Saturday, November 06, 2010

Ins and Outs: November '10




Wac-a-day, kiddies! Polly wanna cracker. Ooh, mandingo! Polly want that cracker bad.

The clocks may have gone back, but at Ins'n'Outs Headquarters we're only going forward, like some sort of online shark with the smell of the unorthodox in its nose.

Or something.

Proselytising and breathalysing like Tipsy McStagger meets Jimmy Swaggart, it's time to find out who's Captain Palatick and who's Cash in the Attic, who's Eight Ace and who's Ace of Base, who's stewed to the gills and who's Stuart MacGill.

Charge your glasses, shake your asses, shave your gashes and/or taches, 'cos dem little old Ins and Outs am here!


In


Getting into the music of CJ Bolland relatively late in the day.
Convincing a suggestible public house acquaintance that the DJ and producer Adamski's real name was Adam Ski.
Loving five million hogs, yet conversely, hating on six million dogs.
Having read about some of the daft things that so-called "sufferers" insist on doing, concluding that OCD stands for Obviously a Complete Dick.
Claiming that you used to go dry stone-walling in the Cheviots with Phats out of Phats and Small 'back in the day'.
In Hotsy-Totsy's Nite Spot, attempting to curry favour with a trainee nail technician by telling her that you got your sweater from the new Peacock's in town. Only nine quid, yeah?
Being crestfallen that you were once again overlooked by the Mobo awards shortlisting panel.
The early season form of Gareth Bale. It's always nice to see one of them fellers off of "Planet of the Apes" doing well for themselves.
Instigating a blood feud with the members of a cadet branch of your family following their erroneous claims that HSBC is the best high street bank, when you are staunch followers of the Barclay's cause.
Attempting to set up a Birmingham-based society for ex-patriot American Republicans, to be called, with nauseating inevitability, the Bostin' Tea Party.
Considering yourself a modern-day, five-a-side Platini after you play a through ball with the outside of your foot.
Ruefully wishing that John Selwyn Gummer had gone to your school, 'cos if he had, you'd have called him John Selwyn Bummer. That would have learned him.
Throwing a very swish dinner party incorporating a quick and easy starter you got from Nigella, a funky chicken dish you saw Jamie do, and a Wall's Viennetta for afters.
Asthmatic asiatics, swimming in the Adriatic.
During your monthly meeting to "touch base" with your "bod from Human Resources", asking if they can do anything to get your job title changed from Deputy Co-ordinator (Purchasing) to Funkmaster General (Purchasing).
Eleven labia-licking lesbians lolling luxuriantly by a lake.
The knockabout slapstick stylings of Titus Brambles, good clean fun in an era of weak-mocking foul-mouthery.
While dining at Gordon Ramsay's priciest foodhole, asking the sommelier if you can have blue pop with your turbot fillet.
Having a smartphone full to bursting point with delightful photos of your rabbit Flopsy, your kitten Topsy and your guinea pig Mopsy, and being quite willing and able to talk your girls through them during work time.
Thinking wistfully of the jumbo 'dogs of Prague when handed a soggy Ye Olde Oak effort in a finger bun at a bonfire night spectacular.


Out

Jazzbos with Asbos and Detroiters with goitres.
Bonfire night tubbyboohooing from uptight pet owners who expect the whole world to forego its fireworks just because their dog is a puff.
Loudly proclaiming that your favourite club is a 1-iron. You can barely get an 8-iron fifteen foot above the ground, you bullshitting article!
People who try to convince you to go to Halloween parties on the promise that there will be scantily clad women there. Fuck off! I live in the north-east, where a woman doesn't consider herself correctly attired for the evening unless you can see at least 80% of her knockers and 46% of her arse.
Taking three valuable hours out of your schedule to watch some knacker on BBC4 explaining horror films. Horror films are the province of the heavy metal enthusiast, the piercings-and-tattoos enthusiast and the weirdo. There's your history of horror, less than a minute. Chop chop!
Magic Johnson's magic johnson. Giving someone HIV isn't much of a magic trick.
Sweet peas. Not sweet, not peas. Shit flowers, that's what they should call them.
Twisty-faced office workers, always boodyhoodying about the lighting and their chairs, as though they were being forced to work at gunpoint in one of the less salubrious Chilean copper mines.
Constantly scanning and re-scanning your Freeview box in the hope of discovering ever more specialist 'telephone masturbation' channels.
Going on about the latest episode of "Downton Abbey". F that S! I'd rather watch fucking "Down's Syndrome Abbey"! And I wouldn't even watch that, because it sounds like it would be distasteful and exploitative.
Steveland Bruce and his raggle-taggle band of cocknockers, bottlers and shithouses.
Viewers of ITV's popular "X Factor" programme. Also, those who consider that not watching the show somehow makes them Umberto effing Eco. A plague on both your houses, yeah?
Attempting to deploy Brian Eno's "Music for Airports" as sexy time 'make-out' music.
Prating dullards with their odious comparisons between Wayne Rooney's wages and those of a soldier.
Rooney has scored 26 goals for his country. Between the combined strength of the Army, they can't muster a single England goal between them. You do the math!
Having a dodgy knee.
Bleating on about the americanisation of Halloween like some jaundiced Peter Kays. Yes, some manky old turnips with candles in and bobbing for apples was the apogee of olde English culture, wasn't it?
Proudly telling anyone who'll listen that you consider yourself to be a Blodwyn Pig connoisseur.
Smokers obstructing public house doorways. Begone, foul-smelling scapegrace and let the gentlefolk past!
Claiming that you've just got back from the Commonwealth Games, where you were meant to be representing England in the skeet-shooting, except you had the squits the whole time.
Feeling obliged to point out that it has never been suggested that Magic Johnson ever infected anybody with HIV.

1 comment:

NON-WORKINGMONKEY said...

Seriously, man:

Wac-a-day, kiddies! Polly wanna cracker. Ooh, mandingo! Polly want that cracker bad.

Uh huh