Monday, March 01, 2010

Ins and Outs: March '10




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!!!!

In


Trying to impress a nail technician in Wetherspoons by claiming to be an influential lay member of the General Synod.
Regina Spektor.
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.
Daggering.
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.



Out

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.