Christmas time is here again, o-u-t spells "out". Conversely, i-n spells "in". Love it or loathe it, Christmas is the time for feigning delight at deeply disappointing gifts, Boxing day defeats in freezing cold north-west shitholes and extra episodes of Eastenders.
In short, a spunk-drinking festival of the first water.
On the flipside, there are some boons, such as a few days off work, a workplace sexual harassment 'Get Out of Jail Free card' in the the form of mistletoe, and the chance to get stuck into the latest hilarious DVD collection from the "Top Gear" team.
Shoot me now.
Ins and Outs am here!
Taking one's significant other to one side and breaking it to them as gently possible that the bread out of their bread maker is not "better than you get in the shops". It is, in fact, shite.
Seeing a monk at the bus station, brown robes and Jesus sandals akimbo, with an anorak on over the top.
When watching the news on the pub telly, sagely informing your dreadful mates that it is vital that Our Boys stabilise Helmand Province, in order that the nation's supply of mayonnaise is not disrupted.
A butterfly, drinking buttermilk out of a buttercup.
Having been tasked with identifying departmental efficiency cost savings, stressing in your report the importance of "getting rid of the pimps, the pushers and the prostitutes and then starting all over again clean".
Finding something pleasing about the fact that, in an age of political spin and media manipulation, Ireland's Prime Minister looks and sounds like a pig farmer.
Andy Carroll. The drink-fuelled violence-indulging, catsuit-loving frontman goes from strength to strength.
Becoming involved in increasingly vitriolic exchanges with the man who comes to sanitise the water cooler at work regarding which of the Watson Twins is better looking. Even the fool on the hill could tell you that it's Chandra.
Being kept awake all night agonising which should come first in your alphabetised CD collection; Yolanda Be Cool or Yo La Tengo?
Chomping on a thoughtful Twix during your tea break and confiding to a colleague that "as an old-school feminist, you are totally against the objectification of women in the media and the pressure it imposes on young woman to pursue an unrealistic, superficial ideal of physical attractiveness." And that, my friends, is why you hope that that fat old cow wins this year's 'X Factor'.
Having supreme confidence that any FIFA man accused of financial impropriety will be thoroughly vindicated by any subsequent inquiry.
Calling up your baby on the telephone, long distance. Although, if the relationship appears to have some longevity, it may prove more cost-effective to invest in a couple of Skype handsets.
Claiming you'll be spending New Year's Eve at Mauro Picotto's villa in Ibiza, kicking it with the jet-setters, go-getters and spread betters, when in reality you will be at home with a litre of blended whisky, eating your own body weight in shortbread.
Silverfish. Not silver, not fish. But they can digest wood. SCREW YOUR RULES!
Tangerines. An oasis of tangy, flavoursome vitamins in an ocean of stodge and chocolate.
Having an oasis in the middle of an ocean. Desert-based oases are so last year, darling.
Enjoying the sobriquet of 'Culture Vulture' amongst your circle of mates, due to retaining in your collection a CD of Vivaldi's Four Seasons that was given away free in the Mail On Sunday five years ago.
Attempting to get into the festive spirit by actively seeking out online pornographic video clips where any female actor is wearing a Santy hat.
Wondering precisely what type of car would the good people at Webuyanycar.com actually pay a hundred grand for; a solid gold time-travelling Delorean with a Blaupunkt, maybe?
Catching a glance at some woman's mobile phone and noticing, with a feeling of horror, that her screensaver picture appears to be a publicity shot of Dermot Murnaghan.
Wildly celebrating after scoring a penalty. Catch yourself on, man. You've done your duty, nothing more, nothing less.
Coves sporting t-shirts with overly-plunging necklines.
Getting fish, chips and mushy peas at the chippy, then forgetting to put the peas on when you get home.
Having an understanding of the political situation in Korea that goes no further than a vague notion that North Koreans eat whippets and South Koreans probably eat poodles.
Making a disproportionate amount of fuss over the (frankly mediocre) home-baked goods you intend bringing in to work.
The ridiculous attachment to Imperial measures that means we insist, in this country, on measuring snow depth and penis length in inches.
Childless adults building an ironic snowman. Have a word with yourself, yes?
Acting like Charlie Bigcock, buying a bottle of the £33.50 champagne in Wetherspoon's. Cheg on, Kieron Dyers, there's a new playa in town.
Getting an outstanding deal on bulk-bought Stilton and having to tell simply everyone about it.
German Christmas traditions. Gingerbread and overpriced hot dogs might be alright for the teutons, but it butters few parsnips in fair Albion. Very few parsnips indeed!
Poirot. The smug fucking two-hours-long, adverts-every-ten-bastard-minutes cock-knocker.
The duck billed platypus. An otter with a duck's beak? You look ridiculous, man.
Less than conscientious work colleagues who go sick with "tinselitis" every December in order to get their Christmas shopping done without squandering a precious day of their holiday entitlement.
Supercilious-looking drivers of 4x4s, some say jeeps, thinking they're such hot shit because they can drive on snowy roads.
Sad-sack couch tetties, planning their Christmas television viewing a month in advance.
Syncing your Twitter account with your Facebook account so you can post fucking boring updates in glorious cross-platform stereo sound. #whatihadformytea
Trudging wearily through brown slush at quarter to seven in the morning.
Telling a lady she has a pretty face is a nice compliment. Proceeding to outline your desire to "lob rope after rope of hot, silky cocksnot" onto said face is Most Definitely Not. Don't spoil it.
The petrified forest. Get some nuts, you woodland wuss.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Today was a momentous day in the worlds of music retailing and high street fashion as budget-conscious clothes shop Peacocks began selling Beatles CDs in a cross-platform marketing venture that will change how we buy music and low-quality garments forever.
Announcing the historic tie-up, Peter Cock, the founder and Managing Director of the down-at-heel clothing chain, was in triumphant mood. "Now, for the first time, our customers will be able to purchase a pair of jeans with all writing on the arse AND pick up a compact disc featuring music originally performed by The Beatles, the greatest band of all time." he told reporters.
"You could say things are 'Getting Better' for our customers!" quipped the shoddily-finished garment magnate.
While critics have been quick to point out that the CDs for sale in Peacocks won't actually feature the actual music of the actual Beatles, their head honcho was quick to defend the store's range, which will retail for £3.99 a pop.
"We're providing a really exciting set of albums here, that will complement any Beatles fan's collection. What serious Beatles enthusiast can live without "Klaus Wunderlich's Beatles Hammond Organ Party", "Pan Pipe Beatles Collection 2", "Motown Sings The Beatles", "Top of the Pops Beatles Fever!", "Blackout Crew: All You Need is Donk", "The Royal Scots Dragoon Pipe Band's Fab Four Selection", "Notorious BIG in the Sky with Diamonds" or "Part Chimp's Braw Beatles Hootenanny"? Eh?"
"Eh?" he continued.
Among customers at the company's flagship store in Warrington, reactions were mixed. Edna Everidge, 67, thought the Beatles CDs were good and that she liked them. "I like them, I think they're good" she told our reporter, and subsequently three shop assistants and another old woman.
Patty Cake, 54, also approved. "I've bought my nephew this "jurt" for his birthday" she said while holding up a garish nylon-cotton top of dubious provenance. "It's a jumper with a shirt sewn into it, hence "jurt", you see? It costs six quid, so if I get one of these CDs, that's a tenner spent, yeah? Job done, simple as, end of." she continued.
However, Roy Balding, 43, was not so keen. "A load of boring old Beatles CDs? That's rubbish! I came here to buy an amusing novelty t-shirt that says "Mr Lazy" and some white sandshoes like a bairn would wear, not to get a poxy CD of "Cheeky Girls Go Moptop". Beatles CDs my right nut!" he gibbered excitedly.
For no other reason than so we could print a picture of her, we asked Jordan "Katie" Price for her opinion, but she wasn't in.
Sexy Katie: Tits, peacock etc
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Wac-a-day, kiddies! Polly wanna cracker. Ooh, mandingo! Polly want that cracker bad.
The clocks may have gone back, but at Ins'n'Outs Headquarters we're only going forward, like some sort of online shark with the smell of the unorthodox in its nose.
Proselytising and breathalysing like Tipsy McStagger meets Jimmy Swaggart, it's time to find out who's Captain Palatick and who's Cash in the Attic, who's Eight Ace and who's Ace of Base, who's stewed to the gills and who's Stuart MacGill.
Charge your glasses, shake your asses, shave your gashes and/or taches, 'cos dem little old Ins and Outs am here!
Getting into the music of CJ Bolland relatively late in the day.
Convincing a suggestible public house acquaintance that the DJ and producer Adamski's real name was Adam Ski.
Loving five million hogs, yet conversely, hating on six million dogs.
Having read about some of the daft things that so-called "sufferers" insist on doing, concluding that OCD stands for Obviously a Complete Dick.
Claiming that you used to go dry stone-walling in the Cheviots with Phats out of Phats and Small 'back in the day'.
In Hotsy-Totsy's Nite Spot, attempting to curry favour with a trainee nail technician by telling her that you got your sweater from the new Peacock's in town. Only nine quid, yeah?
Being crestfallen that you were once again overlooked by the Mobo awards shortlisting panel.
The early season form of Gareth Bale. It's always nice to see one of them fellers off of "Planet of the Apes" doing well for themselves.
Instigating a blood feud with the members of a cadet branch of your family following their erroneous claims that HSBC is the best high street bank, when you are staunch followers of the Barclay's cause.
Attempting to set up a Birmingham-based society for ex-patriot American Republicans, to be called, with nauseating inevitability, the Bostin' Tea Party.
Considering yourself a modern-day, five-a-side Platini after you play a through ball with the outside of your foot.
Ruefully wishing that John Selwyn Gummer had gone to your school, 'cos if he had, you'd have called him John Selwyn Bummer. That would have learned him.
Throwing a very swish dinner party incorporating a quick and easy starter you got from Nigella, a funky chicken dish you saw Jamie do, and a Wall's Viennetta for afters.
Asthmatic asiatics, swimming in the Adriatic.
During your monthly meeting to "touch base" with your "bod from Human Resources", asking if they can do anything to get your job title changed from Deputy Co-ordinator (Purchasing) to Funkmaster General (Purchasing).
Eleven labia-licking lesbians lolling luxuriantly by a lake.
The knockabout slapstick stylings of Titus Brambles, good clean fun in an era of weak-mocking foul-mouthery.
While dining at Gordon Ramsay's priciest foodhole, asking the sommelier if you can have blue pop with your turbot fillet.
Having a smartphone full to bursting point with delightful photos of your rabbit Flopsy, your kitten Topsy and your guinea pig Mopsy, and being quite willing and able to talk your girls through them during work time.
Thinking wistfully of the jumbo 'dogs of Prague when handed a soggy Ye Olde Oak effort in a finger bun at a bonfire night spectacular.
Jazzbos with Asbos and Detroiters with goitres.
Bonfire night tubbyboohooing from uptight pet owners who expect the whole world to forego its fireworks just because their dog is a puff.
Loudly proclaiming that your favourite club is a 1-iron. You can barely get an 8-iron fifteen foot above the ground, you bullshitting article!
People who try to convince you to go to Halloween parties on the promise that there will be scantily clad women there. Fuck off! I live in the north-east, where a woman doesn't consider herself correctly attired for the evening unless you can see at least 80% of her knockers and 46% of her arse.
Taking three valuable hours out of your schedule to watch some knacker on BBC4 explaining horror films. Horror films are the province of the heavy metal enthusiast, the piercings-and-tattoos enthusiast and the weirdo. There's your history of horror, less than a minute. Chop chop!
Magic Johnson's magic johnson. Giving someone HIV isn't much of a magic trick.
Sweet peas. Not sweet, not peas. Shit flowers, that's what they should call them.
Twisty-faced office workers, always boodyhoodying about the lighting and their chairs, as though they were being forced to work at gunpoint in one of the less salubrious Chilean copper mines.
Constantly scanning and re-scanning your Freeview box in the hope of discovering ever more specialist 'telephone masturbation' channels.
Going on about the latest episode of "Downton Abbey". F that S! I'd rather watch fucking "Down's Syndrome Abbey"! And I wouldn't even watch that, because it sounds like it would be distasteful and exploitative.
Steveland Bruce and his raggle-taggle band of cocknockers, bottlers and shithouses.
Viewers of ITV's popular "X Factor" programme. Also, those who consider that not watching the show somehow makes them Umberto effing Eco. A plague on both your houses, yeah?
Attempting to deploy Brian Eno's "Music for Airports" as sexy time 'make-out' music.
Prating dullards with their odious comparisons between Wayne Rooney's wages and those of a soldier.
Rooney has scored 26 goals for his country. Between the combined strength of the Army, they can't muster a single England goal between them. You do the math!
Having a dodgy knee.
Bleating on about the americanisation of Halloween like some jaundiced Peter Kays. Yes, some manky old turnips with candles in and bobbing for apples was the apogee of olde English culture, wasn't it?
Proudly telling anyone who'll listen that you consider yourself to be a Blodwyn Pig connoisseur.
Smokers obstructing public house doorways. Begone, foul-smelling scapegrace and let the gentlefolk past!
Claiming that you've just got back from the Commonwealth Games, where you were meant to be representing England in the skeet-shooting, except you had the squits the whole time.
Feeling obliged to point out that it has never been suggested that Magic Johnson ever infected anybody with HIV.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Here we are again then, what? It's hard to believe that this time tomorrow we shall be into October, the tenth month of the year. How time flies.
Anyhoo, better late than never, as necrophiliacs are wont to opine. Let's get crackin' with the knackin' in this season of ghosts, ghouls and Hassan Kachlouls. It's time to sort out the roman candles from the roman sandals, the catherine wheels from the Catherine Tates and the jack o'lanterns from the Esther Rantzens. Hermans and Morticias, Ins and Outs am here!
Bricks and mortar. Pestle and mortar. Never bricks and pestle, though. WHY NOT?
Chirping up "Most of my heroes never appeared on no stamp" at the slightest opportunity, until it is pointed out that your number one hero is her majesty The Queen, who you think is a marvellous woman.
On entering Djingo Django's niterie, ensuring you remove your cable stitch arran sweater so you feel the benefit on the way home.
Harbouring grave concerns that when those Chilean miners emerge from the ground that they may have mutated into morlocks.
Referring to any older bloke wearing big gold-rimmed spectacles as "Frank Butcher".
After enduring Debbie the Thomas Cook rep outline the various events to enhance your holiday in Lloret de Mar for a small additional consideration (including the medieval banquet, the trip to the lace making factory and an evening with the Fabulous Drifters doing all their old Motown hits), piping up to ask where was the best place to lay your hands on some 'mucky pictures'.
The golden apple of eternal desire.
Knowing several of Hungary's leading anti-semites and maintaining that, once you get them off the subject of the global zionist conspiracy, they're actually Bloody Good Blokes.
Loving Bootsie, but having naught but contempt for Snudge. Snudge can eat a dick.
Modish New York-based rap combo Das Racist.
Pushing pineapples, shaking trees.
Shooting the breeze with your bros on the stoop, 40s and blunts akimbo, discussing the latest edition of "Peter Andre: The Next Chapter".
Declining invitations to fancy dress Hallowe'en parties with a slight shudder and a disdainful muttered "FTS".
During an alehouse discussion of the latest Politically Correct outrage, giving your gullible mate a brief recap of the (wholly fictional) case of the drug dealer who was prosecuted by Trading Standards for selling cannabis resin using prohibited imperial measures such as quarter ounces and 1/8th ounces.
The scope for light-hearted badinage provided by the fact that one of your dreadful mates is stepping out with an older lady who, by all accounts, is a "squirter" when roused to the heights of passion.
Skilfully negotiating difficult bunker shots out of wet sand.
The good people at Go Compare. They can screen as many annoying, Absolutely-plagiarising adverts as they want, they saved this soul brother a cool 15 notes on his home insurance. Props!
Sagely deciding that once the Euromillions jackpot reaches £90m plus, it has at last become worth winning.
Craig Levein, dourly choosing not only to park the bus, but to clamp all of its wheels, then fill the bus with quick-drying cement, then burying the bus under a millions tons of girders. And not playing with any forwards.
Voguish internet pop group OK Go. They should spend more time trying to write some tunes and less time titting about with wacky videos, yeah?
Getting into a street-based slanging match with the lady from the tanning salon regarding which Miliband brother is hotter. It's Ed, of course.
Having sleepless nights fretting about whether Blanket Jackson's stated ambition to be a film producer and director will ultimately work out for him.
Becoming disproportionately excited at the prospect of a new Wetherspoon's pub opening nearby.
Using the dread phrase "To cut a long story short". Never mind cutting it short, don't tell it.
Jogging types going on and on about "sports massages". Have a fucking hot bath, rub on some liniment and get over yourself, Yifter the shifter.
Enduring a cramped bus journey to work every day, cheek-by-jowl with a hundred or so Farming students, all yacking away interminably about alcopops, mobile phone contracts and crop rotation.
Getting a job that almost entirely involves accessing various computer systems, analysing the data therein before updating your findings on another system, then grumbling every day that you "don't like this modern technology". Here's a thought, Wat Tyler. I don't enjoy the smell of animal shit. THAT'S WHY I'VE NEVER WENT FOR A FUCKING JOB CLEANING THE CAGES AT A ZOO, YOU OLD CUNT.
Radical fundamentalists. Radical? It's not 1994 any more, old horse. Call yourself Sick Fundamentalists or To Die For Fundamentalists, yeah?
Nigel de Jong. A fucking knacker.
Fannying on elaborately decorating cupcakes.
Foodie types "re-discovering" the joys of such proletarian foodstuffs as tripe, scouse, scrag end and that. They're shite.
"Ask Rhod Gilbert". They should have asked him to be funny.
Banksy's "subversive" Simpsons titles sequence. Why are people still paying this tiresome Rik-the-student cornhole coin of the realm for his rubbish?
Sir Alan, Lord of Sugar. Just because his contestants have been selectively edited to appear at their maximum level of bellenditude, he's still a hairy-faced little spiv who makes money by humiliating members of the public.
Greedy-guts hotel patrons, queueing up at the restaurant at 7am for their all-you-can-conceivably-eat all-inclusive three course breakfast.
Paul Gauguin. Yes, some bonny paintings, that's a known fact, but one raises a disapproving eyebrow at his penchant for schtupping 13 year old lassies. Hang your post-impressionist, primitivist paedo head in shame, Paulie!
Middle-aged men who tell you, with a sombre tone in their voice, that they were rather disappointed with the new Debenhams store in town, having hoped it would feature rather more household items rather than specialising largely on clothing.
Anybody using a lift for a downstairs journey of less than four floors.
When relaxing in the lounge area at Pussy Galore's gentleman's club, putting the issue of whether you would like a lap dance onto the back burner, while you and your lady friend thrash out the thorny matter of whether you should opt for a Crag Hopper rucksack or one made by The North Face.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Good morning, children, it's September and we're going back to school like Hassan Kachloul. Sit down and face the front 'cos we be teaching like Doctor Beeching and we got education like Roy Castle had dedication. It's time to hit the books, crooks, as we show you who got Key Skills and who got no frills, who's Ivy League and who's Ivy Tilsley, who's off to Oxbridge and who's off to Poxbridge.
Snatch up your satchels, pick up your pencils and let the cane take the strain, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!
The return of the wide, stretchy headband, a female accessory largely confined for the last twenty years to European pornographic films.
Thinking sad thoughts while chopping onions in the belief that the two will cancel each other out, with a tear-free countenance the end product.
Being genuinely enthused by the purchase of a new blue belt.
Becoming embroiled in a tumultuous discussion with a jobbing swineherd regarding which CC is the better; Sabathia or Peniston.
The many fine products to be found in Asda's "Smart Price" range.
Donning a hair shirt and wandering in the desert for forty days and forty nights, living solely on locusts, returning with the new-found conviction that, yes, I enjoy the music of Mumford and Sons, and the devil take anyone who has a problem with this.
Having a great fondness for fire but, conversely, no love at all for brimstone.
When expressing distaste that would previously have merited a response of "It's shite!", instead opining in a condescending manner, that "I don't care for it".
The novels of Tim Willocks.
Wondering in an idle moment where one might purchase that white stuff they smear on the inside of an empty shop's windows to obscure the view within.
Mount Parnassus in Greece. It's bliddy great, man!
Witton Gilbert. Sounds like it could be the name of an early American humorist, actually a village in Durham.
Upon espying an undignified drunken individual in the street or in a low tavern, quietly singing the chorus to Sade's "Smooth Operator".
A simple repast of fresh baguette, brie and a cheeky Chablis.
Receiving a terse e-mail from those pricks in Human Resources about the job advert you drafted specifying that any prospective Administrative Assistant will ideally be "a lady in the street and a freak in the bed".
During a boring meeting, in the event of somebody happening to say "Let's move on", coming right back at them with "Cos it's time to groove on!".
Getting into the barber's chair and producing a picture of Joleon Lescott and asking for a haircut like his.
Weeping salty tears of regret at the passing of GMTV but being broad-minded enough to give "Daybreak" a fair crack of the breakfast television whip.
Being nice as pie when confronted by a dreadful mate's new lady friend, but at a later date confiding to a trusted associate that you suspect she has polished more helmets than the kitman of the Dallas Cowboys.
Having an inexplicable mental short-circuit that, when talking to new parents, causes you to mix up the expressions "rug rat" and "cunt turd".
William Hague's unconvincing "I love shagging lasses, me. Right up the fanny" shtick
Leaving the handbrake on when moving away. What a chump!
Aston Villa FC. The last time the wheels came off that quickly with a Randy Lerner in charge was during "Confessions of a Driving Instructor".
The sad realisation that people you have previously regarded as friends are now espousing the virtues of listening to the music of Biffy Clyro. For shame.
Sky Sports News vanishing from our Freeview screens. Rupert Murdoch, hang your money-grubbing wrinkly old bollock of a head in shame!
That cunt off the BT adverts with his poxy football poetry.
Swanning into the pub in your expensive new sunglasses, to be told by the barmaid that they make you look like a paedophile.
Foolish women of Coventry who misunderstand the concept of cat litter.
Harry Hi-Fi banging on about which NAD amp and sub-woofer he's just bought. So what? You're only going to play U2, Simple Minds and The Nits on it.
Workplace biscuit-based overexcitability.
"Robson Green's Extreme Fishing". He never showed his strange-accented, shortarsed face when Moaty was on the prowl, the little fucking karaoke-singing dwarf.
That William Hague-looking little ginger bollix on the adverts for The Sun.
Sunday lunchtime tall tales regarding the previous evening's romantic liaisons that invariably end with the lady involved receiving "a moothful of Bulletproof Monk".
Radio 4. A load of lah-de-dah ponces in John Lennon glasses talking out their holes.
Golf buggy users. A certain indicator of the proper knacker.
The Man, shaking down and fitting up Paris Hilton again, trying to break her like a beautiful sex-video butterfly on a wheel.
The News of the World, getting up in Rooney's shit when he's got an England match to play. Time was, a man's use of dollymops was a private matter.
Spending one's Saturday evenings surrounded by bearded Wishbone Ash and Director's Bitter enthusiasts and wondering where the good times went.
Umbro and all their works. Execrable.
Monday, August 02, 2010
How now, brown cows!
It's your boy, back on the track with a sack full of crack. Listen up, bone-strokers and boloney-smokers, we about to take you downtown for the lowdown on what's going down. If you absolutely, positively have to know what's minty and what's shinty, who got game and who got lame and who's straight west-coasting and who's beans-on-toasting, then keep your peepers peeled, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!
Attempting to gain a little traction in Djingo Djangos Niterie by bellowing in the ear of an apprentice hair stylist that you were one of the principal architects of the Maastricht Treaty.
Telling the GLW her new asymmetric fringe suits her perfectly, in fact she looks like nothing less than a young Ezra Pound.
Mahindra Satyam. That's the stuff to give 'em!
Loving DJ Luck, hating on MC Neat.
Wondering why can't your dream of Terry Venables being torn to pieces by wild horses come true.
Having been subjected to your dreadful mate's Foo Fighters CDs, concluding that Kurt Cobain shot the wrong member of Nirvana.
Playing the big man
Laying the blame on the world's woes - such as terrorism, the global financial crisis and 'roided-up bouncers acting like Rambo - squarely on Hootie and the Blowfish
Getting a warm glow of nostalgia when remembering Brian Jacks' squat thrust technique on "Superstars".
Boasting that you used to go drinking with Fab 5 Freddy.
The rappers in their hummers listening to the Mamas and the Papas.
Claiming that you've been researching your family tree and that it turns out you're descended directly from the leading family in the Assyrian Empire circa 1110 BC. Fancy that.
On being panhandled by chuggers and vagrants on the High Street, snarling "23! Skidoo wit' ya" at them out of the side on one's mouth.
Planning to sneak a kazoo into forthcoming Premier League fixtures.
Employing 60s stoner speak in the workplace; "Don't bogart all the staples, dude!"
Having a good old blether with the telesales professional who is attempting to steer you towards a new gas supplier and attempting to ascertain their views as to which is their favourite album by The Cure.
Telling your mates that your boy Flavor Flav once sent you a postcard from Corfu that was inscribed with the message "My ouzo weighs a ton!"
Threatening to confiscate your granny's corticosteroid tablets that she takes for her asthma, "in case you start shooting people like that Rothbury feller".
Getting into a foul-tempered verbal altercation with the Chairman of the local Rotary Club over who was the best leading character in "Julie Bravo", despite the fact that everyone knows that Jean Darblay was way better than Kate Longton.
British wine. Shite.
Telling all and sundry about the fabulous time you had at T in the Park, stuck in a field full of flag-waving scotch pissheids, watching Kate Nash from a distance of about 200 yards. Sounds amaaayzing.
Lee Nelson's Well Good Show. No good show, more like.
An office full of fat cows yakking on and on about the Slimming World "syn" values of various foodstuffs.
Believing it to be an acceptable chat-up line, when asked by a female shop assistant if there is anything else she can help with, by insisting loudly that she describes the smell of her vagina.
The unlikely scenario whereby Toto Coelo of "I Eat Cannibals" fame are retrospectively inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
Anyone who gives themselves a funny/cutesy pretend middle name on their Facebook profile.
Reflecting that you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family. Unless you're Brad Pitt, of course, who did choose his family, but didn't choose his "Friends".
Banning the Burqa. Won't somebody think of the Ninjas?
Buying a quiche from Asdas because it's reduced from two quids to 83p, then getting home and finding you've been charged the full price anyway. And the quiche turns out to be shite. Cock-suckers!
Overweight females labouring under the impression that carrying a little bottle of water and swinging your arms a bit while you walk transforms a gentle stroll into a miraculous fat-burning workout.
Reporting you coke dealer to Nicky Campbell on "Watchdog" after that last gram you bought give you the squits something rotten.
Thinking you is some hot shit because you've got the same model putter as Corey Pavin.
While drinking in town, aggressively hailing any young fellers wearing waistcoats and/or flat caps as "How, Mumford!"
Touchscreen mobile phones. Two hands bad, one hand good.
The defamation of Strickland Propane.
The Nazi-gold-hoarding, cuckoo-munching Swiss government turning a blind eye to Roman Polanski's dubious past. There's a fucking surprise. Fritzl would have probably got away with a caution over there.
Being thoroughly unimpressed on being told how painful it is getting a foot tattoo and cheerfully informing the brave lady that "At least you'll have common feet for the rest of your life though, eh?"
Firmly believing that by referring to oneself as SLOG ("Single, Living on Ginsters") on a dating website, you'll be fighting off the poontang with a shitty stick
Making your friend's kid cry at their garden party/barbecue by bellowing "It's a paddling pool not a piddling pool" into his stupid, crestfallen face.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
"Raoul Moat is a Legend"
Greetings, carbon-based life forms. That Facebook is a rum old business, what? All manner of half-wits poking you, telling the world what they had for their tea and joining groups where they can convene with like-minded empty vessels and pour out their ill-informed opinions into the ether.
The most noticeable recent manifestation of this has been the infamous "Raoul Moat is a Legend and that" page, where tards and retards came together to debate the whys and wherefores of the demise of the Rothbury Rambo in an air of cool-headed, rational reflection.
Of course, the page has disappeared now, The Powers That Be pressuring the intelligent, articulate founder into closing it down. And yet, the group's core message was correct. There is a legend. Here at last, we unveil The Legend of Raoul Moat.
"In the year of our Lord, 1973, by the banks of the Tyne river, to Mr and Mrs Moat there was born a bouncing, ginger-headed baby boy, who they named Raoul. Over the years the young Raoul grew to be a fine, strong man.
He subjected his body to great privations and undertook a punishing course of disciplined self-improvement, utilising a great many instruments of resistance as well as free weights. Also, he would inject his self with shitloads of steroids.
Eventually he had built a fearsome body that inspired fear in the hearts of men and lust in the gashes of orange-skinned ladies throughout the Tyne Side area. It was time to take his rightful place as The Gate Keeper, the Man of the Door. Raoul was guardian at the portal to the finest nightclubs in Newcastle. Wherever young folk wishing to cause "bother" would appear, whenever miscreants intending to dance to pop music while wearing training shoes should turn up, any time purveyors of narcotics supplied by a trade rival attempt to gain entry, Raoul would prevail.
They'd be slung out on their hint-ends and pummelled on the cobbles by the superlative custodian. His was a simple motto; "If you want to fuck on, you can fuck off".
Away from his noble labours, Moaty would attend to his many female concubines. Mighty were his appetites and many were his conquests, and so it came to pass that Raoul sired many offspring by a great number of boilers.
Ultimately though, he met The One. His Eve, his Salome, his soul mate. When he met Samantha, it was time for Raoul to put aside all other women and dedicate himself to the love of his life. Happily, Samantha returned his love, a child was born, and, for a time, Life was Good.
Into this promised land came bad men. The Coppas saw all that Raoul had worked for and achieved, and great was their envy. The Coppas vowed to persecute Raoul with all their might, to destroy his family, his livelihood, his sanity. To this end, they would continually arrest him when complaints were made that he had chinned some young 'un, had battered some lass or, fatefully, that he had Brayed a Bairn.
Found guilty in the white man's court, Raoul was sentenced to imprisonment. Worse still, Samantha left him, claiming, unreasonably, that she was now afraid of a steroid abusing, child-hitting jailbird.
Oh, disloyal woman. Truly you are the heir to Eden's serpent, yeah?
At last, Moaty was to be freed from his captivity. On the eve of his release, the faithless Samantha informed him that she was laying down with a member of the constabulary. His beloved, his one and only, was betraying him with one of his merciless tormentors.
The whoo-ah was shagging a Coppa! Probably sucking him off as well.
Great was the wrath of Raoul. Upon his release he obtained some shooters from his trusted aides. He confronted his enemies like any true avenging angel, by hiding outside the house for an hour or so, then bursting in and shooting their defenceless bodies. Samantha was left wounded, but the Coppa was slain. Although he wasn't dressed like a Coppa, more like Ralph Macchio in the 1984 feature film "The Karate Kid".
Stopping briefly to compose a forty-page letter full of self-pitying justifications and unhinged bluster, Raoul hit the road and made good his escape.
His thirst for vengeance still unquenched, Raoul sought out a more worthy adversary to test his battle skills. So he pulled up his car alongside a stationary police car and shot the unsuspecting, unarmed Coppa in the face.
Truly, Moaty was a mighty warrior.
Having stopped to gather supplies, Raoul headed to his childhood happy place, the scenic Northumberland village of Roathebury. With his knowledge of the terrain, his arsenal of powerful weaponry, and the smokies and battered sausages he had liberated from a Seaton Delaval chip shop, he was dug in for a long campaign.
For four days and four nights, the massed hordes of the Coppas could not track down Raoul. They found his car, but still they could not find him. They found his tent, but still he could not be located. They found one of his mobile phones, but still Moaty evaded their pursuit.
Finally, on Friday, the day of atonement arrived. Raoul made his presence known and took on the combined forces of Coppas, Bizzies and Filth. He calmly faced them down, aiming his weapon at himself and asking only for some water. At his encampment by the river, Raoul held his foes at bay.
From his Newcastle homeland, an emissary arrived with aid. His old friend from his time in the Bigg Market, Lord Gazza of Dunston brought him provisions and equipment. Had Gazza managed to get through with his bread, fowl and ale, Raoul may have gained the strength to go on. Had he clad himself in the proferred big jacket and gone for a bit fishing with Gazza, maybe he would have gained the peace of mind to surrender himself to his fate.
Alas, no. The Coppas intercepted Gazza and would not let him through, claiming that he was "aal pissed up, and that".
On a rain-soaked riverbank in the middle of the night, with his final hope gone, and his persecutors approaching ever closer trying to tazer his arse, Raoul acted for the last time and blew his brains out.
The People's child-hitting, domestic violence murderer of Hearts was dead.
And yet, his legacy lives on. Wherever an inadequate sociopath is engaging in 'roid-assisted bodybuilding, any time a mildly intoxicated young feller is being set about by bullet-headed thugs in bomber jackets outside a club, whenever a slack-jawed shaven ape is braying the shite out of his lass, wherever absolute fuckwits congregate on the internet to spew their ignorant, bile-filled opinions, then the legend of Raoul Moat lives on forever.
Here endeth the Legend of Raoul Moat."
Monday, June 28, 2010
Top o' the morning to you, my fine feline friends.
How 'bout that England team, what? A shower of knackers, every man jack of them. I was recently vacationing in sunny Spain and had the misfortune to watch an England game in an Irish bar. The crowd was an odd mix of red-shirted Englanders and Irish people. As the evening wore on, the former became more and more dejected while the latter struggled manfully not to laugh out loud in their faces.
Following the game there was a "turn" onstage, a cheeky chap with a guitar, fairly easygoing singalong stuff, not too bad all told. However, he was to be mere background to an enlightening lecture I was receiving at the bar regarding "The English" and how they were today basically degenerate chav savages (or "chavages" as I interjected). One of the problems with the English, it seems, is their ignorance of their culture.
At this point, brer singer struck up the opening to "The Galway Girl". Now, you know as well as I do that this song was written by the American singer/heroin enthusiast Steve Earle. Not so my Irish culture vulture. According to him it was written and recorded by the Irish group The Saw Doctors (a sort of Happy Shopper version of The Levellers, if you can imagine such a thing). Furthermore, this folk-rock classic is a wonderful celebration of all that is good and great about the Irish Republic today.
Now, I am not a fighting man, so I didn't put my Guinness-swilling interlocutor straight. I enjoy arguing in pubs with men of low breeding as much as anyone else, but I also enjoy having all my teeth, so I did what any decent fellow would do, namely resolved to compose an overly-long deconstruction of the song "The Galway Girl" and put it on the internet. That'll learn him.
Firstly, as we have mentioned, this song was written by an American. There are few things in life as stomach-churning as an American attempting to show how down with the "Ould Country" they are, blethering away about "the craic" and fondly recalling pints of green beer they have drank during St Patrick's Day parades. "The Galway Girl" is, on first listening, the musical equivalent of such suckholing.
Take the opening lines:
"Well, I took a stroll on the old long walk
Of a day -I-ay-I-ay
I met a little girl and we stopped to talk
Of a fine soft day -I-ay-I-ay"
Bitch please, what is all this "day I-ay I-ay" shit? You'll be wearing clogs and drinking from a tankard next, yeah?
Anyhow, to cut to the chase, he meets this girl who has black hair and blue eyes. They go for a walk, round the Salthill Prom, no less. Nice work there, shoehorning in a reference to a local attraction, bit of an authentic touch. Inevitably, with it being Ireland, the weather soon takes a turn for the worse.
"We were halfway there when the rain came down
Of a day -I-ay-I-ay
And she asked me up to her flat downtown
Of a fine soft day -I-ay-I-ay"
Ignoring the "I-ays" for now, let us pause to consider this lovely Irish colleen that we're getting all misty-eyed and dewy-decimal about. He's know her five minutes and she's already taking him back to her flat. Scarcely the actions of a virtuous, wholesome ribs-and-cabbage-cooking Ballykissangel type of lassie. In fact, let us not mince our words here, she sounds like a roundheels, some say hoor.
You may think that we are leaping to conclusions here and that they just went to her flat for a cup of coffee and a game of Connect 4. No they didn't. American singer-songwriters don't write songs about meeting an Irish girl and playing board games with her. This fellow is a rock star and rock stars are only interested in one thing; the sweet, sweet poontang. Essentially, the message of this song is "Hey guys, let me tell you about the fine piece of ass I nailed in Ireland when I was over there. Bitch was sweeeeet!"
Also, your rock star is a depraved, debauched character. Where you or I, having the good fortune to meet an Irish lass of such relaxed morals, would be content with some fairly straightforward sexual coupling, missionary position with the lights off, no talking, your Yankee doodle rocker is not going to be happy with such vanilla fare.
"And I ask you, friend, what's a fella to do
'Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue
So I took her hand and I gave her a twirl
And I lost my heart to a Galway girl"
Your American is a straight-talking, literal sort of a fellow. When he says he gave her a twirl, he means exactly that. He stuck a Cadbury's "Twirl" chocolate bar in her ass while he was riding her. That's exactly what he did. Then got her to eat it, I expect, the filthy bugger.
You may think I am reading between the lines a little too much here and seeing things that aren't there. Possibly it is I who am the filthy depraved one and not Steven Earle. Not so.
Steve Earle was interviewed by Hot Press, the Irish music paper, before the release of his 2000 album "Transcendental Blue", which features this song. When asked about what he most enjoyed when touring Europe, he replied "Oh my gaaad, I just love the candy bars you get in Britain and Ireland. Jeez man, they're great. Star Bars, Picnics, Lion Bars, it's all good, dude. I gotta tell you though, man, the Cadbury's Twirl, that's my favourite. I love them. And I like to stick them in a chick's ass when I'm hitting her up from the back." (My italics)
That interview isn't available anywhere online, but it definitely did happen. I wouldn't lie to you.
So there we have it. "The Galway Girl". Not by the Saw Doctors. Not a feelgood celebration of a vibrant, modern Ireland. It's a feelgood celebration of rich Americans coming to Ireland and banging skanky Irish whores while inserting confectionery into their anuses.
I'll bid you a good day, so I will.
Sunday, June 06, 2010
*Not that special.
Hey there, sports fans!
The world is girding its loins for the start of the Association Soccerball World Cup of Sport and this time it's in Africa. Whether it's Cassius Clay getting busy with the rope-a-dope, Matt Damon winning the ruggerbugger World Cup or the great Rwandan three-legged race meeting of 1994, the continent of Africa is synonymous with premier sporting events and this one is sure to be no different.
Assuming that the world's football supporters aren't all killed by machete-wielding township gangs or syringe-toting Aids-riddled crack whores, that is. Or beaten to death in custody by sadistic apartheid-era riot police.
Anyhow, let us put aside such mongering of doom and concentrate on delineating the Basile Boli from the Basil D'Oliveira, the Man City from the Sun City and the Tino Asprilla from the SWAPO guerilla.
Ladies and gentlemen of the rainbow nation, Ins and Outs am here!
Biting the bullet and informing one's friends that, having considered the matter from all angles, you quite like the Black-Eyed Peas and think that some of their songs are alright.
Making a mental note not to the give the taxi driver any backchat next weekend.
Harry "Choo Choo" Romero, wearing a sombrero and eating an "Aero".
Being firmly of the opinion that "King of my Castle" is the Wamdue Project's best song.
Looking at the World Cup fixtures and drooling like a dog at the prospect of ten consecutive days of three games a day.
Cheering oneself up with a quick look at the daft bands on the bill at the Download Festival. Who to see; Cancer Bats or Three Inches of Blood?
Shrugging off a plea for alms from a street mendicant by telling them "Sorry mate, but I need my money for drink, same as yourself".
Cooking sausages on the grill, then taking them outdoors to eat. The sausages aren't burned and the whole neighbourhood doesn't have to smell them.
Mr Sheen, who remains friendly and approachable, despite being rightly lauded for his ability to shine umpteen things clean.
Re-discovering how good The Pogues were.
On being asked whether you've read any Terry Pratchett, replying that it all seems "a bit hobgoblin for me".
Purchasing a t-shirt emblazoned with the legend "I am the Stig". That shirt doesn't just let the world know that you are a humorous, cultured fellow, it's also a guaranteed Fanny Magnet, my friend.
On the occasion of any would-be Paul Gambaccini telling you the Amazing Rock Fact that Dennis Wilson was the only Beach Boy who did surfing, calmly informing them that i) Everyone knows that and ii) They were called the BEACH Boys, yeah, not the fucking Surfer Boys.
Hotfooting it down the pound shop and blowing one's entire pay packet on England shit to wear and adorn one's personal quarters, vehicle and workplace.
Making a big fuss over the wife when she comes home from the hairdressers, telling her she's the absolute spit of Wim Kieft.
Loving Bell, loving Biv, but hating Devoe. Devoe can eat a dick.
Confidently assuring all and sundry that this will be the tournament where "Basti" Schweinsteiger comes of age as the world's leading footballer.
Molybdenum. Mo, 42. A good metal.
Ledley King, a modern day, non-turps-nudging Paul McGrath.
Advertisers using happy-clappy footage of African children playing football in an attempt sell us all manner of shit and shinola.
Plan B. On balance, hearing Mel B, Turbo B and Jazzy B collaborating on a version of "Honey to the Bee" would "be" preferable.
Any use of the despicable portmanteau word "confuzzled".
Ian Wright hawking his gurning mutton to any World Cup-themed advertiser willing to pay him. The failed-in-international-football knacker.
Women who think of themselves as "sassy". Everyone else thinks of you as "a pain in the hole".
The legions of teenaged mid-shelf pornography enthusiasts who are being deprived of Danny Dyer's relationship guidance thanks to Political Correctness Gone Mad.
Arriva Buses and their timetable overhaul that has turned a twenty minute bus journey into a gruelling thirty-five minute whistle stop tour of Northumberland's grimmest outposts. Progress indeed.
Tedious co-workers, with their full and frank discussions regarding the contestants on the previous evening's gripping episode of "Britain's Got Talents".
Mr Muscle. He doesn't love the jobs you hate at all, the lying shithouse. He hates them as well.
Justin Bieber. The soppy little wassock needs a haircut, toot sweet.
The powerful fug one encounters when entering a beer festival for the first time as the combined miasma of warm, hoppy ale mingles with the stench of several hundred overweight, unwashed science fiction afficianados and notebook-wielding CAMRAmen, all with bits of pie in their unkempt beards.
Ill-informed knackers who claim they are unaware of half of the countries competing in the World Cup. "NEW Zealand? I've never even heard of Zealand!"
The Ivory Coast, kidding themselves that Drogba will be able to play despite a broken arm. They appear to be confusing playing football in the World Cup with playing drums in a Def Leppard tribute band.
Deluded gutbuckets who feel that not only is it important that they sample each of the latest Walker's Crisps flavours, but that they share an in-depth breakdown of their findings with acquaintances.
Jingoism. Some of my best friends are jingos, leave them alone.
Going to Oberammergau for a relaxing weekend break and being unable to get down the street to the pub for hordes of gawking slackjaws watching some fucking Punch & Judy show.
Paying five large for a music magazine that informs you that The Beatles and Bob Dylan were really good (who knew?) and comes with a free CD that you'll listen to once at the very most.
The Common Eland. Big, fat ungainly sods, put to shame by the far more shapely Springbok.
Informing your mates in the pub, with disconcerting frankness, that you spent the earlier part of the day "Washing mah smalls and shaving mah balls".
Spreading the unfounded rumour that the World Cup opening ceremony will feature Winnie Mandela bending a free-kick through a flaming car tyre.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
I don't like the TV programme "Glee". There, I've said it.
I grew up in the eighties and I remember "Fame". Dreadful old bilge it was, too. That curly-headed fellow on the piano, the feisty plain lass, the one who was good at dancing and the black chap with the big pipe on him, we all knew them, we all loved them.
Anyhoo, despite being godawful stageschool guff, in "Fame" they did actually write original songs that went on to become real-life chart hits.
What were they thinking, the stupid 80s knackers? They should have simply finished each episode with a piss-weak karaoke/X-Factor singalong version of some old pish like REO Speedwagons or Lionel Richie.
Now, I'm sure "Glee" aficionados, or "Gleedophiles" as I believe they refer to themselves, will say the whole thing is delightfully tongue-in-cheek and works on many levels. Doubtless it is both post-modern and gloriously camp.
No it isn't. It's shit.
"Camp", along with the dread phrase "guilty pleasure" is usually the last resort of people who should know better defending the indefensible. "Ah well, the gays like it, therefore it's rilly rilly good, see?"
No, I don't see. Despite the fact that we live in a mainly tolerant and liberal society where gay people can freely express themselves in any way they wish, where there are bars, clubs, rugby teams, newspapers especially devoted to them and where mainstream culture has never been so welcoming towards and, indeed, influenced by gay people, some misguided individuals still choose to risk getting a criminal record or the threat of physical violence by cruising grubby public toilets with the intention of acting as fellators and/or fellatees.
Not everything associated with gay people is automatically a good thing.
"Glee" is a combination of nauseating teenage schmaltz and bad music. Also, the show is primarily responsible for exhuming and rehabilitating of "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey, the global anthem of the tard and the retard.
In summary, then, fuck "Glee", fuck it in its saccharine, faux-amateur caterwauling ass.
And that's swearing.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Phew, what a scorcher, yeah?
Yes, yes y'all, it's that time of year again. Summer's here and the time is right, for sour-faced blogging in the steet.
Eeeh, isn't it great? The lovely warm weather and that? Frankly, no, it isn't great. Far from it. It is, in fact, shite.
Firstly, if you work indoors, you will probably be too hot. Also, if your co-workers are, how shall I put it, a load of stupid cows, there will be no end of petty squabbling vis-a-vis air-conditioning, desk fans, open windows, all that shit. There will also be one pain in the hole bitch who insists on wearing a big jumper on the hottest day of the year, all the while insisting that the room is cold and must be kept airtight at all times.
Then of course there are the fat-headed conversations one is forced to listen to. It may help to while away the time if you award yourself a "spotter's badge" every time you hear one of the following:
* It's too hot to be stuck indoors in this heat!
* We should have ice creams, yeah?
* They should let us take our computers outside to work!
* If it goes above a certain temperature in here they have to let us go home. It's Health and Safety!
* Honestly, I think I'm, like, totally going to pass out!
* Hey, I wish I was in a beer garden, me!
* Eeeh, me clopper's foaming like bottled Bass!
To be honest, you might not hear that last one.
However, the most common fantasy does seem to be the wish to be transported to that most English idyll, the beer garden.
F. that S.
In fact, fuck that shit and come in its face. Beer gardens are rubbish. The chance to gulp down rapidly-warming lager while being pestered by wasps as somebody's dreadful children run amok is not this Edwardian chimney sweep's idea of a good time.
Roll on the Autumn.
Top 5 "First Hot Weather of the Year" Things
1. Acres of exposed pasty flesh on show.
2. The profusion of vile blue inky daubs on aforementioned A of EPS.
3. The submerged tenth and their penchant for deeply unstylish leisure wear, as purchased from Messrs Lonsdale, McKenzie, Henley and Everlast.
4. The affront to one's olfactory senses when strolling through the estate and every other shmuck has oozed out into their garden and is gleefully incinerating low quality hamburgers and slurping down canned lager.
5. The sight of slack-jawed fatsos sitting on their front steps, just soaking up the sun, sweating away like a fat dog's balls.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
It's time again to don a brightly-coloured rosette and bellow witlessly about a subject well beyond your understanding. However, before the World Cup starts, we have a General Election to get through.
How is the man on the Clapham Omnibus in the street to know who to vote for? In these times of spin doctors and four non-blondes, what's a floating undecided to do? Well, pull up a safe seat, help yourself to beer and sandwiches and the most select of all committees will help you differentiate the Bullingdon Club from a bull in a china shop, Conservative Future from Keisha and Mutya, Big Society from a big load of shite.
People of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Ins and Outs am here!
Replying to Monday morning workplace enquiries as to your weekend activities by muttering "Tapping ass" and refusing to elaborate further.
Getting hopped up on sloe gin and making out that you shot and ate a pygmy on a trip to Burundi "back in the day".
Resolving to vote in the election this time around purely because you've heard there's a smart lass works at the local polling station.
Attempting to grow a thin, waxed moustache after the style of Kevin Rowlands.
Pitching up at the newsagents to pay the papers bill (Telegraph, Spectator and Naughty 40s) and getting into a right old tizz with the biddy behind the counter who insists on spouting the purest tommyrot in claiming that Grandaddy are, like, sooo much better than Wilco, the wizened old whore.
A hotch-potch. The best kind of potch.
Preferring the work of New Order to that of Joy Division.
Sky Sports News gamely filling their time with news from the county cricket scene, despite nobody, including the participants and spectators, being interested.
Butting in to a discussion on electoral reform and asking what system they employ in Italy because "they have some seriously tidy boilers in parliament over there".
The glorious tradition of the short-arse full-back a la Bixente Lizarazu.
At the conclusion of a job interview, when asked if you have any questions, demanding to know which 1980s movie babe the panel would rather shtupp; Beverley D'angelo or Kelly LeBrock.
Rory McIlroy. A few more good rounds of golf and he'll be able to spend the rest of his twenties up to his nuts in porn starlet guts in a swimming pool full of money.
The almost lost art of the sing-song.
Making a sweet dollar as a business consultant by going into workplaces, firing any blokes with ponytails and/or facial piercings and telling the remaining staff they need to work a bit harder.
Maintaining an admirable stoicism despite being plagued by troublesome haemorhhoids.
Telling the good lady wife that the new top she has bought for going on holiday definitely lends her an air of a young Heike Drechsler that really gets you going.
Referring to anything that is of excellent quality as being 'weapons-grade', eg "I was in Powerhouse the other night for the 'Mr Tight Buns' contest and, I tell you, it was full of weapons-grade cock in there".
Having a sticker on your toolbox that says "No tools are kept in here overnight".
Great Ormond Street Hospital. They should call it Bloody Great Ormond Street Hospital!
Thoughtful friends who, having been to see "Iron Man 2" at the pictures, give you a comprehensive rundown of the film's highlights and urge you in no uncertain terms to go and see it.
Anybody using the word "fooked". The faux-swearing solution of the fool.
Dreadful mates attempting to put the bite on a brother and hit him up for sponsor money. H the R, jack, and don't come back!
Scouring the fleshpots of Soi Cowboy to find the tidiest ladyboy in your price range, only to spend the entire evening boring the arse off him/her discussing the music of Slayer and the guitar set-up favoured by lead axeman Kerry King.
Claiming the place you live "has its own micro climate". Fuck off with that shit; sometimes it rains on you, sometimes it don't. And vice versa.
Having policies made out of planks, who are you like, Huckleberry effing Finn?
Log flumes. In fact, all flumes, period.
David Cameron's informal smart casual wear. Wear a tie, man, you're a politican not a member of fucking Coldplay.
Curry strength preference machismo.
Caravan enthusiasts. Two words, my chemical-toilet-trading friend; Easy Jet.
Office politics. Like normal politics but even more boring and with a greater emphasis on dumbass bitches moaning about flexi time.
The fool who prefaces his rotten anecdotes with "This is a funny story" or "You'll like this one".
Whitehall mandarins. Not as sweet and juicy as the far superior Westminster satsumas.
The paintings of Jack Vettriano. Fit only for use as cover illustrations for Mills and Boon novels.
The pompitous of love. Shite.
Telling anyone who will listen that, on polling day, you'll be straight down the local primary school to make your selection and then stick it in the box. "And then I'll vote in the election, eh? Eh?". People love a paedophilia joke funny in the midst of a General Election, yeah?
Political Satire. Normally either weak sub-Two Ronnies rubbish or some herbert in a suit reading out something an MP has said and pulling a face at the end.
The affected mock-folkie singing of matey boy out of The Decemberists. What a waste of raggle-taggle rations.
Pixie Lott and Pol Pot gorging on Aeroflot hotpot.
Dudley Do-Rights exhorting everyone to vote in order to defeat the BNP. For all they know, they may be persuading an idle BNP supporter to get off their hintend and vote. After all, most racists do seem to be big fat lazy sods.
Going ski-ing in Scotland. One suspects there won't be the exotic apres-ski ambience in the bar afterwards when surrounded by redheaded fellows drinking pints of "heavy" or Tennants and discussing the recent performances of Kilmarnock and Greenock Morton.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Runners and riders, slippers and sliders, hangers and gliders, put your palms in the air and shout "Chocadooby!", for Easter time is upon us.
For forty days and almost as many nights, the Ins and Outs Committee have been hatching, batching and finally despatching the latest choc-ful guide to determine the Double Decker from the Carol Decker, the Galaxy Counter from the dastardly bounder and the Turkish Delight from the big load of shite.
Stop being cross and open your eggs, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!
Gabbling enthusiastically to your mate Debs about the new Selfridges in Town, that is full to bursting with outfits that are Simply To Die For.
Sourly acknowledging that you're a complicated man, who no one understands but your woman.
On the occasion of one of your golfing partners hitting their ball into a water hazard, bellowing enthusiastically "Riverside, motherfuckah!"
Nurturing a long-term grudge against some prick from Boxercise class following a disagreement regarding the best one out of Animal Collective. Even the fool knows that Panda Bear totally owns Geologist, right?
Engaging in a challenging, thought-provoking debate on the nature of evil with the select group of thinkers who have joined the Facebook group "Time to string up the sick paedo f**Ks".
While completing your year-end appraisal at work, listing next year's objectives as "Mo' cars, mo' hos, mo' clothes, mo' blow".
Intoxicated alehouse film buffs who tell you that you ought to watch "that V for Viennetta" as it's a right good show.
Refusing to ever answer the front door on the grounds that anyone who knows you will phone anyway.
Concluding your closing remarks to the interview panel with the somewhat cocksure claim that you are "bigger and bolder and rougher and tougher. In other words, sucker, there is no other."
Having been shown cameraphone pictures of a dreadful mate's new mountain bike, glaring disdainfully at his gut and telling him he'd do better to spend more time riding it and less time taking pictures of the fucker.
Nobby Solano's hobby: Meccano.
Making out that you served a term in office as the Mayor of Hillingdon "back in the day".
Rolling like a 90s G, claiming that the ladies be constantly beeping you on your pager.
Going hiking in the Lakes with Method Man out of Wu-Tang Clan and reminding him to "bring the motherfucking rucksack".
Asking an acquaintance about their studies/work project/hopes and dreams, letting them chunter on for about five minutes, then grinning vacantly and telling them it "sounds canny".
Acting as a sort of agony uncle stroke relationship counsellor to the younger members of your set, who are blissfully unaware that your sage advice has been lifted wholesale from gangsta rap albums and 70s blaxploitation films.
Mistaking an escaped boxing glove-wearing kangaroo for a mouse, with hilarious consequences.
Pinning the blame for disappointing fourth-quarter results squarely on the failure of your corner boys to rotate the stash houses often enough, with the resultant confiscation of the package by the five-oh the inevitable outcome.
Buttoning up one's greatcoat all the way to the chin, after the fashion of the Hussars.
Pontius Pilate. Yes, there was that hand-washing bidness, but people forget the good things he did; developing a series of stretching movements that improve balance and posture; inventing the small flame that keeps a gas boiler working and pioneering the fashion for short-sleeved white shirts with epaulettes. Quite a guy.
Part-time workers. Lazy fucks.
Having been talked into attending an Emergency Services Personnel Club Night at "Bojangles" nite spot on the premise that it's "guaranteed waal-to-waal dorty lasses", spending the entire evening making uncomfortable small-talk with a lady policeman with a face like Karel Poborsky and eventually leaving alone, having failed to secure even a solitary top or finger.
Anybody attending a concert by a "tribute band". You're worse than Space Hitler.
The misguided Talk Sport executive who pitched a soccer talk-in show to station bosses that was to be co-hosted by Phil Thompson and Terry Venables.
Heinz Big Soup. Shit soup more like!
Shameless. "Bread" for a generation of slack-jawed sexting shitbirds.
Chaps going to the pictures by themselves. Surely New Liebour have a "Weirdo Tsar" or similar to get these fellers on a register of some sort?
The squat bald chap who stands at the bus stop wearing a long black leather trenchcoat and ninja-style headgear. A putz of the first water.
Having a real good chinwag regarding the respective plus points of Bombardier and London's Pride with a cove who looks like one of the Dubliners.
Gathering your management team together, telling them that they're not just employees, they're more like members of the family before explaining that, unfortunately, times are hard and one person must be made redundant, before pointing at each of them in turn while sing-songing "Ibble, obble, black bobble, ibble, obble, out!" and breaking it to the unlucky soul that their ass is, regrettably, grass.
Messing wit' Andy Carroll's woman.
Claiming that the mind is the body's largest erogenous zone. No, man, it's the cock and balls.
Pitching up at the lingerie section at M&S and telling them, with a slight leer, that you want to buy a freudian slip for the wife, like your mam used to wear.
Taking an unseemly delight in scum-on-scum gaolhouse rucks.
Joining in with pub conversations regarding Salmon I Have Caught, when the nearest you ever got to landing one was buyng a rock salmon supper from the chipper of a Friday.
Kasparov's Nimzo-Indian defence in game 10 against Kramnik in 1995. That shit was weak, Garry lad.
Being asked to leave the Rotary Club fundraising dinner after a heated discussion with the local Chief Elk who be talking some pure BS, saying that TLC were better than Destinys Child. Damn.
The clerical worker who suffers stationery/stationary confusion. They'll go nowhere.
Squeezin' and a cheesin' over old pictures of your locality. Eeeh look, some of the buildings are different, but some of them, mark you, some of them, are still much the same. Who'd have fucking guessed?
Monday, March 01, 2010
Howdy-doody, my maple-syrup-loving lumberjack chums!
The Ins and Outs Committee have spent the last few weeks glued to the dizzying spectacle of the Winter Olympics in Canada.
Anybody who isn't enthralled at the prospect of staying up all night to watch a bunch of posho poseurs, Scandanavian stringbeans and and moosefucking mounties titting about in the freezing cold must be severely lacking in sporting blood. So join us in getting all luged up, then bobbing and a-slaying our way through the snow to decide who makes the podium and who languishes in odium.
Triple your axel, slapshot your puck and give it some big air, because Ins and Outs am here!!!!
Trying to impress a nail technician in Wetherspoons by claiming to be an influential lay member of the General Synod.
Tim Burton. The feller needs to get a proper haircut and stop making bairns films for goths.
The Cambrian Visitor Centre at Oswestry. Makes Walter Disney's place in Florida look like a two-bit dog-and-pony show in comparison.
Having the same thing for lunch every day.
Tex-Mex sex text pests.
Being a big fan of toing, yet strangely indifferent towards froing.
Telling your equally feather-brained workmates that you've been off your food since you heard about Cheryl and Ashley, you're that cut up about it.
Making the extra man count by moving the ball about quickly.
Alvaro Arbeloa and Yannick Noah, buying a hover mower in Goa.
Despite knowing the square root of bugger all about the game, making authoritative remarks regarding "slow ball", "going through the phases" and "the gain line" when the Six Nations is on in the pub.
Being so middle-class that towards the end of weekly marital relations, you get the balsamic vinegar strokes.
Sipping an occasional thoughtful bottle of Netto strawberry milkshake.
Simone de Beauvoir. Always nicely turned out, she was.
Scandalising your bloke-rock enthusiast mates with the shocking assertion that R Kelly's "Ignition" is superior to the entire output of Oasis. And Kasabian.
Claiming to own the same make and model of shotgun as Ted Nugent.
Knowing where you can get a city centre pint for £1.59.
Dining out on your entirely fictitious story of how you once appeared on the lacklustre early 90s Bruce Forsyth gameshow "Takeover Bid".
Telling all and sundry about the cheese sandwich you just had, emphasising, in a faux-American accent, the fact that it contained "Red Lay-cester" cheese.
On receiving a heavier than expected rates demand and finding the domestic coffers rather shallow, suggesting to the GLW that she might consider hitting the streets and turning some motherfucking tricks with her bitch ass.
"Ice Road Truckers" Yorkie-munching fucks should get a job driving somewhere sunny or shut they yap.
Putting on side by boasting about how you go drinking with a couple of ex jockeys, one of whom once rode one of Piggott's mounts.
Making a bold, clear and uncompromising statement about yourself by commissioning the manufacture of a pair of car registration plates incorporating the Playboy Bunny logo.
At the Captain's Sherry Morning at your local country club, bellowing "Man, this club is well full of grims, innit?" into the ear of your dreadful mate.
Tracing one's family tree. End of the day, they're all some dead motherfuckers now. Who cares?
Two greying late thirties fellers, sagely discussing the relative merits of Superdry and North Face waterproof jackets over pints of overpriced Peroni.
Having to be physically restrained from stoving in the head of some cracker ass fool who be claiming that The Beezer was, like, soooo much better than The Topper.
Misguided "Frankenstein" scientists, cross-breeding a Fox with an Otter and creating an Oxter.
Home brew bores who tell you how their latest batch didn't taste that great, then adding with a slight chuckle "It does the job, though!"
Any fool who thinks a piebald horse is one with a "shaven haven".
Being collared by some boring bollix in the pub hellbent on telling you in pitiless detail about his latest football accumulator and how it went awry.
Andrea Dworkins. They should get her on that Gok's show for a makeover. That might cheer her up, if she wasn't dead.
Breathlessly telling the girls about the two holidays you've got booked; a week potholing in the Peak District, then five days cornholing in Cornwall.
Reckoning you'd probably be pretty good at glass-blowing if you ever tried it.
Drunkenly attempting to make conversation with an intelligent woman and ending up telling her that your favourite philosopher is Jacques Cousteau.
Whenever the subject arises, constantly chirping up that you "divvent like that fancy Starbucks shite, I just like normal coffee, me" as though your lack of interest in or knowledge of voguish coffee solutions is some notable badge of merit.
Folk who really should go for a pint with their work colleagues, for whom their interminable tales of workplace woes may hold the slightest interest.
Boy George returning his hyperactive lizard to the pet store, asking, with sickening inevitability, if it can be exchanged for a calmer chameleon.
Applying for a Crisis Loan at the nash and putting on the form that you blew all your dough on chronic and hos, when it was actually spent on baccy, Ruddles County and World of Warcraft shit.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Happy New Year, yeah?
2010, what? I predict another fun-filled twelvemonth of warm, temperate weather, continued economic prosperity and The Sugababes fielding an unchanged lineup.
As we stride forth into a brave new world, who can we turn to keep us apprised whether something is bright and breezy or trite and cheesy, who is bringing da ruckus and who is thick as fuckus?
It's the Ins and Outs Committee, that's who? Don't you even know that? Wrap yourself up well in your overcoat of orthodoxy, your Wellingtons of well-being and your snood of savoir-faire, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!
Those neckerchief/scarf deals that ladies who work in banks and travel agents often wear.
When asked by the GLW if you approve of her new hair do, replying "Of course, my dear. In fact, you resemble nothing less than a young Mordechai Richler".
After listening to your mate spend twenty minutes outlining mournfully that after eleven years of marriage, his missus had found a fancy man and moved out, clasping him firmly on the shoulder and saying sympathetically, "I know, I know. And on top of that, they reckon at least five pubs a day throughout the country are closing".
Getting into a foul-tempered slanging match with a fellow competition angler regarding which is better; Horslips or Planxty.
Addressing any young fellers one encounters in the street and on the shop floor as "N-Dubz".
Serendipity. The bestest dipity there is.
Hoping against hope that this will be the year you catch the eye of the judging panel of Rear of the Year.
On being told by your significant other what you're having for tea, replying, Big Bopper style, "You KNOW what I like!"
Spending a long, cold, sleepless night searching one's soul yet still being unable to decide which one you'd rather do, Daisy Duke or Wonder Woman?
After a testing early morning bathroom visit, concluding ruefully that last night's Mexicana pizza should, in hindsight, have been the less fiery Bolognese option.
Harbouring a foolish, quixotic dream that one day you'll frolic gaily at Goodyear Heights in Akron, Ohio.
Pretentious Tosh, Peter's slightly effete son.
Meeting the girls of a Saturday morning for some shoe shopping, a cheeky mochaccino and a discussion regarding the relative merits of the cast members of "Glee".
Digging Hardcastle, being bummed out by McCormick.
As a well-upholstered fellow, being firmly of the opinion that Ancelotti is sartorially far superior to Mancini.
Confiding to the counter staff in the 24-hour takeaway that you're edging towards a chicken kebab but are seeking assurance that all the chicken meat is cruelty-free.
Telling people you own a vintage Pontiac Firebird that you keep in a lock-up garage somewhere, convincing nobody.
Being on nodding terms with a couple of roofers.
Spending a weekend locked down alone in the house, with a cupboard full of Bombay Bad Boys, several litres of banana milkshake and a DVD box set of "Boon".
Trudging wearily through snedge.
The accumulated sleck and grease on the poles you hold onto as you wait to get off the bus.
Drinking too much premium strength imported lager and becoming convinced that Martin Amis is robbing all your best ideas, then hopping into a taxi to Soho to try and kick his head in.
Making the somewhat vainglorious claim that "If a bee had knees, they would look like me".
That cock-knocker did the song about reality show types getting "stars in their eyes". You don't see much of him these days, do you?
"Don't stop believing" by Journey. The ironic soft-rock anthem of a nation of bell ends.
Adult-oriented film presentations whose credibility is compromised by the costume department's use of deeply unconvincing nurse uniforms.
Folk who should know better attempting to tell a brother that the band Placebo have any place in a decent society.
Golf buggy users. If golf is too strenuous for you it's time to take to the bath-chair, pops.
The feelings of deep self-loathing induced by having to use the expression "close of business" in a workplace e-mail.
Online poker enthusiasts, thinking they are some hotshot cybernaut Las Vegas whizzkid, when in fact they're every bit as tragic as those baccy-stained betting shop habitués, except without the ample access to free pens.
Glass-backed workplace shithouses, constantly tubbyboohooing about their chairs and wanting a "special mouse".
Shooting rubber bands at the stars. Excluding the Sun, the nearest star is 4.24 light years away. Honey child, it ain't going to happen.
The Great Ziggurat of Ur. It's okay, but great?
Attempt to pitch a little woo towards a young lady in Tingle-Tangles Nite Spot, only for her and her awful mates to spend the entire evening sucking in their guts and second chins and posing, rictus grins akimbo, for one another's impromptu photo shoots.
Going to an art gallery, finding that the walls are covered with portraits of freckled redheaded women with disturbing, gurning expressions before realising, with tedious inevitability, that you are attending the Catherine Tate Modern.
Sucker-ass fools who suffer from formerly/formally confusion.
Taxpayers Alliance types whose belief is constantly beggared by the fact that a council occasionally wastes a quid or two. Dude, there was a bloke who used to live near me and he was shagging his Alsatian. That's the type of thing that beggars belief, not some civil servants getting a booze-up at Christmas.