Monday, October 11, 2010
Here we are again then, what? It's hard to believe that this time tomorrow we shall be into October, the tenth month of the year. How time flies.
Anyhoo, better late than never, as necrophiliacs are wont to opine. Let's get crackin' with the knackin' in this season of ghosts, ghouls and Hassan Kachlouls. It's time to sort out the roman candles from the roman sandals, the catherine wheels from the Catherine Tates and the jack o'lanterns from the Esther Rantzens. Hermans and Morticias, Ins and Outs am here!
Bricks and mortar. Pestle and mortar. Never bricks and pestle, though. WHY NOT?
Chirping up "Most of my heroes never appeared on no stamp" at the slightest opportunity, until it is pointed out that your number one hero is her majesty The Queen, who you think is a marvellous woman.
On entering Djingo Django's niterie, ensuring you remove your cable stitch arran sweater so you feel the benefit on the way home.
Harbouring grave concerns that when those Chilean miners emerge from the ground that they may have mutated into morlocks.
Referring to any older bloke wearing big gold-rimmed spectacles as "Frank Butcher".
After enduring Debbie the Thomas Cook rep outline the various events to enhance your holiday in Lloret de Mar for a small additional consideration (including the medieval banquet, the trip to the lace making factory and an evening with the Fabulous Drifters doing all their old Motown hits), piping up to ask where was the best place to lay your hands on some 'mucky pictures'.
The golden apple of eternal desire.
Knowing several of Hungary's leading anti-semites and maintaining that, once you get them off the subject of the global zionist conspiracy, they're actually Bloody Good Blokes.
Loving Bootsie, but having naught but contempt for Snudge. Snudge can eat a dick.
Modish New York-based rap combo Das Racist.
Pushing pineapples, shaking trees.
Shooting the breeze with your bros on the stoop, 40s and blunts akimbo, discussing the latest edition of "Peter Andre: The Next Chapter".
Declining invitations to fancy dress Hallowe'en parties with a slight shudder and a disdainful muttered "FTS".
During an alehouse discussion of the latest Politically Correct outrage, giving your gullible mate a brief recap of the (wholly fictional) case of the drug dealer who was prosecuted by Trading Standards for selling cannabis resin using prohibited imperial measures such as quarter ounces and 1/8th ounces.
The scope for light-hearted badinage provided by the fact that one of your dreadful mates is stepping out with an older lady who, by all accounts, is a "squirter" when roused to the heights of passion.
Skilfully negotiating difficult bunker shots out of wet sand.
The good people at Go Compare. They can screen as many annoying, Absolutely-plagiarising adverts as they want, they saved this soul brother a cool 15 notes on his home insurance. Props!
Sagely deciding that once the Euromillions jackpot reaches £90m plus, it has at last become worth winning.
Craig Levein, dourly choosing not only to park the bus, but to clamp all of its wheels, then fill the bus with quick-drying cement, then burying the bus under a millions tons of girders. And not playing with any forwards.
Voguish internet pop group OK Go. They should spend more time trying to write some tunes and less time titting about with wacky videos, yeah?
Getting into a street-based slanging match with the lady from the tanning salon regarding which Miliband brother is hotter. It's Ed, of course.
Having sleepless nights fretting about whether Blanket Jackson's stated ambition to be a film producer and director will ultimately work out for him.
Becoming disproportionately excited at the prospect of a new Wetherspoon's pub opening nearby.
Using the dread phrase "To cut a long story short". Never mind cutting it short, don't tell it.
Jogging types going on and on about "sports massages". Have a fucking hot bath, rub on some liniment and get over yourself, Yifter the shifter.
Enduring a cramped bus journey to work every day, cheek-by-jowl with a hundred or so Farming students, all yacking away interminably about alcopops, mobile phone contracts and crop rotation.
Getting a job that almost entirely involves accessing various computer systems, analysing the data therein before updating your findings on another system, then grumbling every day that you "don't like this modern technology". Here's a thought, Wat Tyler. I don't enjoy the smell of animal shit. THAT'S WHY I'VE NEVER WENT FOR A FUCKING JOB CLEANING THE CAGES AT A ZOO, YOU OLD CUNT.
Radical fundamentalists. Radical? It's not 1994 any more, old horse. Call yourself Sick Fundamentalists or To Die For Fundamentalists, yeah?
Nigel de Jong. A fucking knacker.
Fannying on elaborately decorating cupcakes.
Foodie types "re-discovering" the joys of such proletarian foodstuffs as tripe, scouse, scrag end and that. They're shite.
"Ask Rhod Gilbert". They should have asked him to be funny.
Banksy's "subversive" Simpsons titles sequence. Why are people still paying this tiresome Rik-the-student cornhole coin of the realm for his rubbish?
Sir Alan, Lord of Sugar. Just because his contestants have been selectively edited to appear at their maximum level of bellenditude, he's still a hairy-faced little spiv who makes money by humiliating members of the public.
Greedy-guts hotel patrons, queueing up at the restaurant at 7am for their all-you-can-conceivably-eat all-inclusive three course breakfast.
Paul Gauguin. Yes, some bonny paintings, that's a known fact, but one raises a disapproving eyebrow at his penchant for schtupping 13 year old lassies. Hang your post-impressionist, primitivist paedo head in shame, Paulie!
Middle-aged men who tell you, with a sombre tone in their voice, that they were rather disappointed with the new Debenhams store in town, having hoped it would feature rather more household items rather than specialising largely on clothing.
Anybody using a lift for a downstairs journey of less than four floors.
When relaxing in the lounge area at Pussy Galore's gentleman's club, putting the issue of whether you would like a lap dance onto the back burner, while you and your lady friend thrash out the thorny matter of whether you should opt for a Crag Hopper rucksack or one made by The North Face.