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!"