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'.