Friday, December 03, 2010

Ins and Outs: December 2010

Sausage party!

Christmas time is here again, o-u-t spells "out". Conversely, i-n spells "in". Love it or loathe it, Christmas is the time for feigning delight at deeply disappointing gifts, Boxing day defeats in freezing cold north-west shitholes and extra episodes of Eastenders.

In short, a spunk-drinking festival of the first water.

On the flipside, there are some boons, such as a few days off work, a workplace sexual harassment 'Get Out of Jail Free card' in the the form of mistletoe, and the chance to get stuck into the latest hilarious DVD collection from the "Top Gear" team.

Shoot me now.

Ins and Outs am here!


Taking one's significant other to one side and breaking it to them as gently possible that the bread out of their bread maker is not "better than you get in the shops". It is, in fact, shite.
Seeing a monk at the bus station, brown robes and Jesus sandals akimbo, with an anorak on over the top.
When watching the news on the pub telly, sagely informing your dreadful mates that it is vital that Our Boys stabilise Helmand Province, in order that the nation's supply of mayonnaise is not disrupted.
A butterfly, drinking buttermilk out of a buttercup.
Having been tasked with identifying departmental efficiency cost savings, stressing in your report the importance of "getting rid of the pimps, the pushers and the prostitutes and then starting all over again clean".
Devendra Banhart.
Finding something pleasing about the fact that, in an age of political spin and media manipulation, Ireland's Prime Minister looks and sounds like a pig farmer.
Andy Carroll. The drink-fuelled violence-indulging, catsuit-loving frontman goes from strength to strength.
Becoming involved in increasingly vitriolic exchanges with the man who comes to sanitise the water cooler at work regarding which of the Watson Twins is better looking. Even the fool on the hill could tell you that it's Chandra.
Being kept awake all night agonising which should come first in your alphabetised CD collection; Yolanda Be Cool or Yo La Tengo?
Chomping on a thoughtful Twix during your tea break and confiding to a colleague that "as an old-school feminist, you are totally against the objectification of women in the media and the pressure it imposes on young woman to pursue an unrealistic, superficial ideal of physical attractiveness." And that, my friends, is why you hope that that fat old cow wins this year's 'X Factor'.
Having supreme confidence that any FIFA man accused of financial impropriety will be thoroughly vindicated by any subsequent inquiry.
Calling up your baby on the telephone, long distance. Although, if the relationship appears to have some longevity, it may prove more cost-effective to invest in a couple of Skype handsets.
Claiming you'll be spending New Year's Eve at Mauro Picotto's villa in Ibiza, kicking it with the jet-setters, go-getters and spread betters, when in reality you will be at home with a litre of blended whisky, eating your own body weight in shortbread.
Silverfish. Not silver, not fish. But they can digest wood. SCREW YOUR RULES!
Tangerines. An oasis of tangy, flavoursome vitamins in an ocean of stodge and chocolate.
Having an oasis in the middle of an ocean. Desert-based oases are so last year, darling.
Enjoying the sobriquet of 'Culture Vulture' amongst your circle of mates, due to retaining in your collection a CD of Vivaldi's Four Seasons that was given away free in the Mail On Sunday five years ago.
Attempting to get into the festive spirit by actively seeking out online pornographic video clips where any female actor is wearing a Santy hat.
Wondering precisely what type of car would the good people at actually pay a hundred grand for; a solid gold time-travelling Delorean with a Blaupunkt, maybe?


Catching a glance at some woman's mobile phone and noticing, with a feeling of horror, that her screensaver picture appears to be a publicity shot of Dermot Murnaghan.
Wildly celebrating after scoring a penalty. Catch yourself on, man. You've done your duty, nothing more, nothing less.
Coves sporting t-shirts with overly-plunging necklines.
Getting fish, chips and mushy peas at the chippy, then forgetting to put the peas on when you get home.
Having an understanding of the political situation in Korea that goes no further than a vague notion that North Koreans eat whippets and South Koreans probably eat poodles.
Making a disproportionate amount of fuss over the (frankly mediocre) home-baked goods you intend bringing in to work.
The ridiculous attachment to Imperial measures that means we insist, in this country, on measuring snow depth and penis length in inches.
Childless adults building an ironic snowman. Have a word with yourself, yes?
Acting like Charlie Bigcock, buying a bottle of the £33.50 champagne in Wetherspoon's. Cheg on, Kieron Dyers, there's a new playa in town.
Getting an outstanding deal on bulk-bought Stilton and having to tell simply everyone about it.
German Christmas traditions. Gingerbread and overpriced hot dogs might be alright for the teutons, but it butters few parsnips in fair Albion. Very few parsnips indeed!
Poirot. The smug fucking two-hours-long, adverts-every-ten-bastard-minutes cock-knocker.
The duck billed platypus. An otter with a duck's beak? You look ridiculous, man.
Less than conscientious work colleagues who go sick with "tinselitis" every December in order to get their Christmas shopping done without squandering a precious day of their holiday entitlement.
Supercilious-looking drivers of 4x4s, some say jeeps, thinking they're such hot shit because they can drive on snowy roads.
Sad-sack couch tetties, planning their Christmas television viewing a month in advance.
Syncing your Twitter account with your Facebook account so you can post fucking boring updates in glorious cross-platform stereo sound. #whatihadformytea
Trudging wearily through brown slush at quarter to seven in the morning.
Telling a lady she has a pretty face is a nice compliment. Proceeding to outline your desire to "lob rope after rope of hot, silky cocksnot" onto said face is Most Definitely Not. Don't spoil it.
The petrified forest. Get some nuts, you woodland wuss.

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