Saturday, March 07, 2009

Ins and Outs: March '09




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!!!!


In


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".



Out

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?
[citation needed]
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!

2 comments:

Kate said...

I can't believe you're dissing the giant pasty that is the calzone.

Jando said...

I have nothing to say, except I want more lists like these please.