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!

In

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!


Out

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.

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