Friday, December 07, 2012
Now then, now then, guys and gals, what have we here then? A letter saying "Dear Colonel, can you fix it for me to sit through a playlist of all your godawful musical selections of the year?" As it happens, that it just what I have for you in my dressing room, if you would care to step this way.
1. Icona Pop - "I Love It"
Swedish lasses. Giddy up! A feelgood dancefloor anthem about crashing one's car and bags of shit. Formidable.
2. Nicki Minaj - "Pound the Alarm"
Steel drums, a big beat, textbook breasts. Magnificent.
3. The Donkeys - "I Like the Way you Walk"
Laidback San Diego rockers with a lovely, mellow, chiming guitar rocker.
4. Jens Lekman - "The World Moves On"
A Swedish chap. Giddy up! A feelbad heartbreak anthem about forest fires, cycling accidents and getting chucked by your lass. Nice.
5. Die Antwoord - "I Fink U Freeky"
South African mentalists throw everything at this one. Don't go round their house for an egg sandwich, mind.
6. Major Lazer - "Jah No Partial"
Magnificent dub/dubstep/house/reggae dancefloor tune from the lazer-armed military man.
7. Allo Darlin' - "Capricornia"
A highlight of the Australian/English band's second album, this finds the band in wistful mood, as singer Elizabeth remembers her childhood haunts.
8. Diplo - "Express Yourself"
Heavy bass, top shouting, stylish knitwear and some sexy, sexy dancing. Splendid.
9. Withered Hand - "Heart Heart"
A rare uptempo outing from the Edinburgh balladeer. I'm not normally one for 'cuteness' but how 'bout the two wee dancing lassies in this video? One would need a heart of stone not to find those two charming.
10. Alabama Shakes - "Hold On"
They may be darlings of the Rolling Stone/Q Magazine/Later with Jools crowd, but the soulful Memphis stylings of Brittany and co can't be denied. Righteous.
Laters, pop pickers! CU Next Yr!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Very clean nets.
Have a messy Christmas everyone! Messy, as in getting drunk and that, see?
It's that special time of year when sour-faced alkies start bellyaching that their public houses are filled with 'once a year' drinkers who have bothered to doll themselves up and smell nice, disrupting the boozehounds' preferred miasma of stale beer, flatulence and despair.
Don't be a gloomy Gus, get on the Venga bus. Come on down with the countdown that gives you the lowdown on what's Yuletide and what's Way of the Fooltide, sorts out the Erykah Badus from the Erykah Badon'ts and brings you glad tidings of Mumford and Sons.
Lords, ladies and gentleman, Christmas Ins and Outs am here!
Eczema. Surely the most Christmassy of all the skin conditions.
Spending the first 90 minutes of your working day consuming a bowl of porridge, three cups of coffee, a plate of biscuits and a banana (cos you're 'being good'), completing no work at all, then complaining that "Hey, it's hot in this office, isn't it?"
The crestfallen look on a Spanish waiter's face upon learning that you've found the Menu del Dia page on the bill of fare and intend to dine on the inexpensive options contained therein.
Sigur Ros, the ideal musical accompaniment to an afternoon of languid masturbation.
Loving Dollond, hating Aitchison. Quite frankly, Aitchison can eat a dick.
Referring to outsized females as Jillamo, the ideal counterpart and helpmeet to a 'Jacamo'.
Penelope Cruz. The Committee would like to announce its intention to marry Ms Cruz when it grows up. IDST.
Referring to your conjoined twin as 'my brother from another mother'.
On receiving an Xmas gift from the office water cooler supplier's rep, hoying it in the bin whilst ungraciously responding "Thanks, but I can't drink a calendar".
Whilst energetically frugging on the dance floor with Debbie from Accounts at the Christmas party disco, bellowing in her ear that you have an important 8th century religious relic (namely part of St Adrian of Canterbury's forefinger) in the glovebox of the old Focus if she'd care to step outside?
The clanging chimes of doom. Once you get to know them they're surprisingly upbeat.
Arguing with relatives about the rules governing the free parking space in Monopoly or failing that the war in Afghanistan.
Telling a younger member of the family that One Direction are not 'like, totally hot!' but are in fact spud-faced knackers with about as much singing ability as John Merrick with a cold, and that's why you've bought them the greatest hits of Jackie O'Mutherfucker.
Leaning back in a comfortable armchair with a glass of sherry and telling your assembled family that Jimmy Savile was 'the best fuck I ever had'. When they gasp in horror, quickly apologise and clarify you meant Jimmy Somerville.
Getting into a vitriolic argument at the monthly Rotary Club meeting vis a vis which of the "Geordie Shore" Buck Squad is the best at 'smashing worldies'. Chairman or not, if he thinks Gaz is half the ladies man that Scotty is, then he must be on the pipe, right?
The XX. A Young Marble Giants for the grime generation. Marvellous.
Old-style 1970s spaghetti, sold in packets about four foot long.
Spending months bringing your lass round to the idea of filming your special marital moments and sharing them online with like-minded individuals, culminating in the golden moment when you log on to find a comment from DongJuan75 that reads simply "Top slag lol". A lovely testament to a beautiful lady.
Any public house where the purchase of a full price drink merits the bonus of a Free Shot. That's sure to be some delicious fare. Any night at such a generous night spot is bound to be Just The Thing.
While engaging in marital relations, attempting to delay the 'point of no return' by mentally recounting the members of the Wu-Tang Clan, only to get distracted by being unable to name the ninth one*, and having to stop and ask the GLW if she can remember who it is.
Google, rather naively kidding itself that people who begin a search with the letters "X-H" are looking for information on the Swiss soccer player Xherdan Shaqiri, rather than the popular left-handed website 'Xhamster'.
When your dreadful work colleagues are discussing the practical difficulties involved in a cinematic adaptation of the racy '50 Shades' novels, opining in a knowledgeable manner that 'you probably won't see it going in'.
Forking out a fortune to take your snot-nosed spoilt bairns to Lapland or somesuch. Queueing for an hour in an oppressively warm department store for a brief sit on the knee of a wheezing sex offender and a crap jigsaw is plenty good enough for them.
Christmas 'specials'. Longer editions of shit programmes you've done your best to avoid all year, recorded in front of work-shy invalids in July.
Being able to source 'grey economy' e-books for your bit Kindle.
Jools Holland's Hootenanny. Cuntenanny more like.
Buying any relative bath salts or shower gel. However attractively packaged it's basically saying, 'I couldn't think of fuck all else and by the way you stink of shit'
Anyone over 14 engaging in all that Gangnam Style nonsense. Catch yourself on, yeah?
Shouting 'IT'S CHRISTMASSSSSSSSSSS!' at midnight mass. The cassock-huggers don't take kindly to this.
Claiming to have spent the last hour of Christmas Eve in the local, vigorously fingering Azealia Banks next to the bandit.
Last Christmas. All I got was a bloated, homosexual heart. I managed to get rid of it on Boxing Day.
Female acquaintances getting all in a tizzy about the products of the newly-opened Krispy Kreme. They're only fucking doughnuts, pet. Gregg's have been selling them for years.
Going out skating on Boxing Day. And by skating I mean walking. And by walking I mean sitting down. Inside.
Fools trying to get you to do 'high fives'. Bitch puh-leez.
The new James Bond film, wherein he drinks Heineken beer. Such shameful product placement renders the project morally and artistically bankrup, as I mentioned to a couple of friends the other night, as we got together to enjoy a few cool, smooth, refreshing Staropramens - 'the taste sensation you can be sure of'.
Dress-down Fridays, Pyjama Mondays, Onesie Wednesdays, and other such workplace fun-style cornholery.
Buying a 50" flatscreen HD telly with surround sound and using it to mainly watch dodgy DVDs purchased from an oriental cove who comes in the pub.
All them 1970s sex pests, nonces and kiddy-diddlers. Someone should run over the bloke who played Gene Hunt with a car, in the hope that he goes back in time to sort them out with some 'School of Hard Knocks' hard knocks and a judicious kicking or two
The poignancy of explaining to a friend that a bloke who used to get in the pub has recently died, and realising that, in lieu of knowing his name, the only description of him the two of you can come up with is 'that mad-looking feller who used to wear three jackets'.
Revisiting something you used to enjoy in days gone by, only to find that it wasn't all that good after all.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
Bonjour, guten morgen and hola!
It's only bliddy well time for another international football tournament, isn't it? They're having it in eastern Europe this time, with Poland and Ukraine co-hosting it. According to those in the know, there's a bit of racism goes on over there. Chaps bringing Nazi flags to matches, anti-semitic chanting, groups of Asian students being beaten up at football matches, that type of thing.
Shocking behaviour that makes one grateful to live in England where there's no racism goes on and none of the national team's players is currently on bail for allegedly racially abusing an opponent. Hats off to the brave 'Panorama' documentary makers for waiting out the five years since the tournament hosts were announced in order to screen a programme TWO FUCKING WEEKS BEFORE THE FUCKING TOURNAMENT STARTS AND IT'S TOO LATE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT EXCEPT STIR THINGS UP. Who knew you could dig up some people with objectionable views in Eastern Europe, eh?
Anyhoo, in order to foster the correct multi-cultural spirit that is needed to start the healing process, this 'blog has teamed up with the leading black entertainer of the twentieth century to ascertain his opinions regarding the tournament.
Indeed, this man was, according to Wikipedia, dubbed 'the world's greatest entertainer' in his heyday. Unfortunately, and he'd be the first to admit it, he died in 1950.
Not to despair, though, through the power of the ouija board and a reliable local spiritualist, we now present
'Colonel Knowledge and Al Jolson's Guide to Euro 2012'
Poland - talented young team led by a free-scoring striker whose scoring 'for fun' in the colours of German double-winners Borussia Dortmund. Lots of other players, but frankly I ain't got time to be spelling and spell-checking all that shit, they're all 's's, 'c's and 'k's all over the shop. They'll qualify out of this group, and that's a cash money promise.
Greece - not-so talented ageing team led by that long-haired Celtic knacker Giorgios Samaras. Lots of other players, but frankly I ain't got time to be spelling and spell-checking all that shit, they're all 's's, 'o's and 'popodopolous's all over the shop. They won't qualify out of this group, and that's a cash money promise.
Russia - old sparring partners of Poland, and doubtless assured a warm welcome from their erstwhile Eastern Bloc Iron Curtain bedfellows. This group of players looked like world-beaters a few years ago, but several of their players have since obtained big-money transfers and settled into a well-fed comfort zone wherein lying on a bed made of fifty pound notes eating KFC and drinking Cristal instead of their earlier regimes of borscht, beetroot and chopping logs on a collective farm. Decadent. They should still be good enough to get out of this group, mind.
Czech Republic - they've qualified for every Euro tournament since they got their velvet divorce from Slovakia, you know? They bring their experienced team to Euro '12 with fairly low expectations, despite the Lazarus-like re-emergence of midfield lynchpin Tomas Rosicky. The permanently-injured, floppy-haired boy-man recovered form and fitness in the second half of this season in a resurgent Arsenal team. Can he inspire his team-mates to one last hurrah in this tournament?
Predictions: Poland and Russia to qualify. Russia vs Poland to be a right old battle, on and off the pitch.
It's often forgotten, by people who don't read my Wikipedia page, that I was born in the Lithuanian village of Srednik, which was at that time part of the Russian Empire. You might think that would make me want Russia to do well in this tournament, but it doesn't. What is even less well known is that in New York city in 1912 I used to get in this chi-chi cathouse that was owned by a Greek businessman. Man, I tore up some fine poontang in that place. Good times. So, I want Greece to win this group.
CK: The group of death, or as the Germans would have it, Der Gruppen de Todes!
Netherlands - World Cup finalists, hugely impressive qualifiers, strength in depth throughout a squad of brilliant players. Surely nothing can prevent the Dutch juggernaut from rolling on through this tournament.
Germany - World Cup semi-finalists, enormously impressive qualifiers, numerous options throughout their marvellous young squad that has grown together over the past few years. Surely nothing can prevent the teutonic masters from blitzkrieging their way through this tournament. That Mario Gomez is a bit of a bottle-job wanker, though.
Portugal - Cristiano Ronaldo banging the goals in, a squad that is a nice blend of fantastic players plying their trade at Europe's top clubs and young players developing at clubs in their resurgent domestic league. Surely nothing can stop Portugal realising their potential in this tournament.
Hang on a minute, there's only two teams can qualify! One of them is going home in a metaphorical bodybag. A lesser footballing man, such as Alan Hansen, could get caught out by this and predict that all three will make the semi-finals. Imagine such an error.
Denmark - despite having the world's greatest striker, in his own imagination, in the shape of Nicolas Bendtner, they probably aren't going to qualify. It would be good if Bendtner and Zlatan Ibrahimovic were locked in a room together. Just locked in there, forever. Don't film it, or bother about what they got up to, just leave them. They're dicks.
Predictions: Germany and Holland to qualify. Ronaldo to have a massive strop at some point.
Al and Marlene contemplate another afternoon in
As a prominent Jew who lived through two World Wars, both started by Germany, you may expect me to want their national team to fail badly in this tournament. You couldn't be more wrong, though. What you overlook is that the beautiful and talented actress Marlene Dietrich was the lady who initiated me into the pleasures of the Cleveland Steamer, during her stay in Hollywood in the late 1920s. Many a happy afternoon we spent in her trailer, gleefully curling out logs onto one another's chests. I may have been appearing in 'blackface' on stage at that time, but I never appeared in public with 'brown chest'. That would have been disgusting. Also, I think the Netherlands will qualify.
The Group of Debt!
If Greece had been in it instead of Croatia.
Spain - quite good, these fellows. Reigning World and Euro champions and built around the all-conquering Barcelona. However, there are straws to clutch at if straw-clutching is your thing. And you don't want Spain to win. Pujols and Villa are absent, injured. Torres is present, shite. They should still get out of this group pretty easily, though.
Italy - shocking news from Italy, another match-fixing scandal. Say it ain't so, Gio! With the story getting bigger by the day and more players being implicated, Italy are running out of players so fast they may be forced to call up Rio Ferdinand. One player guaranteed to stay away from such controversy is Manchester City's clean-cut striker Mario Balotelli. The easy-going lunatic has already threatened to kick the head in of anybody who racially abuses him or throws bananas. His appearances promise to be interesting.
Ireland - Guiness, the craic, Roy Keane's dog, Roddy Doyle novels, headers. Everyone loves the Irish, and their fans alway enliven any tournament for which they qualify. Their team are pretty hard work, mind. A throwback to the most defensive days of Italian football that leave purists among their fanbase pining for the flowing football of Big Jack Charlton's long-ball Crazy Gang. Still though, get a green wig on, don a tricolour cape and get enough pints of the black stuff down your neck and forget about the football, yeah?
Croatia - the gingham-clad balkanistas have seemingly recovered from their failure to qualify for the last World Cup and being mauled by the ferocious Theo Walcott, and have made it back onto the big stage. With girls-hair-sporting midfield pramface Luka Modric pulling strings in midfield, the Croats will fancy their chances of progressing far into this tournament.
Predictions: Spain and Croatia to qualify, Ireland to go unbeaten but crash out, New Zealand style. Italy to announce Ray Winstone as their new manager. "Alright, boys?"
Don't have the linguini!
What a lot of people don't realise is that, since I died, I've spent a lot of time watching professional tennis. I prefer Eurosport's coverage to Sky, though, their commentators are very good. My favourite player is Novak Djokovic, he's great. Did you see him beating Tsonga the other day? Unbelievable. He's one of them Yugoslavians, so I'm backing Croatia to go through here, which should hopefully give my mate Novak a big pick-me-up. Also, I hope Italy get knocked out. I got some bad linguini in Brooklyn in 1933 and lemme tell you, I didn't pass a solid bowel movement for three weeks. Mammy, the aloe-vera infused wet wipes!
Croatia and Spain to progress.
England - Let me hear you say "Ing"! Now say "Gur"! Throw in a "Land"! What have you got? "Ing-gur-land"!
Albion's brave boys have surely only got to turn up for the cowering masses of sneaking Johnny Foreigners to shrink in fear like salted snails. Which they'll then probably try to eat. Built around a sextet of players from the all-conquering Liverpool team, Roy "Woy" Hodgson has a team that is the reddest of red-hot favourites to cover itself in glory.
Ukraine - aka The Ukraine aka the Soviets. While applauding UEFA's groundbreaking decision to give their tournament to a relative outpost of Europe where travellers have rarely visited, spurred only by the desire to push back soccer's borders and help Ukrainian billionaires to redistribute some of their wealth to needy UEFA dignitaries. However, without wishing to get all Panorama on your arse, Ukraine's manager is Oleg Blokhin, who has returned for a second stint in the job. In his first time around as manager, in 2006, he had this to say about foreign players in the Ukrainian football league:
"The more Ukrainians that play in the national league, the more examples for the young generation," he said. "Let them learn from Shevchenko or Blokhin and not from some zumba-bumba whom they took off a tree, gave him two bananas and now he plays in the Ukrainian League"
Zumba-bumbas, sir? Care to say that to Mr Balotelli, would you? This, ladies and gentlemen, is the man who Ukraine have chosen to re-employ ahead of their country's biggest sporting moment, when the eyes of the world will be on them. A potential banana-skin, no?
In other news, their shite team will most likely finish last in their group. Good.
France - the comedy team of the last two tournaments, riven by in-fighting under the bumbling command of fuzzy-haired Martin O'Neill-alike Raymond Domenech, who famously chose the moment his team had just been knocked out of Euro 2008 to propose on national television to his girlfriend, who was hosting the next show. She knocked him back. The French are seemingly back on the straight and narrow under the stewardship of Laurent Blanc, who has assembled a young squad that is unbeaten in 21 matches. Their opening clash with England could define their tournament, with a win likely to set them up to win the group and propel them into the business end of the tournament. Defeat could undo a lot of the good work, re-open old wounds and send Blanc saying it with engagement rings. They should be alright, though. England are shite.
Sweden - vikings, pornography, self-assembly furniture, voguish crime drama and dull one-one draws in tournament football against England. That's Sweden. What they also have is Big Bird-looking big-nosed big head striker, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, the multi-titlewinning flat track bully. They will need him to perform at somewhere near the level at which he rates himself if they are to do any good in this tournament. Unlikely.
Predictions: France to qualify in style. England to squeak through. Stewart Downing fails to win Golden Boot.
Oleg Blokhin makes me sad.
Zumba-bumbas? The cheeky cunt! I had a play once called "Bombo" but zumba-bumba? Man alive. I'll tell you what, as a jewish guy with a black face, you couldn't get me to visit Ukraine for all the money in the world. Also, I'm dead. France and Sweden for me. Sorry, Englanders, but that John Terry guy is a putz who needs a kick upside the cock. I tell you this for free, I'd happily walk a million miles in tight shoes to give it to him.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Yes, yes y'all! We be back up in this mother. Having survived a date with a laser, we here to blaze ya, amaze ya and mayonnaise ya.
Something like that, anyway. It's the end of the fiscal year and the Ins and Outs Committee having been reckoning up their accounts, balancing the books and crunching numbers in order to bring you the very latest insider information that will enable you to sail through this year's increasingly choppy financial waters.
If you don't want to confuse your Nasdaq with your sad sack, mistake your Robert Peston with Chantelle'n' Preston, or get confused between Tory Cuts and Tory Cunts*, then keep a tight hold on your purse strings, cos Ins and Outs am here!
In this age of internet dating, wanting to meet a girl the old-fashioned way, by untying her from railway tracks, seconds before a steam train arrives.
When more knowledgeable folk are discussing modern cinema, vouchsafing the mother-of-pearl of wisdom that Cubby Broccoli was the producer of "Jean de Florette".
Cheering up your static caravan by fitting wheels to it and restoring its mobility. Now it's an ecstatic caravan!
The new-found social acceptability of sexually harassing strangers on public transport, employing a twatty little guitar and lamentable lovelorn lyricism. Thanks, match.com!
Molybdenum, Mo, 42. Textbook metalling, sir.
Writing to Endemol with your pitch for a reality show that follows crack addicts in Glasgow, with the working title of "Scotch on the Rocks".
Whenever Norwich City striker Grant Holt is mentioned on television, passing on the entirely untrue factoid that his nickname is "Duke of York".
Giving serious thought to converting to Sikhism, purely so you can cover your incipient male pattern baldness with a natty turban, some say dastar.
Leaving the priesthood to run a chip shop, purely on the strength of having come up with the name "The Cod Botherer".
The chive. Growing away, unloved, for thousands of years, waiting for the invention of cheese and sour cream. A lesson in perseverence.
Lamenting the loss of Keith, Ian and Andy from this years FA Cup TV coverage.
Days that feature more than eight hours of daylight.
Regaling the young 'uns that you work with of the tale about your sweaty night at TJs in Newport when you saw Death by Milkfloat, Bastard Kestral and the Dog Faced Hermans on the same bill. They love that shit.
Aled up blokes attempting to recreate the vocal majesty of classic Destiny's Child singles in the pub.
Making a big fuss over the wife's fabulous 'wet look chignon' hairdo, telling her she is absolutely rocks the Gavrilo Princip look.
Being able to see properly and that.
The bass player out of Allo Darlin', bouncing around the stage like a guitar-playing puppy, the happiest man in music.
When attempting to press one's suit with a dental hygienist in "Jazzy Geoff's" wine bar, running out of things to say and asking her what her favourite Vitamin is, then jeering in a boorish manner when informed that it is B6 (Pyridoxine).
Pointedly referring to the voguish "Boot Camp" that your jacomo mate goes to as "Zumba" or "Bums and Tums".
Taking an old school approach to winter warmth by investing three quids in a foul-smelling rubber hot water bottle.
Stopping in of a Friday night, attempting to nail down which is your favourite live version of "Powderfinger" on YouTube.
Adding emphasis or expressing excitement by the use of superfluous multiple vowels in word. That is soooooooooooo lame, yeah?
Poring over the calorific content every fucking thing in the supermarket, like some sort of Donny Diet.
Becoming increasingly concerned that the Urban Cookie Collective really did have both 'the key' and 'the secret', yet none of us believed them at the time. WHY DIDN'T WE LISTEN?
Being measured up for a ghastly wedding outfit by a gimlet eyed harridan who appears to have never had to fit a fat chap for formal clothing before.
Any fool who opines that "Eeeh, some of the adverts on telly are better than the programmes". No, they aren't. You watch shit programmes.
The futile invention of a ginger, fat computer that only women like. The name of said imaginary reckoning machine? A Dell. (i.e. Adele)
Multi-tasking. Basically, it tends to translate as 'yapping while doing your job, usually ineptly'.
Receiving little sympathy from one's work colleagues after informing them that your girlfriend, Rubber Jenny, has a slow puncture.
Richard Bacons, tubbyboohooing on telly that people on the internet called him a dick. He must have been used to it since school, no?
Getting stuck talking to a gothic looking sort who, for reasons best known to herself, has the words "The time is now" tattooed across her tits. Unable to resist looking at it, in the manner of a motorway rubber-necker, lamely enquiring if she is a fan of the group Moloko.
The relative scarcity these days of people with curly hair. Rather a shame.
Those cringeworthy little cartoon caricatures they use on the introductions to games on Match of the Day 2.
The lack of instilling that goes on these days. Other than discipline, little else gets instilled.
St Patrick's Day whingers who twist their face that St George's Day isn't celebrated with the same gusto. That's because it's shit and any attempt at popularising it would probably involve rugger buggers, warm bitter, Morris Dancing and borderline Ukippery.
Anyone referring to boozing as "having a few sherbets." Take a long fucking look at yourself you daft prick.
Throwing out the baby with the bath water. What sort of fucking tool would make such an elementary error? Just take the plug out, you dick.
Tony Pulis's baseball cap and trackie look - AKA The Fresh Prince of Bell-End.
Bands playing live and having water bottles liberally distributed on stage before they take to it by their roadies. Have a beer you fucking lightweights.
Browsing the television listings and seeing something called "The Hairy Bikers' Bakeation". Jesus effing Christ, heads should fucking roll for that.
Priding oneself in being able to source the cheapest Tic-Tacs in town.
*Little bit of politics, there. Pick the bones out of that one, Benny Eltons.