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

British People in Hot Weather

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

Ins and Outs: May '10 - Election Special*

*Not that special.

Hush up!

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.