Monday, February 07, 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. Fatchicksinpartyhats.com is much better.