Sunday, October 04, 2009
The IOC, in the place to be. Gonna give it to ya, time to deliver to ya, raw like cocaine straight from Bolivia.
Ahem. Some young shaver must have been interfering with the wireless, putting on Radio 1 Extra's Light Programme. Don't touch that dial.
Word up, canines, it's time to get schooled in what's cool and who's a tool, what's giggity-giggity and who got no diggity. Throw yo set in the air and shake your derriere, because, lords and ladies, Ins and Outs am heeeeerrrrre!
Occasionally stepping out your front door for a few pints and to get some ess on your aitch ell rather than tubby boohooing about which twat on Mock the Week is the unfunniest.
The unlikely scenario of Richard Thompson stumbling on stage to headline the Cambridge Folk Festival and introducing the opening song by telling the audience "this song is about leaving your missus to spend six months banging she-males in Thailand, it's called '25 years stabbing round the same hole'."
Vladivostok. The best vostok of all.
Complimenting your good lady wife on the fetching new mascara she got from Virgin Vie, telling her she's the spitting double of a young Charlie Magri.
In a low tavern, sidling up to "Dogfighting Dave" and asking him if he can get you a Kennel Club registered Borzoi pup.
Any politician proposing the introduction of Camp Gitmo style torture for anyone caught using the word "diary" as a verb.
In the event of unorthodox behaviour by a companion (howking their guts up outside the pub, shanking their golf ball into some trees) bellowing witlessly "There's an app for that!" into their disgruntled face.
The novels of George P. Pelecanos.
Proclaiming that you be "lovin' kaolin but hatin' morphine" before excusing yourself and hotfooting it to the lavatory, clutching your stomach.
Concluding the tale of how you pulled the lass from the kebab shop while voguing in "Dizzle-Dazzles" nitespot by sagely informing your audience that "there ain't no off switch on a fanny magnet".
Spending some Friday night quality time alone with a couple of bottles of fruity Muscadet, a shoal of mussels and an entire sky-plussed series of "Don't Tell the Bride".
(Falsely) claiming that "they call me Masai Mara, 'cos I got so much game".
Polish chicks. G'dang g'dang g'dansk!
Spending a long, lonely sleepless night wondering whether the UK Speed Garage scene will ever return to its former prominence.
When asked by a dreadful mate why the long face, swilling the remnants of your pint around and ruefully remarking that what with the punk ass bitches and suck ass niggaz, you were seriously considering getting out of the game.
When reminded that you are not a player in South Central, rather you work as a minor functionary in the Town Hall's Planning Department, cheering up and getting a round in.
The Alimentary Canal. Very picturesque at this time of year.
Asking the barber to leave it long at the back, "a bit like Günter Netzer, you know?"
Bismuth. An excellent metal.
Fooling people that you're dealing drugs by standing round on a street corner in a beanie hat and an outsized white t-shirt, occasionally shaking hands with passers-by.
Anybody over 14 who plays "Guitar Hero". The "bairns computer game plastic guitar toy" solution of the fool.
Making out that you used to be a well-known face on the Northern Soul scene, back in the day ktf.
On being introduced to a dreadful mate's new bit of stuff, taking a step back, eyeing her up and down as though you're admiring a freshly creosoted new fence, before unwisely opining that "she's got a bit of an arse on her."
Finding that the sight of people eating crisps is growing increasingly repugnant.
Tim Krul and Ja Rule playing pool, looking too cool for school.
Thinking that your relationship with your 13-year-old daughter has improved multifold since she added you as a friend on Facebook before logging on one day and discovering she has "become a fan of rough sex."
The Hunkpapa tribe. They ain't hunky, they is minging.
Eyes too far apart.
Boring the hole off all and sundry about the fabulous bargains you picked up on your trip to Costco.
On the serendipitous occasion of copping off with and being subsequently fellated by, a girl named Denise, texting everyone on your sim card the slightly self-congratulory message "DIRTY DENISE DIRTIED HER KNEES!!!!!"
Claiming to be an authority on Sumerian mythology, when really you wouldn't know sun god Utu from Harry "Choo Choo" Romero.
Pretty much anyone who hasn't taken Holy Orders using the word "bless".
Pusillanimous five-a-side goalkeepers.
The BIG OPINIONS of Messrs Venables, Wright and Redknapp in The Sun.
Men that eat jam. Catch yourself on, Billy Bunters, it's a female preserve.
Gavin from Autoglass. Yow-yow cock-knocker.
Telling people that you like to watch the first few episodes of "X-Factors", because the Hilarious Spectacle of seeing carefully selected footage of lads with bad haircuts, chunky unco-ordinated girl bands, daft old biddies and the mentally ill singing poorly simply Never Gets Old.
Inadvertently putting your foot in it due to suffering IVF/UVF confusion.
Shuddering at the prospect of being ostracised. Imagine having the end of your old chap bitten by an ostrich. Ouch!
Hans Blix and his missing Twix.
Stuck-up, nose-in-the-air beeyatches who think their shit don't stink. Your shit does stink, actually. It stinks of shit!