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.