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?