Tuesday, December 03, 2013

Cash Money Hoes


At the risk of repeating oneself: 

* WHO writes on banknotes?

* 565 + 5, sir?  You really needed to deface a twenty spot to work out that tricky bit of arithmetic?

* This country.

Monday, December 02, 2013

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2013


Excellent parenting, there.

Konnichiwa, coming atcha!  Rising above the waves in the manner of Godzilla, but a sour-faced, kvetching Godzilla that bitches about cultural minutaie rather than averting disasters.  Ins and Outs is back and it's hungry for Chewits. 

Like Santa Claus, the I&O Committee have been making a list.  Unlike Santa, there has been no checking of said list, let alone checking it twice.  Such due diligence would be essentially out of step with the 'will this do?' ethos of the Committee's endeavours.

Read on if you wish to know who's bringing gold and who's minging and old, who's pulling  crackers and who's scratching their knackers, who's walking in the air and who's talking out their arse, taking off like Chrimbo and the Jet Set, Ins and Outs am here! 



In

Claiming that an acquaintance, known to be a hearty trencherman, had his knife and fork made by Hattori Hanzo.
When short of funds, passing an agreeable friday night in by 'sexting' one's house phone then listening back to what can easily be imagined to be voicemails from one's 'sexy robot girlfriend'.
Nudging one's way to the bar in a crowded Edinburgh gentlemen's establishment, raised tenner akimbo, before asking the barmaid what guest ales they have in.
Having a new-found respect for Nigella, knowing she was ripped to her ample tits on ching when she was doing them shows where she's all giddy about a big chocolate pudding, not like certain gannets you know who genuinely get that excited about confectionery, cakes and desserts.
Accepting that old age and the cold of winter are writing cheques that brer hot water bottle is increasingly unable to cash, taking the plunge and investing in the latest word in electric blanket solutions.
When asked by the GLW what present we should get for our niece's low faced boyfriend, replying "How about a big bumper box of fuck all". 
Airily intoning "Ah, the quintessential Englishman" whenever a particularly unlikely example is being discussed, eg Adge Cutler, Karl Howman, Ian 'Sludge' Lees.
Noting that Carol Vorderman, judging by her Xmas TV advert, has entered into the festive spirit by apparently stuffing a couple of large turkeys down the back of her knickers. 
Jitterbugging to 'I'm Up All Night To Get Lucky' with a lass from Marketing at the Xmas disco, bellowing in her ear that you've a pair of Sir Anthony Eden's silver plated, monogrammed hair brushes available for viewing at yours if she has a care at evening's end? 
Schools that ban parents from videoing their kids' nativity plays.  It's not to stop paedophiles getting their jollies over the resulting footage, it's to save friends and relatives from having to endure watching your badly-shot recording of a, frankly, shit production.
Knocking up your own version of the popular rappers beverage Purple Drank by blending R White's Lemonade with a bottle of Covonia.  Mighty mighty pleasing.
Assuring your lass when she gets home from the beauty parlour that the eyebrow threading she's had done is Just The Ticket and lends her an air of a young Ira Kaplan.
Sweet Baboo.  An unprepopessing looking chubby faced feller he may be (who isn't?) but he knocks out the tunes like a husky Welsh pre-mental health issues Brian Wilson.
The sharp-witted folk at http://yourfaveisproblematic.tumblr.com/  elegantly parodying biscuit-ersed piety and holier-than-thou crawthumping with the skill of a surgeon.
Cornelius Gurlitt, sitting on a priceless hoard of art treasures stolen by the Nazis, slowly selling them off one by one in order to to get money for drink.  Geezer!
Sucking a thoughtful tooth and seriously contemplating the purchase of a pair of waxy brown leather desert boots by Loake ahead of the oncoming bad weather, before coming to the conclusion that the lookalike ones that H&M are knocking out for £19.99 are likely to be Every Bit As Good, Yeah?
The magic of a USB compatible car stereo, enabling the stylish man about to town to impress hot chicks in Tesco car park, windows down, blasting out the latest toe-tappers from Pissed Jeans and Action Bronson.
That unique cultural signifier that finally makes you feel that the festive season is upon us.  For some, it's putting up their tree and decorations, for others the first sighting of the Coca Cola truck adverts, for still others the first hearing of The Pogues or Slade's seasonal ditties.  But really, what better sight to kickstart the yuletide vibe than the glorious sight of the hamster from Xhamster with his little Santa hat on? A foaming festive hand shandy and no error.
Training a strand of tinsel around the perimeter  of your workstation monitor screen.  Now you can feel all Christmassy while you work.  Yay!
Oul' fellers on Boxing Day, fresh from their annual bath and clad in the fresh underwear, socks and sweaters they got for Christmas. The only day in the year when the scruffy old gets will be clean and they spend it shuffling between the club and the bookies, attempting to keep a rollie alight the entire time they're out in the open.
Tom Daley.  With his 'I fancy lasses but I'm schtupping a bloke' schtick, he's basically the anti-Brett Anderson.



Out

Ashby de la Zouche.  De la Zouche indeed, you prick.
While watching a football match featuring Real Madrid or Wales, ushering friends close to you with the air of one with wisdom to impart, then pointing out that that Gareth Bale, he looks like a monkey or something!  Honestly, he's like one of them 'Planet of the Apes' fellows, no?
Channel 4's "Gogglebox".  If one was interested in hearing borderline imbeciles giving their witless, insight-free verdicts on low quality TV programming, one would choose to interact with co-workers.
The return to the pop scene of Lily Allen and Kate Nash.  The hitherto assumed defunct pair are very much like polio and smallpox in musical form.
Holding the door open for a podium dancer from 'Sinners' nite spot as she makes her way back from her tab break and asking her brightly "Twerking hard or hardly twerking?", only to be met with a look of utter contempt.
Signing up with voguish 'I would' app Tinder and finally getting one's first 'match' after a month of indiscriminate right-swiping, only to drop one's phone in the excitement, smashing it beyond repair.
The rise of the zany Christmas Jumper.  When worn by stick thin hipsters and student types, the juxtaposition of their angular frames/sideways hairstyles with the kitschy awfulness of the sweaters made this a mildly diverting fad.  When sported by folk of average to below-average attractiveness and those who clearly like plenty of butter on their potatoes, the look achieved is more reminiscent of a gormless Richard Briers or Bernard Bresslaw, or in extreme cases Fred West.  Enough! 
Folk that post photographs of their newly-erected Christmas trees on social media websites.  Like babies and snowscapes, they all look much of a muchness.
Workplace moaners, unable to complete a full week without taking time off because their chair is hurting their back or the lights are giving them a 'migraine'.  Good job you're not employed in a Bangladesh sweat shop, yeah?
That Kanye West song where he's riding the motorbike with his wife.  Not only is the song one of the worst things in the history of recorded music, you don't even get a proper look at her tits.
Banknotes with figures written in biro on them.  Who the fuck uses a twenty pound note as a jotter?
Instagram.  The world was simply crying out for a method of transforming boring photos into boring photos with a thick frame around them.
Earnestly discussing the various Christmas themed television adverts as though there is a possibility that the advertising industry could ever produce anything that possesses merit of any sort.
The towering loss to 21st century cinema that was the death of him out of "Fast and Furious".  Let us all pray that no ill comes to the cast of "Dude, Where's My Car?"
Copping off with a fifty-something stunner in Oochie Coochie's after complimenting her on the tasteful font that her ink man has used to inscribe her grandbairns' names on her left tit.  (That's the Crip side)
Boring bastards who tell you that they don't even like turkey that much, you know?  As though a) their culinary preferences are of any interest to you, and b) as though they're being forced at gunpoint to eat the fucker.  Have some ham or beef or little sausages and shut your shite up.
The ethereal spirits of Gordon Jackson and Lewis Collins, condemned to dwell in Purgatory by a series of obstructionist petitions to Saint Peter lodge by Martin Shaw's legal team.
The sense of being truly loved and, more than that, understood by one's mother when receiving such thoughtful presents as a Sure gift set and a book about farts from Next.
Robdog hackney carriagemen, their triple-tariff meters ticking over faster than the speedometer on KITT from off of "Knight Rider".