Konichi wa, cornholes.
Two years too late and a dollar short, we have jumped the Twitter bandwagon.
Follow my hashtags and shizzle at http://twitter.com/#!/colknowledge
Friday, August 05, 2011
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.
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.