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.