Monday, March 30, 2009
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!
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.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Carry go bring come, sports fans! How the heck is it hanging?
Spring has sprung and the Ins and Outs Committee, fine chaps who all know their Dornier Dos from their Dornier Don'ts, have been flicking to kick like nobody's bidness and are coming atcha like a bull at a gate.
No doubt you are all agog and magog, desperate to learn what's foxy and what's knoxy, who's got moxie and who got the poxy, so we'll say no more about it other than to inform your ass that Ins and Outs am here!!!!!!!11!!!!
Opening one's heart to Our Lord Jesus and the boundless love he has for all of us.
Adopting the apparel and footwear of the skateboarding enthusiast, while in reality you wouldn't even know how to switch one on.
Referring to any acquaintance who is your junior in years as "Young Jeezy".
Pretending to be your tough cousin from the city by wearing a bowler hat and long sweater and talking like a 1930s gangster.
Affecting the look of a 1970s kidnapper.
The Politburo. The best buro, bar none.
Whenever mentioning one's mother, always referring to her as "The Duchess" while adopting a faux-cockney accent.
Cocking a snook. One of the few uses for snooks, these days.
The return of Starsailor to our hearts and stereograms. The world may be in financial meltdown, the environment on its last legs and the price of a pint on the rise again, but thank the ever-merciful Lord that at long last that lank-haired, moosey-faced caterwauling cunt and his cronies are back to rock our world with their overblown, maudlin dadrock shite.
Spending a fortnight holed-up in a motel while the heat dies down.
Having sausages for your tea.
Doing the Stanky Legg.
Having an invigorating conversation regarding the novels of Milan Kundera with the dental hygienist, who had hitherto restricted her remarks to the advisability of regular brushing and registering disapproval of the notion of black coffee.
Constructing a life-sized clay model of A.A. Gill and worshipping it as a deity.
Writing to the Home Secretary, asking to be considered for the post of Drugs Czar when it next comes up, citing the fact that you've read that Howard Marks book and also own a furry Russian hat.
Slicing an avocado.
Eschewing the delights of a friday night in town in favour of an evening with a Sven Hassel and a few cans of Kestrel.
Harbouring grave concerns regarding the impetuous Romano's future career once T.J. Hooker has retired.
Slow days a work where you principal output has been adding "going with sailors" to the Interests section of your Facebook profile.
Telling a simple-hearted lass at work that Davis Love III is a lesser-known Shakespeare play.
When asked how it's going, shrugging one's shoulders and replying "Sturm and drang, mate. Sturm and drang".
Bringing one's daughter to the slaughter. Iron Maiden, hang your hard rock heads in shame.
Coves and covesses with acoustic guitars. Did John Logie Bear invent electricity for naught?
The unemployed. The trouble with these layabouts is they don't WANT to work.
Attempting to gain some insight into life during the second world war by discussing it with your grandfather, only for him to mainly just go on about "all the Land Girl pussy he nailed".
Capuchin monkeys. They're dicks.
Being devastated to learn that your collection of 7" EPs originally given away with issues of "Sounds" aren't worth enough to fund an early retirement.
Claiming that your great-uncle represented Belgium in the 4 x 400m relay in the 1948 Olympics. Did he bollocks.
In-depth Sunday lunchtime public house debriefs on the previous night's exploits with the girl you met in Buffalo Joe's, especially the particularly unnecessary information that you "left her back end looking like a howked-out kiwi fruit".
The unpleasant fat kid that gets on the bus every morning.
Organising a coup d'etat in a Central African republic "for a bit laugh and carry on".
Going on and on about how good your expensive sandwich was.
People who put Queen on the jukebox in the pub. They be needing a kick upside the cock.
"The Metro" newspaper. Basically, a right-wing version of the Daily Mail, fleshed out with non-stories that mention Facebook or Twitter.
Attempting to obtain drink after hours on the grounds that you are "too legit to quit".
Calzone. The Italian restaurant choice of the fool.
Waking to discover that you have washed down your post-cold-drinks supper with 10% of a bottle of Staropramen, rendering the remainder undrinkable.
Stray elbows. They should be rounded up and put in the elbow pound.
Gibbering excitedly about obtaining tickets for rock festivals. Three days in a clarty tent, drinking cider from plastic bottles and watching the Foo Fighters? F that S. F it squarely in the A!