Sunday, November 01, 2009
Ins and Outs: November '09
Oy oy, saveloy! How's it growing?
By which, the Committee means to say "Happy Halloween/Bonfire Night and that!". Truly, this is the most wondrous time of the year, where students, horror film enthusiasts, goths and other miscellaneous wazzocks get to tit around with costumes, make-up and pumpkins and insert fireworks into cat rectums. Marvellous.
Whatever happened to bobbing for apples, eh? That's what we used to do "back in the day". Shite, it was.
Pigeonholing the tiresome nostalgia for the moment, it's time to deploy the countdown that lets you tell the difference between the pumpkin and the blumpkin, the Catherine wheel and the Catherine Tate and the Michael Myers and the Michael McIntyre.
Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and ghoulies, Ins and Outs am here!
On spotting anybody drinking an Irish whiskey/cream-based liqueur, bursting into an impromptu chorus of "All that she wants, is another Bailey's, oh-oh-oh!"
Loving Phats, hating Small.
When entertaining the GLW to anniversary cocktails in the Savoy's Palm Room, sidling up to the pianist, sticking a tenner in his top pocket and asking if he could run through DJ Assault's "Ass and Titties" as it was 'Your Song'.
Having two or three classic, 'signature' items in your wardrobe which, if you layer and accessorise, are timeless.
Telling your grandchildren that you used to play Timpani in the Joe Loss Orchestra, despite the fact that a) this impresses them not one jot and b) it's Some Bull Shit.
Engaging in a lengthy SMS-based correspondence with the girl from the 24 hour garage regarding who is hotter: Rush Limbaugh or Newt Gingrich.
The Superior Colliculus. It's mint!
The old boy on the bus with spectacles whose arms cling to his head a good two inches above the ears.
The banjo-pickin' stylings of Marcy Marxer and Cathy Fink.
Explaining to your boss that the reason that ever so important work thing hasn't been done is because you've been "busier than Lagos airport, yeah?"
Writing frightening verse to a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg, together with a request for a couple of risque Polaroids.
New Jersey. There should be more states named after knitwear purchases.
Killing a marmoset with a teaspoon, boiled egg style. Just to see what it would feel like to kill a tiny, furry man, the size of your hand.
Grimly chronicling on Facebook the time you get up every single morning, as if even one person in this world gave the merest hint of a rat's ass.
Being firmly of the opinion that the preparation and consumption of food by fairly repellent members of the public is not necessarily something that needs to be televised.
Asda Smart Price mushy peas. Yummlicious!
Mercilessly taunting a fellow about still living at home with his parents, only for him to remind you that he's 8 years old.
Getting a fishtank built from bulletproof glass, in case some mope tries to wack your guppies.
Shankill Butchers. Quality cuts of meat at a price that can't be beat!
Harbouring grave concerns that poor Katie Price is about to have her heart broken again. Bear up, our Kate, oh do bear up.
The sudden crop of "Question Time" connoisseurs with their hitherto hidden expertise regarding the format and ethos of the show.
Failing to convince the bloke delivering you a skip that Sartre's theory of existentialism was nothing more than solipsistic pre-reflective consciousness.
Making a big show of repairing pitch marks on the rare occasion you find the green with a full-blooded iron shot.
Committing the textbook novice drinker's error of mixing the grape with the grain with the crystal meth.
Halloween fancy dress fuckology.
Initiating intimacy by cordially inviting your lass to "put yourself on the hot spot".
Jamie T. Jamie S.H.I.T. more like!!!!!!!111!!IEHEISSHIT!!!!!
Blokes taking a "bag for life" to the supermarket. You big jessie.
Low quality shower-head replacements.
Ballroom dancing. No amount of East European prostitutes and actors from Holby City will disguise the fact that it's shit.
DJ Hero. Bloody hell.
Describing the bloke in the local dry cleaners as a "Major League ass hole".
Crafting Hour on QVC. The most banal, godawful tat you will ever see offered for sale.
Becoming embroiled in a vitriolic flame war on Twitter with Noam Chomsky regarding the relative merits of the Pozidrive and the Phillips screwdriver.
Tedious co-workers who insist on delivering a lengthy and voluble review of every single dreadful ITV programme they have watched the previous evening.
That hairy seven foot tall boxer. Looks like a bloody gorilla he does, and that's swearing.
Constructing an eight-foot papier mache model of the head of Nicholas Witchell and fucking it in the ear.
Thinking you are such hot shit just because you buy red onions instead of normal ones.
"Sex on Fire", sixty weeks in the charts. Who the cornholing hell is going out and buying it, sixty weeks later?
Loose Chippings. The gravel whores!