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.