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.