-hashing and reheating his stage act into three separate autobiographies. "With the credit crunch and the worrying rise of extremist political parties, people want edgier comedians who are performing riskier, harder-hitting material than Peter Kay. Comedians like Frankie Boyle, digging up thirty-year old Barbara Streisand jokes in order to insult a 20 year old woman on a topical news quiz, or Jimmy Carr, doing updated Bob Monkhouse gags with a bit of gratuitous swearing thrown in. That's the type of thing today's zeitgeistlisters want."

When asked to confirm the rumours surrounding his much-vaunted new material, Kay was remaining tight-lipped, pausing briefly to inform our reporter "Hey son, I want twenty grand before I talk to youse cunts. I'm only doing Moyles' show so that they give me a prime slot on Children in Need. "

"Garlic! Bread!"

Sunday, November 01, 2009

Ins and Outs: November '09

Oy oy, saveloy! How's it growing?

By which, the Committee means to say "Happy Halloween/Bonfire Night and that!". Truly, this is the most wondrous time of the year, where students, horror film enthusiasts, goths and other miscellaneous wazzocks get to tit around with costumes, make-up and pumpkins and insert fireworks into cat rectums. Marvellous.

Whatever happened to bobbing for apples, eh? That's what we used to do "back in the day". Shite, it was.

Pigeonholing the tiresome nostalgia for the moment, it's time to deploy the countdown that lets you tell the difference between the pumpkin and the blumpkin, the Catherine wheel and the Catherine Tate and the Michael Myers and the Michael McIntyre.

Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and ghoulies, Ins and Outs am here!


On spotting anybody drinking an Irish whiskey/cream-based liqueur, bursting into an impromptu chorus of "All that she wants, is another Bailey's, oh-oh-oh!"
Loving Phats, hating Small.
When entertaining the GLW to anniversary cocktails in the Savoy's Palm Room, sidling up to the pianist, sticking a tenner in his top pocket and asking if he could run through DJ Assault's "Ass and Titties" as it was 'Your Song'.
Having two or three classic, 'signature' items in your wardrobe which, if you layer and accessorise, are timeless.
Telling your grandchildren that you used to play Timpani in the Joe Loss Orchestra, despite the fact that a) this impresses them not one jot and b) it's Some Bull Shit.
Engaging in a lengthy SMS-based correspondence with the girl from the 24 hour garage regarding who is hotter: Rush Limbaugh or Newt Gingrich.
The Superior Colliculus. It's mint!
The old boy on the bus with spectacles whose arms cling to his head a good two inches above the ears.
The banjo-pickin' stylings of Marcy Marxer and Cathy Fink.
Explaining to your boss that the reason that ever so important work thing hasn't been done is because you've been "busier than Lagos airport, yeah?"
Writing frightening verse to a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg, together with a request for a couple of risque Polaroids.
New Jersey. There should be more states named after knitwear purchases.
Killing a marmoset with a teaspoon, boiled egg style. Just to see what it would feel like to kill a tiny, furry man, the size of your hand.
Grimly chronicling on Facebook the time you get up every single morning, as if even one person in this world gave the merest hint of a rat's ass.
Being firmly of the opinion that the preparation and consumption of food by fairly repellent members of the public is not necessarily something that needs to be televised.
Asda Smart Price mushy peas. Yummlicious!
Mercilessly taunting a fellow about still living at home with his parents, only for him to remind you that he's 8 years old.
Getting a fishtank built from bulletproof glass, in case some mope tries to wack your guppies.
Shankill Butchers. Quality cuts of meat at a price that can't be beat!
Harbouring grave concerns that poor Katie Price is about to have her heart broken again. Bear up, our Kate, oh do bear up.


The sudden crop of "Question Time" connoisseurs with their hitherto hidden expertise regarding the format and ethos of the show.
Failing to convince the bloke delivering you a skip that Sartre's theory of existentialism was nothing more than solipsistic pre-reflective consciousness.
Making a big show of repairing pitch marks on the rare occasion you find the green with a full-blooded iron shot.
Committing the textbook novice drinker's error of mixing the grape with the grain with the crystal meth.
Halloween fancy dress fuckology.
Initiating intimacy by cordially inviting your lass to "put yourself on the hot spot".
Jamie T. Jamie S.H.I.T. more like!!!!!!!111!!IEHEISSHIT!!!!!
Blokes taking a "bag for life" to the supermarket. You big jessie.
Low quality shower-head replacements.
Ballroom dancing. No amount of East European prostitutes and actors from Holby City will disguise the fact that it's shit.
DJ Hero. Bloody hell.
Describing the bloke in the local dry cleaners as a "Major League ass hole".
Crafting Hour on QVC. The most banal, godawful tat you will ever see offered for sale.
Becoming embroiled in a vitriolic flame war on Twitter with Noam Chomsky regarding the relative merits of the Pozidrive and the Phillips screwdriver.
Tedious co-workers who insist on delivering a lengthy and voluble review of every single dreadful ITV programme they have watched the previous evening.
That hairy seven foot tall boxer. Looks like a bloody gorilla he does, and that's swearing.
Constructing an eight-foot papier mache model of the head of Nicholas Witchell and fucking it in the ear.
Thinking you are such hot shit just because you buy red onions instead of normal ones.
"Sex on Fire", sixty weeks in the charts. Who the cornholing hell is going out and buying it, sixty weeks later?
Loose Chippings. The gravel whores!

Sunday, October 04, 2009

Ins and Outs: October '09


The IOC, in the place to be. Gonna give it to ya, time to deliver to ya, raw like cocaine straight from Bolivia.

Ahem. Some young shaver must have been interfering with the wireless, putting on Radio 1 Extra's Light Programme. Don't touch that dial.

Word up, canines, it's time to get schooled in what's cool and who's a tool, what's giggity-giggity and who got no diggity. Throw yo set in the air and shake your derriere, because, lords and ladies, Ins and Outs am heeeeerrrrre!


Occasionally stepping out your front door for a few pints and to get some ess on your aitch ell rather than tubby boohooing about which twat on Mock the Week is the unfunniest.
The unlikely scenario of Richard Thompson stumbling on stage to headline the Cambridge Folk Festival and introducing the opening song by telling the audience "this song is about leaving your missus to spend six months banging she-males in Thailand, it's called '25 years stabbing round the same hole'."
Vladivostok. The best vostok of all.
Complimenting your good lady wife on the fetching new mascara she got from Virgin Vie, telling her she's the spitting double of a young Charlie Magri.
Nate Dogg.
In a low tavern, sidling up to "Dogfighting Dave" and asking him if he can get you a Kennel Club registered Borzoi pup.
Any politician proposing the introduction of Camp Gitmo style torture for anyone caught using the word "diary" as a verb.
In the event of unorthodox behaviour by a companion (howking their guts up outside the pub, shanking their golf ball into some trees) bellowing witlessly "There's an app for that!" into their disgruntled face.
The novels of George P. Pelecanos.
Proclaiming that you be "lovin' kaolin but hatin' morphine" before excusing yourself and hotfooting it to the lavatory, clutching your stomach.
Concluding the tale of how you pulled the lass from the kebab shop while voguing in "Dizzle-Dazzles" nitespot by sagely informing your audience that "there ain't no off switch on a fanny magnet".
Spending some Friday night quality time alone with a couple of bottles of fruity Muscadet, a shoal of mussels and an entire sky-plussed series of "Don't Tell the Bride".
(Falsely) claiming that "they call me Masai Mara, 'cos I got so much game".
Polish chicks. G'dang g'dang g'dansk!
Spending a long, lonely sleepless night wondering whether the UK Speed Garage scene will ever return to its former prominence.
When asked by a dreadful mate why the long face, swilling the remnants of your pint around and ruefully remarking that what with the punk ass bitches and suck ass niggaz, you were seriously considering getting out of the game.
When reminded that you are not a player in South Central, rather you work as a minor functionary in the Town Hall's Planning Department, cheering up and getting a round in.
The Alimentary Canal. Very picturesque at this time of year.
Asking the barber to leave it long at the back, "a bit like Günter Netzer, you know?"
Bismuth. An excellent metal.
Fooling people that you're dealing drugs by standing round on a street corner in a beanie hat and an outsized white t-shirt, occasionally shaking hands with passers-by.


Anybody over 14 who plays "Guitar Hero". The "bairns computer game plastic guitar toy" solution of the fool.
Making out that you used to be a well-known face on the Northern Soul scene, back in the day ktf.
On being introduced to a dreadful mate's new bit of stuff, taking a step back, eyeing her up and down as though you're admiring a freshly creosoted new fence, before unwisely opining that "she's got a bit of an arse on her."
Finding that the sight of people eating crisps is growing increasingly repugnant.
Tim Krul and Ja Rule playing pool, looking too cool for school.
Thinking that your relationship with your 13-year-old daughter has improved multifold since she added you as a friend on Facebook before logging on one day and discovering she has "become a fan of rough sex."
The Hunkpapa tribe. They ain't hunky, they is minging.
Eyes too far apart.
Boring the hole off all and sundry about the fabulous bargains you picked up on your trip to Costco.
On the serendipitous occasion of copping off with and being subsequently fellated by, a girl named Denise, texting everyone on your sim card the slightly self-congratulory message "DIRTY DENISE DIRTIED HER KNEES!!!!!"
Claiming to be an authority on Sumerian mythology, when really you wouldn't know sun god Utu from Harry "Choo Choo" Romero.
Pretty much anyone who hasn't taken Holy Orders using the word "bless".
Pusillanimous five-a-side goalkeepers.
The BIG OPINIONS of Messrs Venables, Wright and Redknapp in The Sun.
Men that eat jam. Catch yourself on, Billy Bunters, it's a female preserve.
Gavin from Autoglass. Yow-yow cock-knocker.
Telling people that you like to watch the first few episodes of "X-Factors", because the Hilarious Spectacle of seeing carefully selected footage of lads with bad haircuts, chunky unco-ordinated girl bands, daft old biddies and the mentally ill singing poorly simply Never Gets Old.
Inadvertently putting your foot in it due to suffering IVF/UVF confusion.
Shuddering at the prospect of being ostracised. Imagine having the end of your old chap bitten by an ostrich. Ouch!
Hans Blix and his missing Twix.
Stuck-up, nose-in-the-air beeyatches who think their shit don't stink. Your shit does stink, actually. It stinks of shit!

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

Ins and Outs: September '09

It's September, folks, and that means it's time to go back to school, fool!

If you need to know your A* score from your G-Star Raw, your logarithms from your biorhythms, your protractor from your X-Factor, your National Curriculum from your Bristol Funicular, then walk, don't run, and assemble in the main hall, because
Ins and Outs am here!


Bringing a little East End style gaiety to everyday life by adding the word "Well" to any "Out of Order" signs one encounters.
Always referring to St John's Ambulance staff as "sinjen's ambulance" people.
Ladies darts teams that contain one scrawny wife who looks like Nicky Wire.
Letting out an extended "sheeeeeeeee-it" as an errant four iron shot spirals off towards the shelter of the trees.
Ginger lasses' wispy muff hair
Getting into a furious slanging match with a member of the Big Issue sales team regarding the relative merits of Warp records artistes Plone and Autechre.
Nostalgically remembering the heyday of "happy slapping".
Telling the bloke behind the counter at the Chinese takeaway that, with the prices they charge, they ought to be able to afford a larger telly than the small-assed effort they've got up on a bracket there.
Loving croques madame, hating croques monsieur.
Slowpoke Rodriguez. That brother knew how to chillax to the max.
Burly girls eating Viennese Whirls.
Being unable to go on your best mate's stag weekend due to having spent all your spare cash on Lladro ladies.
Harbouring grave concerns that Katie Price's new kickboxing beau is a Thoroughly Bad Lot.
On the occasion of a pal purchasing a rusting Hyundai Pony, clapping them solemnly on the shoulder and telling them "My friend, that's not just a car, that's a vaginal lodestone, right there!"
When your lass gets back from the spray-tanning parlour, telling her how fabulous she looks - "Like a young J.M. Coetzee".
Being frankly uninterested in anything anyone ever tells you.
Phagocytes. They're skill!
Having a matey drunken conversation with the taxi driver about the wild, albeit invented, times you have had while fishing for chub in Southern Ireland.
Scratching one's head ruefully as things go wrong.
The Brandenburg Gate. A big old gate made of pink and yellow cake? Yum yum!


We Are Klang. You Are Cunts, more like.
KFC Hot Rods. You'd be as well off dipping your knackers in batter, deep-frying them and eating them off a stick.
Slow play. It annoys.
Football clubs conducting multi-million pound deals by desperately titting around with fax machines minutes before the transfer deadline.
The perplexing amount of young fellers wearing t-shirts declaring their love of the Japanese prefecture of Osaka.
People who worship The Stig. Grab what dignity you can scrape off the floor and fuck off to Goa.
Drunkenly informing a bubble-permed blonde girl in "Screwers" brasserie and grill that you "serve it raw and uncut. Respect it or reject it!"
The song of the lark. A din.
Grow-your-own Gretas thinking that putting aside half their garden to attempt to cultivate 1/4 size marrows (not that any cunt likes marrows) will turn them into a latterday Felicity Kendalls, getting them the chap interest to match.
The so-called Championship. They're all shite!
Earthy sorts, obviously new to the internet, who "add" you on Facebook and proceed to send you every hoax security alert and mawkish chain-letter going, then attempt to get you to join highbrow groups such as "I'll level with you, I just don't like blacks" and "Let's go round to a peados house and shit him right up!".
That blonde brummie cow with the teeth,off of the bank advert.
A girlfriend with glaucoma. It's quite serious.
Anyone making unwelcome noises about the advanced state of their Christmas preparations.
Grown adults stuffing their faces with jumbo bags of Haribo jellied sweets.
At the supermarket checkout, some hairy-chinned old OAP beeyatch poking you upside the ass with they trolley. Ho, you need to back the fuck up and wait your turn.
Camping enthusiasts.
Thinking that the fact that you won't be watching "The X-Factor" makes you some sort of latter-day Bernard Levin.
When inscribing greeting cards, fancying that a paucity of imagination can be counterbalanced by a surfeit of exclamation marks. "Have a good one!!!!!!!" indeed.
Being only too willing to launch into a lengthy narrative when asked, purely out of politeness, how the job is going.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Behind the Music #7: Village People - "YMCA"

Hey, music lover, how the jumping jehosophat are you doing?

You may have noticed a not unbecoming gravity in my demeanour today. That's because I have my serious head on. It seems the previous soaraway installment in this series has kicked up a controversial stink. Feathers have been ruffled, umbrage taken and brickbats, erm, batted.

The charge is a serious one: that of homophobia. In cocking a playful snook at REM and REM enthusiasts, it seems as though your correspondent appears to be implying that being gay is A Bad Thing and that the gays are to be shunned and derided.

This is not the case. I love the gays, me, although I wouldn't want one marrying my daughter.

Unless it was a lady gay, or "lesbian", as they call them. Then they could have a civil partnership, no problems there.

Indeed, one of my all-time musical heroes was a gay man. That man was the motorcyclist from The Village People.

The Village People are probably the biggest thing to hit the music world since the demise of The Beatles.

In the 1970s, you could ask any healthy young boy, with red blood coursing through his veins, what he wanted to grow up to be, and without exception the answer would come back "A member of the Village People".

The German sextet were the ultimate embodiment of healthy manhood and right-thinking notions of masculinity. The cowboy, the construction worker, the so-called native american, the cop and the soldier were, of course, all perfectly respectable role models for any young laddie, but the cool guy, the real deal, the big cheese was, of course, the motorbike enthusiast.

Men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him.

As a teenager growing up in the, erm, early 90s when they re-released a lot of their music, I, like most of my peers, wanted to be the mustachioed biker from the VPs, as we called them. His stylish leather cap and impressive curved facial hair gave him a rugged, masculine look that all of us young shavers could only dream of.

Truly, a man with a soup-strainer like that one would have hot chicks hanging off him like fruitbats, we surmised.

Imagine then, our surprise, when it emerged that he was, in fact, a gay man. Surely everyone of a certain age remembers where they were when they first heard that "the one with the tache" out of the Village People was gay? It was our generation's moon landing or JFK assassination.

First it had been George Michael, then it was Stevie G from Boyzone, and now the motorcycle guy from the Peeps, as we were now calling them. Where would it end?

They say there's nowt so queer as folk, but, right then, it seemed that the world of pop was every bit as "queer" as its bearded, jumper-wearing musical counterpart.

We were once again allowed to use the word "queer", incidentally, thanks to the sterling reclamation work of Peter Tatchell and his Outrage brethren.

Props, Pete!

However, this was still a challenging issue for a confused youngster growing up in the North-East of England in the 1990s, which was still very much a repressed, backwards place in those days, full of outmoded attitudes, flagrant prejudice and disapproving attitudes towards pastel-coloured shirts.

In the end, it was the band's music that won the day. Of all the classics in the Village People canon, the classicalest of them all is "YMCA". We all know it, we all love it. Essentially, the song is a paean to the simple pleasures of going to the local YMCA and hanging out with all the boys.

Now, in my younger days, I enjoyed nothing more than doing just that very thing. There was indeed a YMCA in our local town, where, in addition to hanging out with all the boys, one could play Table Tennis and Snooker.

Also, soft drinks, crisps and sweets were available.

While this mid-teen disco doctor wasn't especially keen on riding motorcycles or engaging in healthy homosexual practices with a like-minded consenting partner, I was keen as mustard on ping-pong. Sheeeit, back in the day I was all about the ping AND the pong. Topspin serves, backhand cutspin returns, towering forehand winner, snug-fitting Fred Perry polo shirts, I was down with that shit like a mother-fucker.

It was the Village People's espousal of the beautiful game that removed the scales from my prejudiced eyes and enabled me to see the light and let in the sunshine. If the five remaining members of the band were fine with the fact that one of their group had chosen a different path to them, then why should anybody else worry about it?

Some things, like table tennis and, to a lesser extent, snooker, are important. Other things, like sexual preferences, aren't.

It was the simple poetry of this 1978 disco pop chart-topper that enabled this dimpled rubber paddle-wielding pop kid become a tolerant, enlightened individual who sees that all people are equal and special, regardless as to their sexuality, colour or creed.

As the lads themselves would have put it "You can do whatever you feel".

Peace and love to all y'all, whether you're gay, straight, bisexual, trangender, a pub man, a club man, a jet black guy with a hip hi-fi, a white cool cat in a trilby hat or if you're just into having someone piss on you.

It's all golden.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

Behind the Music #6: REM - "Everybody Hurts"

At the back end of the 1980s, no band rocked the party harder than R.E.M.

Darlings of gossip columnists and paparazzos the world over, the band's four members, Mike Stipe, Peter "truck of fuck" Buck, Bill Berry and The Specky One, were rarely pictured without a Playmate or Baywatch babe on their arm, a cold drink in their hand or some stank on their hang-low.

The hard-rocking Paris, Texas four-piece formed in 1986, initially calling themselves Radical Ecstasy Motherfuckers. A pragmatic change of name later, they released their debut single 1987's "It's the End of the World as we Know it (And shit, yeah?)" to rave reviews and sold-out shows all across America. The band's mixture of feelgood heavy hits and hell-raising antics ensured they were never out of the headlines wherever they went.

The lads followed up their chart-topping breakthrough hit with a string of good-time fratboy anthems that rocked colleges from USC to NYU. Tunes such as "Stand", "Shiny Happy People", "Orange Crush" and "Hats off to Keggers and Boobies!" were the soundtrack to a million pantie raids, toga parties and initiation ceremony buggeries across the nation's campuses.

However, all was not well within the REM camp, as the cycle of constant touring took its toll. Stipe was so off his box he shaved his head, painted his face blue and talked nothing but shit. Buck was arrested for Air Rage after threatening to chop an air hostesses' hands off, The Specky One continued to persevere with a haircut that gave him the look of an embittered lesbian version of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

As with all American morality pieces, the party eventually had to stop. With the arrival of the 1990s, a wind of change was blowing across the land. Gone were the bacchanalian excesses of the eighties, the new decade was all about responsibility, pretending to care about the environment, kissing Clinton ass, getting in touch with one's feelings and generally acting the Dudley Do-Right.

Sensing that this was not the time for songs to "get butt naked and fuck" to, REM set about writing the ultimate song to "sit around wearing round glasses, pretending to be into poetry and that, tubbyboohooing about how you're so sensitive and how come you don't get no chicks" to.

That song was "Everybody Hurts".

With its minor chord piano backing and hypnotic, twinkling guitar line supporting Stipe's plaintive yet reassuring vocals, this is a song that was custom-built to be played to massive crowds of lighter-wielding, doe-eyed festival-going beardie weirdies and perpetual student types. But it is in the words that the song's deep emotional resonance lies.

The lyrics to the band's emo masterpiece are deceptively simple. The casual observer could easily dismiss them as trite, mawkish shite, but they would be wrong to do that. For, while on the surface the lyrics may seem to be a load of self-help jibber-jabber lifted straight from a Samaritans leaflet, there is a message of hope within that has touched the hearts, minds and oxters of a generation of gloomy Guses and moaning Minnies.

"Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on
Everybody hurts. You are not alone"

Truly, if ever a maudlin, whiny rocker ever said a mouthful, then old laughing boy Stipey was that rocker. Because, underneath it all, boiling it down to brass tacks, it's true, isn't it?

Everybody hurts.

Everybody cries.

Everybody who's a LASS or a QUEER, that is.

So, yeah, hold on. Hold on to your "Friends" box set. Hold on to your man-bag, your Chuck Palahaniuk novels, your Hello Kitty nick-nacks, your his 'n' hers bath towels, your war stories from "Glasto" and "Burning Man", your scented joss candles and your fucking REM albums.

Hold on tightly to them, I hope you choke on the bastards.

Your sort make me sick to the bottom of my gorge. Fuck you and goodnight!

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Ins and Aoûts: August '09

G'day cobbers, how 'bout this heat, eh?

As the clashes for Angela's ashes rage in balmy Birmingham, the Ins and Outs Committee have been cracking open a cold shrimp, tossing some tinnies on the barbie, making ill-judged remarks about the "abboes" and generally having a bonzer old time.

Slap on some sunscreen and get down to the creek for a dip into the hotlist that discriminates between didgeridoos and didgeridon'ts, kookaburras and Middlesbroughs, Shane Warnes and Shayne Wards, Ayers Rock and Pam Ayres' cock.

Tickle it you drongos,
Ins and Outs am here!!!!!!!87!!!!!!


Initiating marital relations by waving one's old chap around and singing "It's Howdy Doody time! It's Howdy Doody time!"
Applying for the post of Emeritus Professor of Divinity at Caius College, Cambridge as the skip hire company has made your job part time.
Asking the barber to give you a marcel wave, "...just like dear Nancy Mitford"
Joe Tex. That brother knew his bidness all right.
Giving credit where credit is due. This handy little truism could have saved the world a whole lot of fiscal turmoil, no?
Having a soft spot for Dinamo Zagreb.
Pooh-poohing the veracity of any alleged swine flu sufferer who doesn't go on to die.
40 frankfurters for two quid large? Got to like them numbers.
Post-horseracing aled-up ladies, fascinators akimbo.
Michael Owen's sparkling pre-season form. It really is a pleasure to see the mealy-mouthed, monotone little cunt back among the goals.
Leaving a greeting message on your work voicemail that informs out-of-hours callers that you are "in Miami, bitch!"
Hors d'oeuvre. The best type of d'oeuvre, bar none.
Joba Chamberlain.
Coves meandering around the supermarket holding the basket in the crook of their arm. That ain't a good look.
Twisted Sister playing pissed-up Twister with Mr Mister in a pub in Bicester
Telling rambers by the side of a canal that the blackberries they are picking are legally the property of the crown and as such the thieving cunts may as well be fucking the queen in the arse with a dildo.
Steven Gerrard's brief. He chinned the feller!
Using the word "carambola" as a mild hispanic-type profanity, while knowing it's actually a type of fruit.
Loving diastole, but hating on systole.
Idly wondering whether Andrew Sachs' fruity grand-daughter has been reduced to providing half 'n' halfs for walking-around money yet.


Trying to impress a real dolly bird in Wetherspoon's by claiming to be a kitchen fitter 'of international renown', only to have a dreadful mate sell you down the river by revealing you're nothing but an insurance clerk.
Getting all excited about seeing "Bruno". Just re-watch "Ali G" or "Borat" and imagine him saying it in a "1970s comedy puff" voice.
Making efforts to close legal loopholes. Where do these do-gooders think we're going to keep our legal loops, eh?
Any man using the term "lol". Get a bloody grip.
Bell-end-nosed big screen unfunnyman Owen Wilson.
Re-using a plate and getting toast crumbs on the untoasted bread of one's new sandwich.
Scalene triangles. They rubbish.
Acting in a shifty manner when the Betterware catalogue man calls, as though you had a flighty camisole-clad lady hiding in your broom cupboard.
Shitake mushrooms. There's a clue in the name, mate.
Old, fat childless twats who ride Harley Davidsons round Suffolk.
Strange folk who write odd comments in library books.
Eating pineapple rings when you haven't had gammon for your tea.
Casting aspersions. Although, in fairness, there is little else one can do with an aspersion.
Shooting a chap through his dome simply for wearing a kerchief of the wrong colour.
The Carthaginians. Elephant-riding shitbirds.
Damon Runyon and Vashti Bunyon, chopping onions and listening to Todd Rundgren.
Asking the barber to see if he can give you the look of "a slightly posher Tinchy Stryder".
Demigods. You ain't no half a god, you chump. That was just a lie your slut of a mother told you.
On the whiteboard at work, enumerating the day's key objectives as: "1. Get my drink on. 2. Get my smoke on. 3. Go home wit', something to poke on."

Monday, July 27, 2009

Behind the Music #5

Greetings, pop-pickers.

Since beginning this series of essays, to give a little insight and background detail in an attempt to broaden and deepen the reader's listening pleasures, there have been several naysayers, scrimshankers and quibblers getting up in my ass and generally messin' with my shit.

In essence, their beef is this: Where is the love, dawg?

Enough with the negativity, can't you bring us some news we can use? Turn us on to some of the good stuff, instead of hatin' on well-meaning acoustic guitar-toting singer-songwriters who really meant no harm.

Okay then, bitches, get your laughing holes round this bad boy. A tale of tragedy and despair. A tune to which you will try in vain to stop your toe tapping. An ultra-modern melding of town and country, of America and Europe, of beer and tabs.

That song is, of course "Cotton Eye Joe" by Rednex.

If history is to remember the year 1994 for anything, it will be as the year Swedish country-popsters Rednex took over the world with their banjo-spangled dancefloor chart-topper. From Britain to Australia to America to Latvia, we all knew it, we all loved it.

There were literally hundreds of country-based euro-dance records released in the early 1990s, including The Grid's "Swamp Thing", 2 Cowboys' "Everybody Gonfi-Gon" and, erm, many, many more. None, however, had the emotional resonance and tear-jerking gravitas of "Cotton Eye Joe".

The narrator tells us how his life and romantic ambitions have been thwarted by the titular anti-hero. Our troubled storyteller has been doomed to eternal solitude by the dastardly Cotton Eye Joe. Were it not for his malign influence, our man tells us, he would have been married "a long time ago".

"He came to town like a mid-winter storm,
riding through the fields so handsome and strong.
His eyes was his tools and his smile was his gun
But all he had come for was having some fun"

The songwriter, Sven Rednek, displays extreme lyrical dexterity here. The character sketch of Joe is simply and economically drawn, yet the simile "his smile was his gun" hints at the malevolence beneath the surface.

It got worse.

"He brought disaster wherever he went
The hearts of the girls was to Hell, broken, sent
They all ran away so nobody would know
and left only men 'cos of Cotton-Eye Joe"

Say it ain't so, Joe. Disaster! Girls going to Hell! Our boy Sven getting no stank on his hang-low!

That ain't right.

The mysterious Joe, and his cotton-based eyes, moved on, his origin and his intended destination shrouded in secrecy now and for ever more.

"Where did you come from? Where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe?"

One fears we shall never know...

Monday, July 13, 2009

Behind the Music #4: Del Amitri - "Nothing Ever Happens"

It's 1990, the dawning of the last decade of the second millennium. As humankind hurtles blissfully towards a future world of spacesuits and jetpacks, computerised collective consciousness and BSB squarials, music was splintering and expanding into ever more diverse, spaced-out diaspora.

From acid house to acid jazz, from gabba to Shabba and right back to Abba, 1990 was a time of dizzying variety and invention.

However, in Scotland they said "Fuck that shit, it's plodding guitar-based balladry or nothing for us, the noo!"

Nobody did plodding like Del Amitri. Del Amitri, real name Derek Amitri, is a Glasgow-born singer-songwriter who was born in 1964 at the age of 42, at which he has remained ever since. In 1990 our Derek was about to release his meisterwerk, his tour de force, his piece de ass. 1990 was the year that "Nothing Ever Happens" happened.

While we all know the song, we all love the song, it seems that relatively few of us bought the record. The single peaked in the UK charts at number 11, a disappointing placing for a song that all serious music historians classify as one of the most important "Dreary Scotch Rock Ballads of the Early 1990s".

The construction of the song is deceptively simple. Against an insistent, monotonous guitar line the singer recites a litany of dull events going on in the world, given added piquancy by the fact that they are delivered a boring balladeer voice, before delivering the killer-punch knockout blow of a chorus that tells us that "Nothing ever happens".

The juxtaposition of tedious content with a message that is at once hackneyed and tiresome is stunning in its effectiveness.

Take this little lyrical nugget, as our Decka casts a wistful eye over the humdrum lives of the Little People who aren't even in a band.

"Gentlemen time please, you know we can't serve anymore
Now the traffic lights change to stop, when there's nothing to go
And by five o'clock everything's dead
And every third car is a cab
And ignorant people sleep in their beds
Like the doped white mice in the college lab"

Ah, the poor, foolish wage slaves, going to work like brainwashed, unthinking zombies. If only they knew how to strum a guitar and churn out third-rate teenage poetry, they'd see what was REALLY going on in our world.

Later on our latter-day Woody Guthrie rails against those enemies of progress; Consumerism, Capitalism and, erm, people who write to "Points of View".

"Bill hoardings advertise products that nobody needs
While angry from Manchester writes to complain about
All the repeats on T.V.
And computer terminals report some gains
On the values of copper and tin
While American businessmen snap up Van Goghs
For the price of a hospital wing."

Oh, the humanity! Those American Businessmen, eh? Coming over here and buying up all the Van Goghs instead of funding the British national health service.

Hang your cigar-chomping heads in shame, the lot of you!

As a casual parting shot, the whole problem of bigotry and racial intolerance is summarily dealt with by laughing boy, who opines:

"Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
They'll burn down the synagogues at six o'clock
And we'll all go along like before."

Man alive, this hairy-faced cock-knocker has some brass neck, no? As if his lumbering little smugfest of a song wasn't far enough up itself, he's throwing in portentous allusions to the holocaust now, just to show what a deep-thinkin' man he is.

Fuck you, Derek, and fuck your song. Fuck it in the ass.

And that's swearing.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Behind the Music #3: Squeeze - "Up the Junction"

Cockney pub-rockers Squeeze: Everybody knows them, everybody loves them. From whey-faced girly-voiced smack enthusiast Glenn Tilbrook to oleaginous, twitching boogie-woogie keyboard wizard Jools Holland, this was, and indeed is, a band with star quality coursing through their veins where you or I have to make do with blood.

"Up the Junction", a number 2 chart-topper from 1979 is the band's signature anthem. The song takes its title from the 1960s book/play/film of the same name. A winning mix of mawkish self-pity and cloying sentimentality has seen the song become a firm favourite among Squeeze fans and normal people alike.

The lyrics tell of a doomed love affair between a drunken waster and, let us not be coy here, a harlot, some say roundheels, who hails from the salubrious Clapham area in South London. Our hero tells us of the initial stages of this romance:

"Out on a windy common, that night I've not forgotten.
When she dealt out the rations, with some or other passions.
I said 'you are a lady', 'Perhaps', she said, 'I may be'."

Firstly, while I'm no Emily Post, I would dispute that a young woman who is giving up the sweet, sweet poontang on a windy common can rightly have any claim to being a lady. She's a whore, fellows, a WHORE, I tell you.

Secondly, young Chris Difford, the lyricist here, is really reaching to accommodate these rhymes, no? "When she dealt out the rations, with some or other passions"?

Bitch, pur-leez! Some or other passions? That shit is weak.

Moving the story on, the dewy-eyed youngsters set up home in an idyllic lovenest.

"We moved into a basement, with thoughts of our engagement.
We stayed in by the telly, although the room was smelly."

Turning a blind eye for the moment to the rather unorthodox basement/engagement rhyming scheme, it sounds rather blissful, doesn't it? Old Dog's mess and his slut, stopping in their stinking basement gawping at the gogglebox instead of putting the hoover round and maybe getting busy with the Febreze or the Airwick.

Still, our hero lands himself a job, working with Stanley, eleven hour shifts, a nice little earner, no doubt. Does his lass follow suit, maybe bump up their income so they can move somewhere a bit nicer, possibly?

Does she heck as like. She reverts to the only skill she's ever shown, namely getting schtupped. She gets herself pregnant.

"She said she'd seen a doctor and nothing now could stop her."

It is probably at this point where our narrator was cursing the tactical error in shacking up in a basement. One can't "accidentally" push one's knocked up girlfriend down the stairs in a basement, can one? His lass was dead right, nothing now could stop her. Young feller-me-lad, doing the square thing by our Nell, kept grafting away, saving the princely sum of a tenner a week throughout the winter, a nice little nest-egg for when the baby arrives, you'd have thought.

Not so, apparently.

"When the time was ready, we had to sell the telly.
Late evenings by the fire, with little kicks inside her."

It isn't clear why the television had to go. They had, after all, been paying the rent and the bills and saving a tenner a week with just the one income, which would be remaining unchanged. Maybe it was just a whim of the hormonally volatile distaff half, who knows?

We are slammed immediately into the here and the now with the next development.

"This morning at 4.50, I took her rather nifty
Down to an incubator, where thirty minutes later
She gave birth to a daughter, within a year a walker"

Again, a couple of queries. One, did you really bring her to an incubator? Did you bollocks, you took her to the maternity ward. You were telling fibs to make it rhyme, weren't you? Bad boy.

Two, within a year a walker? What day is this? Who's the president? The poor bairn was only born this morning, old horse. Talk sense, won't you?

Actually, he's completely lost the plot, timeline-wise, now.

"Now she's two years older, her mother's with a soldier
She left me when my drinking, became a proper stinging"

Told you the girl was a roundheels. Frankly, the excuse about his drinking becoming a proper stinging is not only nonsense but it doesn't even rhyme. She was just desperate for a new bone to gnaw on, so to speak. Muggins is left to rue his complicity in the break up and remember happier times.

"The devil came and took me, from bar to street to bookie
No more nights by the telly, no more nights nappies smelling"

It would seem our friend has been hitting the bottle like it owes him money. He's forgotten that he sold his television set and he's getting nostalgic for the delicate aroma of babyshit-stinking nappies. His friends would do well to advise him to take more water with it.

True to form, our protagonist signs off with a dollop of negativity and another godawful attempt at a rhyme.

"And so it's my assumption, I'm really up the junction".

There we are, then. "Up the Junction" - a heartfelt perfect pop ballad or some ham-fisted melodramatic bad teen poetry? The choice, dear reader, is yours...

But it's the second one. That's the right answer.


Saturday, July 04, 2009

Ins and Outs: July '09

Howzat! It's Wimbledon fortnight, what?

Staggering, bleary-eyed, out of the corporate hospitality areas, it is the pleasure of the Ins and Outs Committee to "serve" up another monthly helping of the guide that tells you what's ace and what's a disgrace and differentiates your overhead smash from your big load of gash. Get yourself some new balls, because Ins and Outs am here!!!!!!11!!!!!OHISAY!!!!!


When your dreadful mates are debating the relative claims of Messi, Ronaldo and Kaka to the title of best footballer in the world, stubbornly insisting that the true owner of the mantle is, in fact, Bayern Munchen and Germany midfield schemer Bastien Schweinsteiger.
Elena Baltacha. Not very good, but, at least she is descended from one of the Three Wise Men.
Litre bottles of ice-cold Mahou beer.
When responding in the affirmative to any question, doing so with an emphatic "Yes, Sensei!"
Boring the arse off everyone, gibbering on about Spotify.
Claiming that Eggsy from Goldie Lookin' Chain is the son of Viv Stanshall.
Lady Gaga.
Eating nothing but fruit. Gives you a healthy gleam and an excuse for sitting down while ‘going toilet.’
Transformers II. A masterpiece in the same way a chimp shitting the dismembered corpse of Steve Brookstein out of its rancid arse would be a ‘masterpiece’. (This is actually the basis of Simon Cowell’s new TV channel, fact fans.)
Warming to your task.
When attending catholic mass and on instruction from the priest to show a sign of peace to your neighbour, turning around, grabbing the generous hooters of the fruity sort behind you and whispering "You don't get many of them to the pound these days".
At work, answering the phone with an exuberant "Wasssaaap!"
Affecting a mode of dress and personal styling that is partly Rocket from the Crypt, partly Cliff Lazarenko.
Ratting out your crew to the Feds just because you like staying in motels.
On being asked how it's going, shrugging and informing them that "Big shit poppin', little shit stoppin'".
Drunken middle-aged women. I love them all, I love them crazily.
Talking to a bodybuilder in the pub, enquiring if his training regime is linked to the Nietzschean concept of "will to power" only to be told that it's more closely associated with the concept of "being able to knock fuckers out".
V.V.S Laxman, Jeremy Paxman and a mad axeman, defrauding the tax man.
Having a crazy, foolish pipe dream of one day visiting Godalming and going for tea and scones and that.
Awaking, sweating, from a nightmare wherein one is trapped in a room of wall-sized video screens showing a continuous loop of Eamonn Dunphy's leering face as he achieves orgasm, to a soundtrack of B*Witched's "C'est la Vie".


Being unable to negotiate a busy shopping thoroughfare without being implored by mendicants to contribute towards their Special Brew fighting fund.
Tiresome Jacko-paedo joke funny text pests.
Prior to a much-anticipated night out, telling one's chums that they should wear their wellington boots, as the place will be "knee-deep in clunge".
Log jams. Blackcurrant is much nicer.
The demise of Setanta. Serves them right for showing off on the gee-tar.
Sue Barker’s wardrobe allowance. More ‘Ming’ than ‘Bling’.
Bluffin' with your muffin.
Issuing "come and get me" pleas.
Shameful BBC kow-towing to political correctness meaning they can no longer show Mr Benn walking down Festive Road in his bowler hat in case it offends the Catholics.
Claiming to have an old Triumph Stag that you are in the process of restoring.
Giving up a bases-loaded walk.
The Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands. Cheer up, you miserable cow.
Becoming embroiled in a splenetic confrontation with an ice cream man following a disagreement regarding whether Keren Woodward or Sara Dallin was the best one in Bananarama.
Skype. Use a proper phone you tightwad.
Kasabian and Kasabian enthusiasts.
Temporarily forgetting that you aren't a rock star and appending a request for "half a dozen bottles of Jack Daniels, forty-eight bottles of Stella, two bowls of blue M&Ms, a selection of fresh fruit and a couple of whores" to your monthly stationery requisition form at work.
Cardamom pods. Fucking wankers.
These so-called Arabian states with their mad mullahs. Fancy being told what to do by a yoghurt!
Waking up with a mouth like a foxes oxter after supping not wisely but too well on the sweet, sweet Tiger beer.
Making the slightly insensitive and wholly inaccurate claim that you "be getting more pussy than Molly Sugden".

Monday, June 29, 2009

Behind the Music #2: Black Sabbath - "Iron Man"

If there's one thing your average rocker hates, it's wasting time. So, whenever John Q. Rockstar has been forced to read a book, either by stentorian schoolmasters or in order to impress a lass, the least he can do is to lift the plot wholesale and make it into a song.

The "novel plot as lyrics" tradition is a long and glorious one that includes The Cure's "Killing an Arab" (Camus' "The Outsider), The Manics "Patrick Bateman" (American Psycho) and 2 Live Crew's "Get me Some Muthafucking Madeleines, Ho" (Proust's "In Search of Lost Time"). However, there is one such song that stands alone, the big daddy, the big cheese, the big bopper of the genre.

The song is "Iron Man" by Black Country bat-munchers Black Sabbath. Ozzie, Geezer, Ricky Villa and aal the lads have taken elements of "The Iron Man", Ted Hughes' story of an alienated ferrous fellow, added a dash of bairn's comic superhero "Iron Man" and just enough original ideas to avoid a troublesome lawsuit and created a "heavy metal" classic.

We all know it, we all love it. But pay close attention, if you will, for one moment to certain key lyrics from said song.

"Heavy boots of lead
fills his victims full of dread
Running as fast as they can
Iron Man lives again!"

Heavy boots of lead, sir? Doesn't being constructed from iron make you feel tough and intimidating enough? Surely the potential victims of an iron man would be filled with plenty of dread even if he was barefoot. Why not go the whole hog and don the weighty bomber jacket of titanium and the hefty knuckledusters of brass? A person of a more psychoanalytical bent than I might suggest that old Iron Man is over-compensating for some other form of inadequacy, with his big, intimidating metal boots.

Could it be that the big, aggressive avenging man-machine can't get his tiny little metal winky up? Iron Man? Soft Cock, more like!

"Nobody wants him
They just turn their heads"

A feeling not unfamiliar to anyone who has seen the lights come on at Buffalo Joe's or similar late night gin parlour, having singularly failed to get a grip of anyone. One can understand Iron Man's chagrin at his predicament. However, you, like I, would not resort to the heavy lead boot course of action. Possibly you would roll your eyes and mutter uncomplimentary remarks regarding the opposite sex, before adjourning to the kebab shop.

Any passer-by observing your demeanour and pondering "Is he alive or dead? Has he thoughts within his head?" would probably conclude that yes, he is alive and the thoughts within his head seem to be focused mainly on the prospect of extra onions and chilli sauce, and maybe one off the wrist when he gets home. Not a notion of "vengeance from the grave" nor the merest hint of killing the people he once saved.

"Now the time is here
for Iron Man to spread fear
Vengeance from the grave
Kills the people he once saved"

Clearly, Iron Man feels he has a grievance against humanity. He did, after all, travel through time to try to save mankind, and with what reward? To be turned to steel (in a great magnetic field, no less) and generally ignored, left to rust in a corner, unwanted and unloved. A situation guaranteed to cause the iron to enter the soul, yes?

However, what it boils down to is this: Iron Man, we accept we were wrong to neglect you. You made great sacrifices on our behalf and it was remiss of us treat you so badly. But come on now, play the game, there's a good chap. Nobody deserves a right shoeing from someone with iron legs and feet clad in heavy leaden

That's just nasty.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Behind the Music #1: Deacon Blue - "Dignity"

A new regular feature on the 'blog, we take you beyond the surface of popular music chart-toppers and let you in on what's really shaking.

Deacon Blue, what? Back in the eighties we all knew them, we all loved them, with their scotch blue-eyed soul anthems and that. There was gap-toothed crooner Ricky Ross, the cute little woman and, erm, some other fellers who stood at the back.

What times to be alive.

Their masterpiece, the crowning jewel in their bejewelled crown is of course their 1987 flop, 1988 hit and 1994 so-so selling single "Dignity". In this song, singer Ross tells us about a Glaswegian Council worker who "harbours" a dream of one day owning a dinghy, which he intends to call "Dignity". Said purchase is apparently to be funded by "the money in his kitty".

The "ship called Dignity" this fellow intends to buy is often seen as representing a metaphor for the dignity of manual labour and the song is seen as a rallying cry of the working class who, in 1987, were getting rather the thin end of things, courtesy of Mrs Thatcher's Conservative Party.

Now this is all will and grace, but to this reporter the whole story smells a bit fishy. For a start, who dreams about buying a fucking dinghy? No-one, that's who.

Secondly, dinghies aren't that expensive to buy anyway, just supposing this bluff, contrary Council employee did have such a dream.
This website has a nice one for under four hundred quid. Twenty years ago they'd have been even cheaper. Now, if this grumpy old bugger, in a forty year working career hadn't been able to scrape together, let us say, two hundred quid, then my monkey's uncle is a Dutchman.

Shit or get off the pot, Jock. Go buy your dinghy if you're going to.

However, since the point remains that nobody dreams of owning a dinghy, the possibility exists that the real-life Waste Management professional was, in the Caledonian manner, ripping the pish out of the eager-eyed, gap-toothed faux-soul singer. Spinning him a yarn, if you will.

One imagines him getting a good old laugh every time the song is played on the radio, which in Scotland is probably about three times a day. You can picture Big Jock and his little mate Wee Tam, sitting around smoking a relaxing Regal and listening to the radio, on company time of course, and on comes Ricky and the gang.

BJ: Och, it's mah pal Ricky and his wee song aboot the dinghy, the noo!
WT: Yon daft laddie with the front teeth that werenie getting oan with each other?
BJ: Aye, that fucking wee radge. Ah got him guid and proper there, eh boy? Swallowed the bloody lot, he did, the floppy-haired young loon. Ship called dignity? In a bonobo's bawbag, more like!
WT: Good one, big man? Shall we be shootin' up this bonny wee batch of skag the noo?

And so the day wears on.

Ladies and gentlemen, I commend to you "Ship Called Dignity" by The Deacon Blues. God bless her and all who sail in her.

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Ins and Outs: June '09

Hey you! Martial arts fan. Do you know your Kim Kashardian from your him from Kasabian? Can you successfully tell your Claire Grogan from your Piers Morgan? Your Andres Iniesta from your back issues of "Fiesta"?

In your hole you can.

You struggle to end up facing the right way on the toilet and well you know it. Fortunately, the Committee of the nitty-gritty that look pretty in the city will divert you from the Way of the Fool and put you squarely on the Road to Wellville.

L and G, Ins and Outs am here!


Spending a sunny Sunday afternoon indoors, watching YouTube clips of "The Hit Man and Her".
Feeling optimistic that the weather may soon be sufficiently temperate to allow one to eschew the winceyette nightclothes.
Making numerous references to "cojones", pronouncing it "coe-jones" rather than the more orthodox "coe-ho-nays".
Armand Van Helden.
Including several dubious claims in your business promotional literature, notably that your products are "hotter than a set of twin babies, in the back of a Mercedes, when the temperature's up in the mid-80s".
Five on the top, three on the back and sides.
Describing your state of pre-match tension as feeling "like a cat shitting hot tin bricks".
In the pub after five-a-side, assuring your companion that "dear boy, you marshaled the back line like a young Klaus Augenthaler".
Colonel Mike Bumgarner.
Golfing while wearing shorts. Yes, one may look like Don Estelle, but the absence of bawbag stickiness is a positive boon.
Feeling chipper all day after being told by a colleague that your new tie makes you look a little like the Rt Hon Michael Ancram.
Between you and your beloved, always coyly referring to anal sex as "the road less travelled".
Intimating that a dreadful mate's anecdote is failing to grip by humming a few bars of "Go tell it on the mountain" under one's breath, gradually increasing the volume until their final lame payoff is met with an Otis Redding-style roar.
Eating plenty of fish.
Listening to Pink Floyd's "Ummagumma" in the back of a Hummer with a plumber and a drummer.
Addressing tradesmen and shop proprietors as "My good man".
On being asked by one of your younger acquaintances if you like Holly Oakes, smilingly informing them that you've never met the lass.
Being laid low by hubris.
Always rooting for the Crimson Haybaler on "Wacky Races". That Peter Perfect can stick his cock'n'balls-shaped car where the sun don't shine.
The Western Lowland Gorilla, or to use the scientific name Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla.


Misguided schmucks suffering from Betty Wright/Jean Knight confusion.
Putting out piss and calling it shit.
Being unable to decide who is the better Ranks; Cutty or Shabba.
Forever going on about your impending Hoseasons boating holiday in Belgium.
Petr Cech's sweaty neck. It's that daft hat.
Anybody who imagines they are being amusing by using the word "simples".
The Phil Brown Karaoke Roadshow.
Loafers, Harry Ramps and assorted methylated spirit enthusiasts, taking up bench space required by real people.
Attempting to engage the fellow who has come to collect your electoral form in a debate over the relative merits of French and English mustard, but suspecting he's not really arsed.
Whoopi Goldberg's sense of trepidation as Patrick Swayze's health worsens.
"Robbo" Robson's 'blog on the BBC website. Now, the Committee know low-quality bloggage like the back of their collective hand, but that cornhole takes the biscuit. And not a very good biscuit. A Lidl own-brand Rich Tea, maybe. That's been dipped in dog shit.
Scratching a thoughtful groin while half-heartedly wondering if they still make "Pop Tarts".
Regretfully informing a close friend that you won't be able to make the christening of their first-born after all, as you have just taken delivery of "Weapons of Ass Destruction 3" on Blu-Ray and, consequently, won't be venturing out much this month.
Swine Flu. Shite Flu, more like!
Impertinent journalists, sticking their neb into the financial affairs of hard-working public servants, who do a marvellous job.
Meeting the vicar in the street and replying, perhaps a little too candidly, to his request as to your well-being "Shee-it, Reverend. I'm sweating like a fat dog's balls, here."
That whole Susan Boyle shiznit. Ugly chicks singing show tunes? Two words, my friend: Amateur Dramatics. Two more: Drag Artistes.
Being on increasingly strong medication "for your nerves" as a direct result of the break-up of Peter and Katie's marriage.
Parachute payments. The greedy sods are claiming for parachutes as well, are they? (Basil Brush writes: "Boom boom!")
Any use of the word "holibobs" when referring to one's vacation plans.

Friday, May 01, 2009

Ins and Outs: May '09

Greetings, fellow revolutionaries.

Today marks the first of May, the traditional day to celebrate our eternal struggle against the capitalist oppressors and their bourgeoisie running dogs.

The Committee of Investigation into Matters Counter-Revolutionary and Unorthodox is pleased to publish its latest bulletin that will enable hard-working bolshevik families to delineate between the Trotsky and the Notsky, the Putin and the Putain, the SS-20 and the Matchbox 20.

Let us paint our collective farms red, drink potato vodka until we go blind and never mind the balalaikas,
because Ins and Outs am here!!!!!!11!!!CCCP!!!!


Conducting all of one's romantic endeavours with the breezy insouciance of a young Barry Bulsara.
After a dreadful mate has finished a lengthy and tedious story about a disagreement with the council regarding the rateable value of his house, putting down your pint, gripping his elbow and saying "I'd take a bullet for you, buddy. Just say the word."
Entering DFS, summoning a furniture professional and attempting to negotiate the purchase of "a big orange settee, like the one on 'The Wire'".
Holding a cigarette in an effeminate, affected manner.
Getting into a furious shouting match with the bloke mending your exhaust in Kwik Fit over whether John Stuart Mill or Henry Havelock Ellis was the original father of eugenics.
Explaining one's absence from the local pub by claiming that you have become a Pentecostal Evangelist.
Lime and Orange Tic Tacs. Ideal for Glaswegians to share.
The Sarah Sze show at the Baltic. It's cush!
No matter how inappropriate the circumstances, whenever one is introduced to a woman breathily intoning "A bee-yootiful name for a bee-yootiful lady" a la Julio Iglesias.
Loving Gog, hating on Magog.
Convincing your hipster acquaintances that dubstep hotshot Benga is the American actor Ben Gazzara recording under a pseudonym.
Expressing agreement by exclaiming "I can dig it!" in the manner of a 1960s American father.
Spending a super Bank Holiday Monday with a chum, riding the Saltburn Tramway and drinking ginger beer.
Spending forty days and forty nights in solitude, looking deep within one's soul, yet still being unable to decide which would be the more amusing t-shirt to buy: "Boobies make me smile" or "Feck: Irish Connection".
Cobalt Chloride. I'll tell you what, I love that shade of blue.
When it aal kicks off in the pub, cowering in the corner, mopping a fevered brow with a handkerchief, complaining that "this is like being in some frightful Danny Dyer movie".
Eschewing a trip to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate the birthday of a close friend in favour of a night in watching a week's worth of Sky-plussed "Katie and Peter - the next chapter: Stateside".
Pooh-poohing all this politically-correct Inuit nonsense. They're eskimos, they live in igloos, they catch fish out of holes in the ice and they talk like Little Plum out of The Beano. Any fool could tell you that.
Asking a skinhead in the street if his life is just the same as Russell Crowe's in Romper Stomper and if not, why not?
Starting a Facebook Group called My First Bang, naming and shaming the lass that just laid there like a corpse while you stabbed around in vain looking for the landing pad.


Getting your arsehole bleached as "you don't like the way that it looks".
Mooching around Greenwoods, looking for a shirt that is "the type of thing Nick Cave might wear".
Spending an evening in various pubs recounting Great Bowel Movements I Have Known.
Blokey rock stars who look like they go drinking with Johnny Vegas.
Careering towards the poorhouse due to the exorbitant cost of inkjet printer ink.
Coprolites. That shit is old, dude.
Opining that the corpulent fellow eagerly troughing a cheese'n'onion slice at the bus stop is probably not a John Smedley knitwear connoisseur.
Attempting to impress the girl selling shots in "Liquid / Envy" by claiming that you used to be a competition standard Kendo practitioner back in the day.
Pot Noodles!!! In doner kebab flavour!!!! Just fuck off.
Getting laid less often than the pitch at Wembley.
Attempting to pay for one's social club beverage by means of a spirited rendition of "The Girl from Ipanema" rather than the £1.21 requested.
Returning from a weekend grief tourism break complaining that Auschwitz is getting very touristy these days, although, thankfully, Treblinka still retains its palpable air of menace and deeply affecting emotional resonance.
Attending All Tomorrow's Parties with your lass, only to fall out with her after she spent all of Friday night flirting with the drummer out of The Jesus Lizard and Saturday night getting spitroasted off of two of Antipop Consortium.
Realizing that the most pleasure you get from your nether regions these days is having a good scratch of them on the sofa.
Those peculiar woollen "jockey style" hats that the young people insist on wearing, even indoors.
Slack-jawed shaven apes, loudly debating the merits and demerits of various performance sports cars while riding the bus home from work.
Foxes. Get out my bins, you furry ginger bollix!
Claiming to be "passionate" about food. That's "greedy" then.
Twenty-five years on, still harbouring suspicions that Ecaterina Szabo was robbed and that queer goings-on led to Mary Lou Retton winning the gold.
Being pleased and surprised that the hospital are going to give you a trophy on account of your muscles, only to have it explained that you are suffering from muscular atrophy.

"I make that booze o'clock, chaps!"

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Easter Rantin' #2 - Old is the New Young

Old People, living high on the hog, courtesy of your and my tax dollars.

As a wee small boy, I occasionally thought it was big and clever to cheek my elders. Not so much my parents and their generation, but Old People. However, it was soon brought to my attention, via a combined course of Good Hidings and school history lessons, that our senior citizens deserved our respect.

This was the generation that had fought in one, maybe two World Wars. Like on the telly and that. They defeated National Socialism, ended the holocaust and endured their lasses getting drilled left, right and centre by candybar-toting American servicemen.

Let us Never Forget the Sacrifices They Made.

That type of thing. Thus it went along, a generation of slackers grew up with a definite reverence for those who gave so much that we would be free. Quite right too.

However, it now strikes me that we are approaching the year 2010, where there will be Old Aged Pensioners who were born after the Second World War. This is quite a different kettle of OAP fish.

This is the generation that grew up in an era of free love, LSD, stack heels and mod/rocker violence. A generation that titted around in the seventies with their big hair, outsized collars and garish wallpaper. A generation that voted Thatcher and gleefully butchered the industries of mass employment while selling this country's infrastructure, utility supplies, water supplies, building societies, council houses, anything that wasn't tied down in Stock Market flotations for a few greasy quid to spend on Phil Collins CDs.

Quite frankly, this is a generation that can Fuck Right Off. And that's swearing.

Yet these grasping grannies and grandpas are sucking ever more cold hard cash from the nation's exhausted, dry teats.

They're getting free bus travel anywhere in the country, free swimming, free cash to spend on heating their houses in the winter.

I repeat, this is a generation that has had money flowing like water. If these greedy old bollixes haven't scraped up enough money over the years to see them alright, then frankly, fuck 'em.

These silver-haired shitehawks spend their days buying scratchcards and writing angry missives to their newspaper of choice about "how savers are the real victims of this recession".

Yes, it's all about the savers, apparently. Forget the poor people with bairns to feed who find that the price of basic foodstuffs has doubled. Put the plight of people losing their jobs and their homes to one side, here is the real tragedy. The poor savers, with their bungalow already paid off and a hundred grand in the bank, ARE ONLY EARNING 1 PER CENT ON THEIR SAVINGS!!! Sort it out Gordon Browns, these ould knackers with their spare capital doing nothing aren't earning enough free money from it. Cancel that overseas aid, we've got a humanitarian disaster on the home front.

Of course, with the way demographics are, the government can't afford to alienate these people, their votes are too important. However, I'm not the government and I can well afford to alienate them.

Firstly, fuck off until half-nine with your bus pass. Some of us have to get to work. That copy of The Metro is for people interest in Twitter and Lindsey Lohan and that, so gertcha! And you can go and tickle if you think you're getting my seat when it's busy. Have a lie-in, why don't you?

Secondly, stop fucking whingeing about your pension. I remember proper poor pensioners from the eighties, war heroes and that, living on cat food and chopping sticks for the fire in their back yard. You fuckers do all right, get your hand out our pockets, gramps.

Thirdly, clean yourself up, you stink of piss! Cos they do, don't they? Eh? The old people, with their beige clothes and that, they STINK. OF. URINE. Aaaah, eat that observation, oldsters, you've been, like, totally merked, punked and pwned! EPIC FALE!

Hasta la easter, creature features!

Easter Rantin' #1 - Re: 'cession

Swab the decks, sex pests! The Colonel's here and he's street tuff.

If I had a quid for every person who sashayed up to my chaise longue, disturbed my rest and asked me "Ahoyhoy, old horse, what's going on with this recession and that? What's the dillio there, eh, jackson?" I would probably have about four quid. Enough for fish and chips. Nice.

Unfortunately, I don't get paid for being bothered by assholes, so I'll give you the lowdown here, save y'all interrupting my chillaxing time, capiche?

Well, first of all, there was the boom times. Remember them? Great weren't they? You and I, Average Joe and Josephine Sweatsock, continued to receive our normal wages while the only people making £££££s were the dregs of society; estate agents, solicitors, greasy-haired fat-tie-wearing soccer players, people in the cocaine distribution and retail industry, investment bankers. Cunts, basically.

Now, all of the money has gone. The bankers and the estate agents gave it to the cocaine chaps who, as any drugs Tsar could tell you, "used it to fund terrorism, the sex slave trade and stoving in the heads of puppies and ickle kittens with a spade".

Now, I have older friends who grew up in the eighties, when they used to have hard times. People had to duck, and to a lesser extent, dive to keep body and soul together. They would live on free school dinners, buy second hand clothes and wear two jumpers in the house to keep warm. And you know what, despite the poverty and the deprivations, life was pretty good in those days.

I joke of course, it was shite. Being poor is shite. And being poor is what people have gotten out of the habit of. Today's less well-off want regular top-ups on their mobiles, they want a muscular array of Sky channels, they want Nike Air Max trainers and they are quite prepared to get a credit card to pay for these things.

Except, now they won't get them. Worse still, we're all going to have to pay those debts back, because the people who lent us the money have spunked it all up the wall.

In times of stress, the English will stand shoulder-to-shoulder and search for somebody to blame. The obvious choice in this case is "the politicians". It is all too simple to deride politicians, local and national, as foolish, incompetent nitwits.

You will often see industrialists and business types tucking their thumbs into the armholes of their waistcoats and sounding off about Government Interference, Quangos and all manner of pettifogging bureaucracy "gone mad".

These pragmatic, hard-headed captains of industry are constantly bemoaning the fact that the government is wasting the Corporation Tax they haven't been able to evade on wasteful public servants and cap-in-hand scroungers and panhandlers.

They pour scorn on well-meaning do-gooder politicians, who don't know what it's like in the "real world", where our tycoons put their hard heads and balls of steel on the line in order to "create the wealth". If only you would be guided by us, by the markets, by the hard-headed, cigar chomping tax avoiding entrepreneurs and high-fliers, things might get done properly, they imply.

However, dear reader, because you see things with a keener eye than the putz or the fool, you, as I have done, will say "Stop right now, thank you very much, Mister Bidnessman, but wasn't it you and your stripey-shirt-and-braces wearing cunt mates that got us in this pickle?"
That'll stop him in his tracks.

Furthermore, these champagne-guzzling corporate cornholes don't have as many calls on their time as politicians. Unlike politicians, they don't have to run schools and hospitals, the scheduling of refuse collection and public transport matters not a jot to them. All they have to do is Keep On Making Money. From a position of strength, mark you. From a position of Having Loads of Money in the Fucking First Place. One job they have, just keep on grinding the nose of the worker into the dust and selling him ringtones and home insurance and wood flooring and expensive kitchenware and god knows what other shite.

And they failed to do it. They dropped the ball. They fucked up. The Porsche-driving, expense account lap dance receiving cokehead cunts.

Yet still you see them, blithely lecturing all and sundry about tightening belts and fiscal prudence on Newsnight and on Andrew Marr's Show. and Partyland TV and Babestation as well, probably.


Monday, March 30, 2009

Ins and Outs: April '09

Coucou, mon petite salopes! How the dirk-diggling hell are you?

The Ins and Outs Committtee have finished their deliberations, some say ablutions, a little early this month. As a consequence, peel your earballs back, strain your gorges and gulp down a massive helping of the guide that tells your Barack Obamas from your hoochie mamas, your Lethal Bizzle from your bull's pizzle and your Paperback Writer from your pay-per-view skinflicks.

Come Stevie Gs and New Jack Hustlers, 'cos
Ins and Outs am here!


Pitching amorous woo to a classy young lady in a fashionable cocktail bar whilst energetically rubbing ointment into an angry red rash on your shin.
Invited to a Saturday evening supper party given by some rather particular people, asking if you can have yours on a tray as Wigan v Stoke is on Football First.
Chattering classes. Far less energetic than step classes, basically you just pitch up in a leotard and blether on about local schools and fair trade coffee.
Should any acquaintance be unwary enough as to begin a sentence with the words "You know what it is?" immediately jumping down their throat with "I'm just street tuff!"
Don Diablo. The sikkest beats in the bidness.
Spending the entire sixty minute session with one's therapist discussing the lifeand times of Jade Goody, including a thorough exploration of your concerns for "those beautiful boys".
Dedicating every day to becoming more like Timo Glock in every way.
Regaling all and sundry with tales from your (imagined) time as a member of the Eight Tray Gangster Crips in the late 1980s.
Torquemada. Yes he was a trifle over-zealous with his Inquisition, but people forget the 50-odd years of good service he gave the church before the Great Terror. A little balance, people, yeah?
Stopping in of a Saturday night, listening to Snoop Dogg and playing Freecell. That's livin', alright!
Andrew Graham-Dixon.
Eagerly anticipating seeing the reformed Wonder Stuff on their next tour. Some naysayers might suggest that going to see a band who were frankly fucking shit twenty years ago having failed to discover anything contemporary to spend your hard-earned on is a slightly pitiful state of affairs, but what do they know, eh? They'll be playing "Size of a Cow" and everything!
Knowing one's onions.
Morris Dancing. Yes, it gets a bad press, but once you're out on the town in the get-up you'll be beating off the boole with a shitty stick. Which, handily, you will be carrying anyway.
Bladder wrack. The finest wrack there is.
Spending an evening earnestly debating which is better, White Lies or White Denim, before concluding that Whitesnake is the best.
At the barber's, asking this month for a slight look of Will Sergeant, around the time of the release of "Ocean Rain".
Good old fashioned British fish'n'chips. It's great!
On being chided for your lack of interest in your lasses new hairdo, explaining that you've been racking your brain to remember which one of the Tweenies it makes her look like.
Discussing your concerns regarding the Dodgers bullpen in the forthcoming season with a council litter removal operative while he's getting bubble gum off his claw-stick picker-upper thing.


Telling lies about Vernon Kay.
The Jetsons. Really poor.
Using sex as a weapon. Don't use sex, use a TEC-9 semi-automatic submachine gun or a ninja death star.
Visiting the zoo and offering one of the keepers £200 for "five minutes alone in a room with a penguin and a cricket bat".
Vast warehouses full of unsold Walker's Big Dogs Cock, Monkey's Bawbag and Builders Arsecrack flavoured crisps, or whatever they are.
Have-nots. What a bunch of knackers. Haves like totally own you.
Getting a free credit report from Experian. Shite. No wonder they're free.
Anthrax. Whatever happened to that, eh? Used to be all the rage at the turn of the century.
Werther's Originals. The twinkling-eyed grandfather toffee sweet solution of the fool.
While being fellated, making disapproving, critical whimpering sounds like Brian Sewell.
Staying awake wondering about the slight difference in meaning between "distrust" and "mistrust".
Ethelred the Unready. He's had all day to get ready and he KNEW the taxi was coming for half seven, but no, he's rushing around drying his hair at the last minute again. Typical!
Relating every aspect of your weekend musical break in London in pitiless detail, including the vital information that Gareth Gates remains "a lovely young lad" and that the bacon was "stringy".
Making it clear to all and sundry that you are opposed to paedophilia by joining a different hand-wringing/vigilantism-endorsing Facebook group each and every day. If that doesn't make all of our bairns safer, it's hard to imagine what will.
Turning up at the Mobile Breast Screening Unit in the health centre car park carrying a bag of popcorn and asking the lady in charge what time the film starts.
Entering a social club concert room, during the bingo, striding confidently to the bar and asking for a Harvey Wallbanger.
Hammerhead sharks. Your head looks like a hammer, you dick!
Greedy fatcat bankers. If the government can't stop their big pensions, they should at least make sure they don't get any free EEC butter.
Fern Britton's decision to leave the "This Morning" sofa. Quite frankly, it was a surprise she could get up off of it, the FAT COW.
Chauvinism, in any of its guises.