What what, polyglots! A new year is here and the Ins & Outs Committee have been straining every nerve and tightening every sinew in order to pop out their latest vernacular spectacular.
In these fiscally straitened times who can you turn to delineate the hotties from the notties, the Xavi from the Zavvi and your Pinter from your Pinder, why of course it's the countdown of the baggy-trousered misanthropist that will meet you after school and beat you like gorilla.
Hold on to your mousemats, cos Ins and Outs am here!
Sending an e-mail with the subject "fried beans" solely for the simple pleasure of reading the title of any responses.
Supping Irn Bru the day after a long and trying evening of cold drinks. If anyone knows hangover remedies it's the Scodge.
On a street full of cold, irritable people in a hurry to get somewhere, strolling around like you own the fucking place.
Discussing modern neurology with the bloke in the chip shop, with particular reference to the relative merits of positive emission tomography, magnetoencephalography and stereotaxic surgery, whilst he gives your saveloy a couple more minutes "...to be on the safe side, like".
When asked to complete a character reference by the potential employers of a former colleague, endorse it with the solitary phrase "The guy's a pipe" and return it by first post.
Using the phrase "not by a long chalk" whenever replying in the negative.
On espying some tracksuited lowlife or Harold Ramp having an intoxicated conversation with himself, observing to one's companions "Probably an Oxford man".
Pick-a-nick baskets. Yum yum!
Having noticed that the approaching bus is not the one you wish to board, extravagantly stepping back from the road and markedly looking away, in the style of a West Indian number 11 batsman letting one go outside off-stump.
Knowing where one can procure Tayto crisps.
When answering one's mobile phone, bellowing "Ooh eez zeese?" in the manner of an irate Olivier Bernard.
Telling tales out of school.
Foppishly inspecting the raiments of a dreadful mate and declaring their shirt to be "a little busy".
Social club drinking. 1.15 Large for a bottle of sweet, sweet LCL and darts on the big screen? Marvellous.
Telling your lass that her new specs give her a look of Chief Buthelezi that really gets you going.
The 1994 dancefloor filler "Everybody Gonfi-Gon" by 2 Cowboys. It's skill!
Spending an afternoon that your employer would have preferred to have involved real, productive work compiling a comprehensive comparative analysis of Girls Aloud and The Spice Girls, with graphs and everything.
Purchasing a large bottle of Britney Spears perfume for three quid from TJ Hughes. A little brackish at first, but surprisingly palatable if you add lemonade.
Being torn whether to go with Lorraine Kelly's "January Five-Veg Flab Fighter" diet, as advertised in "Now" magazine or the "Take a Break" endorsed Claudia Winkelman "Smoothie-cise" toning regime. It's a worry.
Folk who should know better wearing those frightful nordic tasselled woolly hats.
Anybody appending a chuckling "for my sins" after vouchsafing their occupation, sporting team of choice etc.
Getting into a furious row with the chairman of the Chess Club over who was the best one out of The So Solid Crew. That prick was "this close" to getting a knight up his oxter, the way he was disrespecting Megaman.
Guy Browning's "How to" column. What a fucking cock-knocker.
Bitches, be they male or female, who prove themselves unable to hang with the streets. No use to man nor beast.
Eucryl Smoker's Tooth Powder. As useless today as it ever was.
Badgering an acquaintance for details of his romantic date like you're Jeremy Paxman, repeatedly asking "Did you schtupp her or what?"
Local bands. If they were any good they'd be called "bands".
Being chided by local toughs for the pointiness of one's shoes.
Going on interminably about the larks to be had with the Wii you got at Christmas. Maybe Father Christmas will bring you some Dignity next time, what?
Getting the Observer Effect confused with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. What a chump!
Giving a running commentary on how each development in the day's football affects your fixed-odds coupon.
Hockling at non-existent bar-room spitoons.
According to Wikipedia, "Male lions often lead their social groups jointly with one or more of their brothers. To ensure loyalty, the male co-leaders will "strengthen the bonds by often having sex with each other." What's wrong with a game of golf and a few pints?
Implausibly claiming that "they call me Kookaburra, 'cos the merry, merry king of the bush is me".
Football Focus. In this age of Sky Sports News and moody internet soccer videos who wants to watch a load of black and white montage shit with a Snow Patrol soundtrack? Nobody, that's who.
Claiming to have spent time working on the bins.
Pretty much anyone using the word "detox".
Claiming to have an eating disorder. In most cases the disorder is that of being a Greedy Fatso.
Being slightly crestfallen on being told that your new sweater, far from making you look like a young feller in one of them NME bands, gives you a resemblance to a tubbier, ubbier Colin Montgomery.