Wednesday, April 06, 2011
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 twat.com
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.