Saturday, December 10, 2011

Top 11 of 2011

Pip pip, pop pickers!

If there's one thing that sums of the true spirit of Christmas, it's the feverish clicking and tweeting of no-mates types cobbling together their favourite records of the year to the interest of nobody.

Sweep out your cloth ears, get your dancing shoes on and shake like a shitting dog to the Official Top 11 of 2011!

1. Leisure Society - "This Phantom Life" Folk-pop with a comedy guest star in the video.

2. Wombats - "Anti D" Pills, thrills and bellyaching from the newly-converted Liverpudlian synthesiser enthusiasts.

3. Acid House Kings - "Would you say stop?" Indie loveliness from Sweden's perkiest popsters.

4. Jens Lekman - "Waiting for Kirsten" Celebrity stalking meets clunking social comment in this b-side from the King of Pop, as only I call him.

5. Drums - "Money" An austerity anthem from the angular Smiths/Joy Div/Beach Boy New Yorkers.

6. Lykke Li - "Get Some" Raunchy roundheelery from Sweden's premier mascara-loving sex kitten.

7. Cloud Control - "Gold Canary" Australians! Remember, a gold canary is not just for Christmas, it's for life. They don't live that long, though.

8. Beyonce - "Run the World" It's Beyonce with added Major Lazer. That's skill to the power of two!

9. Major Lazer - "Original Don" It's Major Lazor without Beyonce. Still pretty skill though, but.

10. Duck Sauce - "Big Bad Wolf" Worth its place for the video alone, in particular the ping pong ball bit. Mentalists.

11. Lovely Eggs - "Don't look at me (I don't like it)" A deranged Lancastrian woman shouting on about cul-de-sac arms and sausage rolls while her weird bloke ramones away in the background? That's what it's aaaaal aboot!

Keep your wheels spinning and the beavers grinning, pop kids!

Tuesday, December 06, 2011

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2011

Walk out to Winterval, wangheads!

It's merry mother-effing Christmas, isn't it? In this month's star-studded, christmas pudded, Elmer Fudded instalment of Ye Inn's and Outs, we'll see Halle Berry's holly berries, Jools Holland's fruit stollen, Don Dokken's christmas stocking and Max Gradel's dreidel.

If you want to know your pigs in blanket from your pigs in knickers, your Crosby and Bowie from your prozzie off 'Towie', and wish to delineate your Silent Night from your talking shite, then get on your little donkey, honky, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Being well into your old school 'happy hardcore', with a particular soft spot for the work of Tokyo Ghetto Pussy.
Claiming to have met Weird Al Yankovic one time and stating that, to be honest, you didn't find him all that weird.
Always ticking the box on Wikipedia that says "I am highly knowledgeable about this topic (optional)" because you know your onions, dammit.
Squeezing the cheese over on the Guardian series blog for the latest season of "The Killing" like a big old middle class mimsy.
Attempting to cop off with a one-legged lass by complimenting her on her 'cool crutches'.
While out in town, almost dropping brer smartphone, such is your eagerness to tell the twitterati ALL ABOUT the new suede boots you just purchased, which are officially Just The Thing.
The little animatronic feller in the cobbler's window donning his Santa suit to signal the official beginning of the festive period.
Thinking there is a gap in the market for some entrepreneur to bring back donkey jackets. Just the job for huddling around a brazier, benny hat akimbo, shouting the odds at scabs and blacklegs.
Attempting to entice an apprentice tanning salon professional back to your gaff from Nite Owlz discotheque by bellowing in her ear that you have a signed first edition of Ezra Pound's "Riposte" back there.
Stringing along a dreadful mate that another dreadful mate is a member of the Sealed Knot society then watching both faces in the pub one night when when DM1 askes DM2 is he's "a cavalier or a roundhead."
Buying your Dad Skullflower's "Fucked on a Pile of Corpses" CD for Christmas and telling him "it's a bit like Acker Bilk" when he looks at you in bewilderment.
Jim Carrey, David Narey and General Galtieri getting lairy in the dairy.
Reassuring your lass that she looks attractive in her new spectacles and that you reckon they lend her the sultry air of a young Sourav Ganguly.
Having given the matter lengthy consideration, informing friends and acquaintances in a grave manner that you have concluded that chicken thigh meat is a more tasty option than chicken breast meat.
Passing a happy hour in town, approaching folk in the street, clipboard akimbo, and asking which is their favourite type of bandit; Skoal, BMX or One-armed? Any would-be comedians that answer "Arse" must, of course, be given short shrift and informed that "You CAN'T say that these days".
Thumbing one's nose at Jack Frost by getting in the occasional cheeky round of golf in December.
Reacting to an enquiry regarding putting the heating on with appalled horror, as though it had been suggested that you set fire to fifty pound notes in a bid to keep warm.
Beating the winter weather by bravely pitching up at the pub with corduroys tucked into wellingtons, a fashionable quilted jacket and a Tyrolean hat with a little feather in and that. Lovely stuff.
Feist. Like PJ Harvey ,but a little less hard work. More likely to have a regular leg/bikini line/oxters depilation regime going, one feels.
Referring to any pregnant work colleague who is deemed to be Going On About It to an excessive degree as Madame Ovary.


Lutricia McNeal's malevolent iron jackdaw, pursuing you remorselessly through your dreams.
Attending a burlesque night and being somewhat disgruntled that the dancers are a bit on the chunky side and don't get their nipples out. And getting stared out by tough looking lesbians.
Sponsoring some cunt for not shaving for a month? Fuck. That. Shit.
Listening to your dinner guests outlining their disgust at Greece's outrageous fiscal slackness, chipping in with "And another thing. You drop your hat on the floor with that lot around, you're best advised to kick it to the door".
Mother nature's chickpea. A tasty treat, but the devil itself when it comes to wind the next day.
Informing all and sundry of the fact that you're at home in your ghastly 'PJs', with illustrative comments as to the toasty warmness of the room temperature.
Anyone who buys any of the "Keep calm and carry on/drink tea...etc" franchised shite. You might as well be Gyles Brandreth.
Taking shit back to the shops because "the style's not right." You tried it on and liked it in the changing room, love. £135 or not, you do the crime, you do the time.
Describing anyone who refuses to get overly excited regarding all matters festive as a "Bah Humbug". 1) You mean Scrooge, 2) Fuck off, and 3) Another fuck off.
Announcing on any social networking site that your forthcoming night out will be "a beast." No it won't, it'll be another fruitless and forlorn dash for gash at 2.30am in Romeo & Juliettes followed by a 12-mile and £45 taxi home only to find the kebab shop shut.
Young fellers sporting ironic skinny Christmas jumpers.
Misguided jacomos who insist on drinking wine instead of beer 'as part of me diet', then insisting that you go for a curry at the end of a night out. You haven't thought this through, have you?
Pre-match 'one minute of applause' memorials that are ruined when one numbskull spoils it by not clapping.
Being frankly incapable of crossing a footbridge without hockling into the waters below.
The clumsy knacker who is the first every year to have A Fall as soon as the ground gets the slightest bit slippery.
Phoney Clarkson "One Show" outrage. He's spent an entire being a contrarian cornhole and these shmucks pick on the one time he's not being particularly objectionable. For shame.
Being keen on Pina Colada, yet having a deep-seated aversion to being caught in the rain.
The ubiquity of Andy Townsend. ITV, foreign telly, Premier League HD, wherever football is being televised, the witch-nosed cockney will proffering his bland, insight-free opinions, clad in what always looks like some clothes he found in the dressing room.
The impertinence of the "We won't go until we get some" line in "We wish you a merry Christmas". Like being wassailed by the Bramble brothers.
When you've a drink on board, telling tall stories of your time in the Symbionese Liberation Army back in the seventies, even though the only organisation you joined in that decade was the 'Dennis the Menace Fan Club'.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Ins and Outs: November '11

Now then, now then, guys and ghouls! As it happens, it's Halloween and that. It's the time of the year to dress up in frightening clothes and put the willies up someone. Maybe your mother, maybe a small child, it's all good fun on All Hallows Eve, yes?

In other, unrelated news, we mourn the passing of Sir Jimmy "Clunk-Click Jingle Jangle" Savile, the noted disc jockey, philanthropist and corpse-nudger.

Bob your apples, pump up your pumpkins, turn your tricks and give yourself a treat, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Commenting to your dreadful mate that the air seems redolent with the intangible death of summer and the ushering in of autumn's russet finery, to be met with a pointed enquiry as to when exactly you intend approaching the bar with a view to purchasing another round.
Epic sessions on the lash in the aftermath of a local derby triumph.
Monkey laser pistols.
Bivalve molluscs. Tremendous fellows, one and all. Those other molluscs with only one valve are a set of dicks.
Sniffily pooh-poohing the American version of "The Killing", and treating acquaintances who watch it as thick-eared clodhopping unsophisticates.
Shoes shaped like Cornish pasties.
Lana Del Rey. She's skill!
After helping her pop her haemorrhoids back in, asking your favourite wife if this constitutes anal sex, just so as to know where you stand.
Creating your own 'dubstep' remix of popular tunes by cupping the fingers and thumb of one hand over your ear and pressing it on and off the ear in time with the music.
When being told, in full and frank detail, about your female acquaintance's fishy-feet treatment, asking if the smell of fish wasn't a trifle unpleasant. For the fish. Zing!
Benidorm cabaret bars, where Showaddywaddy are followed swiftly by a Lesbian Sex Show. Proper tits, bum, fanny, the lot as well.
Inspector Montalbano. Top baggy-faced, bullet-headed Italian coppering.
Yohan Cabaye.
Hearing about a forthcoming dating show featuring Chris Moyles and Stacey Solomon, then learning that it will only be available via a downmarket satellite channel where you can't inadvertently stumble across it.
Dear Paris Hilton, attempting for a third time to find someone to be her Best Friend Forever, who will be genuine and there for the right reasons. Good luck, Paris!
Feeding tapioca to an okapi at the Topkapi Palace.
1970s truck driver films. Smokey and the Bear, Kris Kristoffersen and aal the lads. Marvellous.
Hanging around your local branch of Comet until the salesman asks if he can help you, then asking which is his favourite PJ: Proby, O'Rourke or Harvey.
Colone Gaddafi. He may have pulled the odd stroke in his time, but nobody rocked the 'co-ordinated autumnally shaded robes' look like old Muammar.
Reckoning you used to be good mates with Suge Knight back in the day and that he's always been a big admirer of the folky stylings of Fairport Convention's Dave Swarbrick. "Babbacombe Lee" being a particular favourite of the erstwhile Death Row recordings mogul.


Scratting around a scrapyard in search of a replacement wing mirror.
Them carpetbagging pricks at Tesco, bumping up the price of a tin of chickpeas to an inflation-busting 77p. Shameful shit.
Those awful Dudley Do-Right "Toms" slip-on shoes that the youngsters wear.
Noel Gallagher apologists, attempting to persuade a fellow that he's done some really good stuff since escaping the sphere of influence of his daft monkey brother. No. He hasn't.
Writing Selwyn Froggatt fan fiction for a non-existent niche market of online 70s shitcom obsessives.
Men who are northwards of 25 years of age sporting those daft 'shitcatcher' trousers with the elasticated cuffs.
Being hit up for sponsor money by tiresome workplace chisellers. Eff off and get some work done, yeah?
Attempting to gain some traction with a hot p. of a. in "Ching-a-Ling" night spotte by asking if she's ever slept with a millionaire, then, when asked if you actually are a millionaire, producing a battered Lotto ticket and purring the word "po-tentially".
Any low-minded slackjaw attempting to mine the merest nugget of suggestive humour from the word "dongle".
The outmoded tradition that decrees that any rugby player who be putting his dick in a princess gets a go at being England captain.
Ed Sheeran. That's what the world needs; a fucking woolly-haired, Lauren Harries-looking shitbird sounding like a milquetoast version of Jamie T. Who was also shite.
Being sent home in disgrace from the Blow Football World Cup after a random drug test reveals traces of Ventolin.
The frustrating propensity of Marks and Spencer corduroy trousers to perish somewhat prematurely 'underneath the arches'.
That string-haired cartoon bitch off of the adverts.
The haka. If they're going to act the prick like they're Zulus, the opposition should be allowed rifles and bayonets.
Mofos with them great big neon headlamps, who insist on firing them up full beam at every opportunity.
Grown men eagerly discussing Florida Theme Parks I Have Known. Catch yourself on, Ronnie Rollercoaster.
Pandora bracelets. The Panini sticker book of the feminine jewellery world.
Musing sagely that Mario Balotelli has his mohawk shaved into the shape of a necktie so that he can gain admittance to smart nightclubs.
Mockingbirds. Feathery, playa-hating shithouses.

Friday, August 05, 2011

Shameful Twit

Konichi wa, cornholes.

Two years too late and a dollar short, we have jumped the Twitter bandwagon.

Follow my hashtags and shizzle at!/colknowledge


Ins and Aoûts: August '11

Alreet, big feet? How's your hammer hanging?

There are no two ways about it, times are growing ever grimmer, yes? Wars, crazed gunmen, famines, Fiona Bruce getting silly-strung, everyone heading towards the poorhouse, poor dear Amy Winehouse having to take an overdose just to give us the relief of a week without that cow Adele atop the charts.

An unpleasant bit of boxed fruit and no error.

However, one strives to see the bluebird in the sky, what? Our cricketists are smashing Johnny Foreigner's pastie right in, the football season is breathing down our necks, there has been the odd sunny day, and the local pub has got a new barmaid.

Who's trending on Twitter, who's befriending Rick Witter? Who's hashtag and who's gashtag? Who's Robert Peston and Who's Chantelle and Preston? None of these questions and more will be answered, now that Ins and Outs am here!


Taking a big slug out of your new pint then telling your dreadful mates "That sure spells booze!"
Telling the good lady wife, after she's put in fifteen minutes of earnest toil with her GHDs, that you like her hair, it lends her the look of a younger John Rocha.
The Moray Firth. Best of all the Firths.
Whenever required to fill in a form detailing your occupation, claiming "Socialite" to be your job title.
Tricking out your bicycle with fur around the steering apparatus for a fun 'handlebar moustache'.
Giving black power salutes in Costa Coffee and yelling "Viva la Barista" at the chap behind the counter.
Telling anyone who will listen that you have no time for papists, rapists or Bathing Ape-ists.
Having been rebuffed by those pricks at Rear of the Year, announcing that your hat is still firmly in the ring for Spectacle Wearer of the Year.
Jaegerbomb Crotch.
Maintaining the flimsy pretence that you are a pedal-steel guitar player of high repute and that you played with all the big Nashville names in the past, when they played in London.
Regarding one's co-workers with thinly-veiled scorn, considering them to be a shower of chattering spivs who wouldn't know a decent day's graft if it bit them on the ass.
Rebekah Wade. Morally reprehensible mayhap, but that flame-haired beeyatch got it going on like Donkey Kong!
Using the word mayhap. Want to make something of it?
Pre-season optimism, borne in spite of reason and experience.
Passing on the freshly-minted True Rock Fact that David Lee Roth owns a vineyard and that members of the public can, upon payment of a nominal fee, pick the Grapes of Lee Roth.
Ovals. Most excellent ellipses.
"Kim & Co." The iron horse of the QVC evening schedules.
Reading football websites and being puzzled as to how Armin Van Buuren has ended up managing Chelsea, only to later discover it's some other chap.
The local consulting alehouse psychologist who correctly diagnoses females he encounters as suffering low spirits due to a lack of sexual activity and prescribes a remedial session of what is termed "a bit sorty-ooty", which should literally sort out the problem.
Being on cordial terms with Abrecrombie, but having a towering disdain for Fitch.


Anybody, other than well-wishers at a marathon or 'fun run', who uses the phrase “jog on”.
Lead singers who get the crowd to sing the chorus. They should get their money docked for every line they don't sing.
Birgit Prinz, has-been German lady goal machine that sounds like a Fall song.
Explaining away lengthy kharzy-related absences from your desk by stating you've been in a meeting with Tom Kite.
Vapouring on about the joys of your 'home cinema system'. Essentially, all you're saying is "I love stopping in, watching me big telly, me".
When relating stories involving the antics of your ghastly toddlers, recounting anything they've said with an approximation of their speaking voice.
Spending an anticipation-filled thirty minutes, soft lob akimbo, waiting for the first exposed breasts on the Freeview phonesex channel at half ten.
Fraudulently claiming to be the baddest DJ on two turntables. You are in your hole!
The faux-Basil Brush they have on the Speckled Hen advert bumpers on Dave. The guy's a prick.
Being under the impression that the whole world is enthralled as you recount your latest fabulous eBay bargains.
The persistence shown by deeply unamusing fellows persevering with attempt to tell you joke funnies, despite being given limited encouragement.
The collection of slouching slackjaws and scratters that congregate in supermarket car parks of an evening, revving up their cars and comparing ghastly bodywork modifications.
Daft cows, flicking themselves senseless over glittery vampires.
That "Pranker" thing on BBC3. As gruel goes, that stuff is so thin it's practically a homoepathy remedy.
Replying to Duncan Bannatyne's offer of £30K for information about the chap who threatened his daughter, offering assistance in return for £100K and a 30% share of his daughter, otherwise you're out.
Displaying one's superior artistic discernment by wittily retorting "Foo Fighters? Poo Shiters, more like!" whenever one of your dreadful mates espouses the excellence of the Dave Grohl-fronted grungers.
Refusing an invitation to a friend's birthday celebration by telling them that you're going lamping that night, softening the blow by promising them a rabbit.
Any fool suffering confusion regarding the difference between "awesome" and "quite good".
Archdeacons. Like deacons, but sooooo bitchy.
Nauseating co-habiting couples who have 'Date Nights'. Hanging is too good for them.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Ins and Outs: June '11

Greetings, citizens of Earth.

What a tumultuous two months have elapsed since last we foregathered, what? The death of Osama, the rebirth of Obama, the non-arrival of the Rapture and the beatification of the Lionel Messiah.

All of this was knocked into a cocked coronet as a nation's red-blooded males took their national pride in hand in red-blooded appreciation of the pert, peachy, pristine perfection of Pippa Middleton's delightful commoner's cornhole. Truly, it shines on us all equally and makes one proud to have the good fortune to be born a British subject.

Look upon her wondrous nates, you foreign dogs, and weep in despair!

Ahem. Anyhow, as summer speeds towards us like a Presidential motorcade, the Committee have pulled an all-nighter in the situation room in order to delineate the Middleton Sisters from the Mitford Sisters, the Sepp Blatters from the green apple splatters, and the N-Dubz from the N-Dumped. Ins and Outs am here!


When responding in the negative, rather than simply saying "No", replying with "Far from it".
Having a long-held dream of working in a branch of Prontaprint, but never making any attempt to make it a reality.
On the occasion of an acquaintance preferring to pissfart about with their smartphone While I Am Talking, breaking off one's remarks to serenade them with a scornful "Text the nation, text text the nation!".
Ice Cube.
That Suarez fellow at Liverpool. A little ray of buck-toothed sunshine in a largely forgettable football season.
Solemnly informing your dreadful mates that you will be unavailable this coming Friday as you will be holed up with a supply of Rustler's burgers, peperamis, crystal meth and the complete Sky-Plussed series of BBC3's hilarious Will Mellor vehicle "White Van Man".
Writing a letter to Mark Wahlbergs at Facebook HQ asking if he can design an 'app' or something that filters out your friends' pictures of their revolting children.
Doting on Dollond, hating on Aitchison.
Being genuinely bemused by the popular tv programme franchise "Geordie/Jersey Shore", whose raison d'etre appears to be 'Some dicks in a house, being dicks'.
Refusing to take a blind bit of notice of your lasses new shoes unless she proves she can walk a quarter of a mile in them without having to take them off because they're 'killing' her feet.
Getting into an increasingly acrimonious discussion with the chairperson of the local Neighbourhood Watch committee regarding the respective merits of early 1990s MTV VJs. VJ Marijne owned VJ Simone, even the fool knows that.
Devising a business plan that involves buying up the copyright to the published work of tv chef Fanny Craddock with the intention of getting rich by relaunching and rebranding books and merchandising, purely to gain the notional job description of 'Fanny Magnate'.
Buying a Bulldog puppy with the eventual aim of breeding it with Shih Tzu and creating a daringly-named crossbreed called a Bullshit.
The National Library of Belarus in Minsk. It's skill!
Going to your low tavern of choice and getting the landlord to show the Champions League football with Albanian commentary in preference to ITV's coverage.
Moseying round the aisles of the supermarket with your shades on.
Basing your opinion of the entire Chinese population on their inability to milk a cow correctly.
Successfully convincing a dreadful mate that Rednex Old Pop in an Oak was conceived when their chief songwriter found an out-of-date can of coke inside a tree.
Those two English pretenders to the Golf #1 throne, with nary a major title nor string of kissin' and tellin' porn popsies between them. Yeah, 'nary'.
Being torn as to who is the biggest knacker out of Take That; the one who looks like a slightly gauche Hitler Youth cadet who has been struck by an unaccountable desire to be a milquetoast Elton John, or the tattooed singing chalet-maid Terry Christian-looking chimp-faced one.


Any lowbrowed sort who uses the word "midrift" when, by rights, they should be saying "midriff".
Xenophobes. Fancy being scared of a warrior princess.
Being stuck on a golf course for four hours with a squeaky-voiced little bollix whose conversational obsessions are racist joke funnies and ludicrous conspiracy theories.
The good people at While their intentions are doubtless admirable, they have only succeeded in coining a new insulting epithet for the overweight, to wit "Hey Jacamo, you are a fat piece of chubby jacamo shit, yeah?". Thanks for that, mam.
Attempting to get a little hang-low/stank interface going on by inquiring of a pretty young thing in "Shizzle-Dizzle's" bar and grill whether she most favours the verse of Siegfried Sassoon or Wilfred Owen.
Clicking on Facebook to find that one of your more low-rent 'friends' has put in a productive late night session 'liking' another twenty or so of those godawful pages affirming such witty aphorisms as "My ex is a slag", "Putting butter on your bread and then eating the bread", "I like getting drunk, me... I know!", "The moment when a reatarded drops their ice cream", "Jeremy Clarkson for PM", "I enjoy kicking homeless cats", "Potay-to! Lol!" and "Frankly, I just don't like black people".
That dreary cow Adele having the number 1 and 2 albums in the chart. It's a fucking disgrace that makes a brother long for the comparative halcyon days of Dido.
The puzzling craze among female types for Spar days. Their range of products and handy locations make them a reliable port of call for last minute grocery shopping, but a whole day there is pushing it a bit, no?
The expression 'putting in a good shift' when applied to footballers. An hour and a half is hardly a gruelling stint in a Chilean sweatshop, yeah?
Cumbrian ponce-rockers Wild Beasts. An It Bites for a generation of Pitchfork-reading knackers, precisely what the doctor didn't order.
Tiger bread. Frankly, the smell writes cheques that the taste can't cash.
Schtupping random fatsoes off of Plenty of Fish. Plenty of Fish and Chips, more like!
The disproportionate voter revolt against the Lib Dems while the job-cutting Tories get off lightly. A little like being called a puff by a ventriloquist and chinning the dummy.
'More money than sense' types clad head-to-toe in Pretty Green shite, achieving the look of a dishevelled, anorak-wearing Herman's Hermits roadie on a budget that would have bought a Savile Row suit and some hand-stitched pointy Italian shoes with change for a pie'n'mash supper left over.
Fetishists and S&M enthusiast couples. You rarely see a slim woman involved in this type of thing.
Ryan Giggs' wife. If she'd cheered her twisty face up now and again, her man might not have been forced, yes forced, to resort to tapping illicit poontang for a bit laugh and carry on.
All this fuss over the death of Jill Scott-Heron. She wasn't even the best one in Steps.
Falsely claiming to have had sight of an e-mail from FIFA bigwig Jack Warner wherein he states "I'll take any motherfucker's money if they giving it away. Sheeeeee-it!" No such e-mail exists.
The East European youth cult of vandalising synagogues while singing the words to the mainstream American R'n'B hit "Beautiful Monster". The rise of these so-called 'Ne-Yo-Nazi' gangs is most disturbing.
The would-be Benny Hills in charge of Badminton, attempting to force female players to wear skirts. We're not all Japanese internet upskirt video enthusiasts, you know?

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Shore Losers

Tonight sees the inaugural, some say premiere episode of MTV's fly-on-a-turd mockumentary "Geordie Shore", a british version of their bafflingly popular "Jersey Shore", given a Tyneside twist.

Like much youth-oriented television these days, the premise of the show is basically 'Get some dicks together in a house. Film them acting like dicks'.

Hilariously, though, the wheeze here is that people are Geordies. I know! It'll just be a scream, won't it? As everyone knows, TV shorthand for somebody from Newcastle = 'thick', 'slatternly', 'drunken', and an extra helping of 'thick'.

Well fuck that shit where it eats. And that's swearing.

If I want to hear gibbering, witless women endlessly discussing shoes, cosmetics and undignified drunken mishaps, I can go to work for that. Equally, if I'm after listening to empty-headed would-be Alpha males lying about their sexual conquests, I go out on the drink with my dreadful mates.

They can stick their scripted reality TV shite where the sun doesn't shine. Like any person with any discernment or taste I won't be watching "Geordie Shore".

I'll be watching old episodes of "Paris Hilton's Best Friend Forever". Proper telly with Reithian values coming out its ears.

I'll bid you a good evening.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Ins and Outs: April '11

How now, brown cows! Drop your zither and come hither.

Springtime is the thingtime, yeah? The scenery teems with greenery and the Committee are here to vent their spleenery. The Grand National and the Augusta National are hoving into view and it's time to fall under starter's orders and break out the green jackets.

If you need to know who's Red Rum and who's a dead bum, or if you can't tell your Gary Player from your Gary Player-Hater, then wise up suckers, keep your head down, get the bit between your teeth and stay on your feet, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Wearing a fluorescent vest around the town in the hope that a porn actress, seeking a bit of rough for a last minute shoot, might schtupp you in a builders skip.
Telling the wife that her retro Vidal Sassoon french wedge hairdo nicely emphasises her Hapsburg jaw.
Eagerly following Liverpool FC's campaign in this year's Europa UEFA Cup of Shield. It was a footballing white-knuckle ride, no less.
Becoming embroiled in a splenetic slanging match with the lad in JJB Sports regarding whether Allo, Darlin's "Dear Stephen Hawking" is ripped off of Jens Lekman's "Happy birthday, dear Lisa" or not.
The unlikely scenario whereby weather presenter Carol Kirkwood, just as she's about to do her piece to camera, mumbles "actually Sian, I prefer the reverse cowgirl" before smiling at the camera to give viewers a cheery "Gyud mawnin'"
Greeting everyone with "Now then."
Whenever you attend a 'sing song' with your Irish relations, doing a spirited rendition of the "Electric Blue" theme song.
Addressing everyone as "Wor kid".
Sinking a tricky curling five-foot putt for a six, then solemnly informing your playing partners that that was dedicated to the memory of your homie Nate Dogg.
Twisted, the girl band sensation that is set to rock the nation's socks in the forthcoming months of this year.
Confiding in your closest associates that, come the spring, you will be declaring war on crabgrass.
Formulating a business plan for a retail outlet where 19th century French poets can buy all their hair bobbles, necklaces, bracelets and that, which will be called "Baudelaire's Accessories".
Succesfully foxing a dreadful colleague into believing your parents gave you the middle name of Judas "because the old fella was abit of a Satanist back in the day."
Convincing a dreadful mate that the last song John Lennon wrote, just a day before he was shot dead was "Heaven is a Half Pipe", later a hit for OPM.
Drinking wine at the pictures.
Loving the ulna, hating on the radius.
Being on nodding terms with someone with uncannily reliable information regarding betting on USPGA events.
That chap round our way who was reputed to have stolen a job lot of Remembrance poppies. Unfortunately, the police couldn't pin anything on him.
Suggesting to the landlord that he could save a lot of space and effort, and get rid of a load of hairy-faced, stinking undesirables from his pub by taking out the real ale pumps and just keeping a few bottles of Brown Ale or Double Maxim in the fridge.
Getting slightly priapic at the prospect of the forthcoming Totally Transport, a celebration of classic vehicles and trams in sunny Blackpool. G'dang g'dang dang, what?


Coming to the reluctant and mortifying conclusion that, when sporting a baseball cap, you have come to resemble Tony Pulis.
Anybody who summarises their emotions by adding the suffix '.com' to a word. You are a fucking
The prospect of witnessing a performance by Beady Eye. Sticking rosary beads into one's jap's eye would be infinitely preferable.
Anybody filling in the religion question on their 2011 census by hilariously claiming to be a "Jedi". A bell end you are.
Overlong pool marathons.
Repeatedly asking a young lady you have just met in "Choo-Choo's Nitespot" if she is 'after some helmet'. If her initial response is in the negative, any subsequent enquiry is likely to meet with similar reluctance.
Celebrity Juice. Everybody involved in this televisual shitfest needs to fuck the fuck off. And that's swearing.
Wayne Rooney. The guy's a pipe.
Wobbly Hedgehog Syndrome. Those poor African Pygmy Hedgehogs, it must be awful for them.
The announcement by Turbo B out of Snap that henceforth, when he says that rhythm is a dancer, his degree of seriousness has been downgraded to 'serious as piles'.
Dreadful sows who put that godawful Adele dirge on the pub jukebox.
The Daily Mash. The Daily Gash, more like!!!!11!!SUBONIONSATIRE!1!!!!
Professor Brian Cox. Get a haircut and stop talking like a soppy lass, you doe-eyed knacker.
Coming to the conclusion, despite being a newcomer to the world of motoring, that anyone who drives a 4x4 vehicle is a cunt. A cunt of the first water, too.
Being overtaken with trepidation that the rich seam of comedy gold being mined by the producers of the "Keith, Ian and Andy" F.A. Cup adverts will wear out prior to the big day at Wembley. It's a worry.
Twisty-faced Top Gear types and haulier-than-thou truckers continually bleating about the price of petrol and diesel going up. Just put twenty quid in each time, that way the price doesn't change.
Professional golfers and their continuing efforts to cram ever more sponsors' logos onto a cap. They make about a million quids for four days work as it is, the greedy gets.
The return of the Formula 1 season. If they string that boring load of shite out for any more of the week, they'll be showing the mechanics changing the oil, putting up off-colour calendars and initiating terrified apprentices by smearing grease over their knackers.
Workplace reshuffles that result in a brother ending up in an office trapped amid a shoal of jabbering females of mixed vintages, forced to endure a constant discourse regarding ailments, low-quality television, kids and their propensity to say the darnedest things, diets vs Cakes I Have Known, and make-up.
The big fat egg-on-legs twat who's always first to start gadding about the place in shorts, the minute the sun makes even the most cursory appearance in the springtime sky.

Monday, February 07, 2011

Ins and Outs: February 2011

Como estas, cornholios!

2011 is barely off the starting grid and already it's shaping up to be a belter, what? Whether it's the return of the much-missed retro 80s pastime of Unemployment, Davey Cam's Big Load of Shite Society or the anodyne musical stylings of The Script, there can surely never have been a better time to book that one-way weekend break in Bridgend.

Always keen to locate the silver lining amid the gloom, the Ins and Outs Committee have been keeping their noses close to the ground and applying their ears to the grindstone in order to winnow out the brightest from the shitest, the peachy keen from the Robbie Keane and the Bobby Dazzler from the plebby vajazzler.

Stick it, lick it, let's play cricket, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Whenever the subject arises, falsely claiming that the first dance at your wedding was to "Lady Love Your Cunt" by S*M*A*S*H.
Surprising fast food drive thru staff by barking "Cormorants stole my eyes!" into the microphone thing in lieu of a food order.
Signing up to the Dave channel's Twitter feed, then complaining that "It's all bloody retweets!".
Phoning up a plant hire firm and asking how much it is for a lend of a busy Lizzy for the weekend.
Reaching a gentlemen's agreement with your equally bovine, no-pussy-getting mofo mate that if he renounces his claim to Audrey Tautou then you will reluctantly step aside and allow him a free run at Eva Green.
Gazingly longingly at the pickled egg jar in the pub while knowing, in your heart of hearts, that it's never going to happen.
Selenium, Se, 34. Props, Selenium, you'se a playa.
Dr Alimantado's seafood restaurant. They do the best dressed crab in town.
JD Wetherspoon's gourmet burger. As everyone knows, the difference between the gourmet and the food you or I eat rests largely in the addition of an onion ring. The true bon viveur loves an onion ring.
Sian Massey. Phwoar!
The fine wines of the Côtes du Rhone.
Loftily informing anybody who enquires as to your plans for the evening that you will be "catching up with your correspondence", when in reality you will be monging on the internet all night, reaching into your grubby sweat pants at regular intervals to engage in frenzied bouts of self-pollution.
Changing your relationship status on Facebook to "It's Complicated" in order to keep the wife on her toes.
Sending ill-advised drunken text messages to The Football League Show in the early hours of a Saturday instructing Lizzie Greenwood-Hughes to "release her twins"
The Kevin Rowland chic of Theis Birk Larsen off of BBC4's "The Killing".
Getting into an intense theological debate regarding the Doctrine of Divine Immutability with the bloke who works in the key-cutting shop.
Effusively praising the good lady wife's new hairdo, telling her it lends her an air of sophistication very much akin to a young Guido Buchwald.
At Chess Club, intimating to one's opponent that their mother suffers from chronic concupiscence, and proffering them your outstretched digits in order that they may receive the olfactory evidence that will lend verisimilitude to your contention.
Despite oft-repeated scare stories of broken arms, reckoning that, if it came down to it, you could chin a swan.


Going on about how great your zumba classes are. It's just doing aerobics to Gloria Estefan b-sides, yeah?
News reports illustrating how the VAT increase will affect society's submerged tenth by telling us how much it will affect the price of a 50" plasma TV. Hardly the stuff to make John Steinbeck weep salty tears, is it?
Torville and Dean. Pearl and Dean. Never Torville and Pearl, though. WHY NOT?
The FA Cup.
Searching every second-hand store in town in a vain attempt to find a raspberry beret.
Buying a three-piece suite from Def Leppard's drummer. There's only one armchair!
Stopping in of a Saturday night with a fridge brimming with Speckled Hen and the entire series of "Eddie Stobart: Trucks and Trailers" Sky-plussed and raring to go.
Anyone that has writing emblazoned across the arse of their jeans in massive white stencilled letters like they've just sat on the road during a hill climb in the Tour de France.
Cock-ends at the match starting a chant on their own, then turning around to look incredulously at the crowd when they don't join in. Who are you, like, Freddy Mercuries at Live Aid, eh?
"The King's Speech". Two hours watching some twat trying not to stutter? There's a party.
The feelings of Liverpool FC supporters on February 1st, somewhat akin to those of a man who has been dumped by Penelope Cruz, then woken groggily the next day in bed next to Hufty.
Red Bull charging almost £1.50 for a little can yet still going with that shit quality jerky animation in their TV adverts.
The producers of BBC3's "Snog, Marry, Avoid", who fecklessly encourage game young gals to wear less make-up and stop showing their knockers off. For shame!
Referring to inexplicably-popular milquetoast crooner Michael Bublé as 'Micky Bubbles' and expecting gales of uproarious laughter at your original joke funny.
The "edgy quips" of the Top Gear bell ends.
Reckoning you can put your hands on a fairly substantial amount of Lapis Lazuli, should the need arise. You can in your hole!
Being overheard by your dreadful mates making a generous closing time offer to a lady of some advanced years to "Gan back to your hoose an' I'll lick you oot".
Still having a nagging suspicion in your mind that Prince William is getting married to that blonde lass who won Big Brother a few years back and was on The Big Breakfast.
That fucking awful Saturday night thing with Paddy "Peter Kay's mate" McGuinness. A sub-Blind Date abomination with the non-thinking person's Vernon Kay? Eff that Ess, it would be preferable to see Martin McGuinness hosting it.
All the fuss about that Wikileaks website. It's shite. is much better.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Super Review: "Ice Road Truckers"

I fucking hate "Ice Road Truckers", me.

"Oh boo hoo, it's so icy, the road is geet slippy and that, this is the hardest job in the world" etc.

Don't fucking do it, then. You live in America and you've got your HGV licence, get a job in one of the sunny parts of the country. I've seen "Smokey and the Bandit", I know what goes on out there. These whingeing nogoodniks are bleating on about the cold when they could be living high on the hog, elbow out the window, tapping hot hitch-hiker poontang and drinking cold, cold beer out of a long-necked bottle.

Fuck them, fuck the lot of them.

Friday, January 07, 2011

Super Review: "Motley Crue: The Dirt"

A trip into the bizarre world of The Motley Crew, a Los Angeles glamour-rock heavy metal combo, famed more for their keen appreciation of Playboy starlets and cocaine than for their music. Which is lucky for them, as their music is fucking awful.

This skilfully edited book teases out the intrepid foursome's varying interpretations of various key stages in the band's career. At different points in the book the reader is given each member's 'back story' as they explain how they made their way from their respective backwaters to being millionaire, drug-taking, groupie-shagging rock behemoth bell ends.

While most people with functioning ears would rather walk a mile in pissy slush than listen to one of Motley Crew's recordings, this book scratches beneath the surface and gives the lowdown on all of the band's tawdriest moments; a unique spin on the concept of 'phone sex', urine fun with Ozzy Osbourne and the less glamorous side of heroin addiction.