Monday, October 31, 2011
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.
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 confused.com 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.