Monday, September 06, 2010

Ins and Outs: September '10

Good morning, children, it's September and we're going back to school like Hassan Kachloul. Sit down and face the front 'cos we be teaching like Doctor Beeching and we got education like Roy Castle had dedication. It's time to hit the books, crooks, as we show you who got Key Skills and who got no frills, who's Ivy League and who's Ivy Tilsley, who's off to Oxbridge and who's off to Poxbridge.

Snatch up your satchels, pick up your pencils and let the cane take the strain, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


The return of the wide, stretchy headband, a female accessory largely confined for the last twenty years to European pornographic films.
Thinking sad thoughts while chopping onions in the belief that the two will cancel each other out, with a tear-free countenance the end product.
Being genuinely enthused by the purchase of a new blue belt.
Becoming embroiled in a tumultuous discussion with a jobbing swineherd regarding which CC is the better; Sabathia or Peniston.
The many fine products to be found in Asda's "Smart Price" range.
Donning a hair shirt and wandering in the desert for forty days and forty nights, living solely on locusts, returning with the new-found conviction that, yes, I enjoy the music of Mumford and Sons, and the devil take anyone who has a problem with this.
Having a great fondness for fire but, conversely, no love at all for brimstone.
When expressing distaste that would previously have merited a response of "It's shite!", instead opining in a condescending manner, that "I don't care for it".
The novels of Tim Willocks.
Wondering in an idle moment where one might purchase that white stuff they smear on the inside of an empty shop's windows to obscure the view within.
Mount Parnassus in Greece. It's bliddy great, man!
Witton Gilbert. Sounds like it could be the name of an early American humorist, actually a village in Durham.
Upon espying an undignified drunken individual in the street or in a low tavern, quietly singing the chorus to Sade's "Smooth Operator".
Jon Lajoie.
Massive lorries.
A simple repast of fresh baguette, brie and a cheeky Chablis.
Receiving a terse e-mail from those pricks in Human Resources about the job advert you drafted specifying that any prospective Administrative Assistant will ideally be "a lady in the street and a freak in the bed".
During a boring meeting, in the event of somebody happening to say "Let's move on", coming right back at them with "Cos it's time to groove on!".
Getting into the barber's chair and producing a picture of Joleon Lescott and asking for a haircut like his.
Weeping salty tears of regret at the passing of GMTV but being broad-minded enough to give "Daybreak" a fair crack of the breakfast television whip.
Being nice as pie when confronted by a dreadful mate's new lady friend, but at a later date confiding to a trusted associate that you suspect she has polished more helmets than the kitman of the Dallas Cowboys.


Having an inexplicable mental short-circuit that, when talking to new parents, causes you to mix up the expressions "rug rat" and "cunt turd".
William Hague's unconvincing "I love shagging lasses, me. Right up the fanny" shtick
Leaving the handbrake on when moving away. What a chump!
Aston Villa FC. The last time the wheels came off that quickly with a Randy Lerner in charge was during "Confessions of a Driving Instructor".
The sad realisation that people you have previously regarded as friends are now espousing the virtues of listening to the music of Biffy Clyro. For shame.
Sky Sports News vanishing from our Freeview screens. Rupert Murdoch, hang your money-grubbing wrinkly old bollock of a head in shame!
That cunt off the BT adverts with his poxy football poetry.
Swanning into the pub in your expensive new sunglasses, to be told by the barmaid that they make you look like a paedophile.
Foolish women of Coventry who misunderstand the concept of cat litter.
Harry Hi-Fi banging on about which NAD amp and sub-woofer he's just bought. So what? You're only going to play U2, Simple Minds and The Nits on it.
Workplace biscuit-based overexcitability.
"Robson Green's Extreme Fishing". He never showed his strange-accented, shortarsed face when Moaty was on the prowl, the little fucking karaoke-singing dwarf.
That William Hague-looking little ginger bollix on the adverts for The Sun.
Sunday lunchtime tall tales regarding the previous evening's romantic liaisons that invariably end with the lady involved receiving "a moothful of Bulletproof Monk".
Radio 4. A load of lah-de-dah ponces in John Lennon glasses talking out their holes.
Golf buggy users. A certain indicator of the proper knacker.
The Man, shaking down and fitting up Paris Hilton again, trying to break her like a beautiful sex-video butterfly on a wheel.
The News of the World, getting up in Rooney's shit when he's got an England match to play. Time was, a man's use of dollymops was a private matter.
Spending one's Saturday evenings surrounded by bearded Wishbone Ash and Director's Bitter enthusiasts and wondering where the good times went.
Umbro and all their works. Execrable.