Thursday, December 18, 2014

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2014

Merry Mithras, bitches!

It's the time of year when a ruddy-faced old man decides on the niceness or naughtiness of all and sundry, based on his list-centric observations. Also, Santa Claus does his thing.

Put some glue in your wines, some bantz in your Vines, cast pearls before swines, and let the Committee illuminate you as to what's zeitgeist, what's not-quitegeist, who's Bing Crosby and who's bang ordinary, who's a Blyth Spartan and who's blithely sharting? Long story short, Ins and Outs am here!


Having listened with great good humour to a colleague ruminating for twenty minutes about whether a pair of black leggings and a sparkly top is suitable attire for the office party, finally losing it and bellowing "Who gives a shit you fat cow, nobody's looking at you and it'll be covered in puke by 11, midnight latest".
Buying a lambswool sweater and telling yourself that this time, This Time!, you'll get the care instructions right and it won't be twice the size after its first wash.
Scenes of carnage in supermarkets as desparate specimens of humanity rend one another limb from limb in a scuffle over a budget model flatscreen television. Any injuries sustained are thoroughly deserved.
Watching the bemused expressions on the faces of US stars like Henry Winkler and Priscilla Presley when asked to explain the attraction of two months appearing in Puss In Boots in the Alhambra, Hartlepool.
The simple beauty of a really low quality homemade tinfoil FA Cup.
Wearing the quietly satisfied air of one who has successfully raxed in a new pair of boots and is fully intent on enjoying the fruits of his labours over the forthcoming winter.
Calmly explaining to a workplace enthusiast that no, you aren't 'all excited for Christmas' because you aren't a Christian, don't have small children, and aren't a nitwit obsessed with shopping.
When met with recriminations, replying that no, you aren't being a "Bah humbug", the character was actually called Ebeneezer Scrooge, and, in conclusion, no I don't want to be in the office 'Secret Santa' and you can fuck off away from that monitor with your tinsel as well. And that's swearing. At Christmas.
Going to one of them lovely authentic German markets and picking up an art book on Bauhaus Constructivism, the latest long player by Einstürzende Neubauten, and a sex toy moulded in the shape of Dolly Buster's vagina.
Spending a full 28 years living on this planet without once ever looking down at your inner wrists and thinking "What ho! That would be a splendid place to get someone's name tattooed, yeah?"
Annoying the GLW when she's putting her make-up on by constantly muttering the "I gotta hundred dollar bill fo' every lump on your face" refrain as per gangsta rap's A$AP Ferg.
Ensuring your potential audience is fully aware of the enormous wisdom you are imparting by concluding any online utterances with 'Let that sink in'.
Idly wondering whether that little absorbent mat that you get in a tray of supermarket pre-packed meat has a specific name.
That "I'm all about that bass, me" song. The singer would be quite tidy as well if she dropped a few pounds.
Having a racing green mug from the Cotswolds Motoring Museum as your workplace mug. Fucking legend.
Lewis Hamilton, Britain's Sports Personality of the Year. Worthy recognition of his magnificent achievement in beating one other fellow who also had the good car.
While applying a mint-based shower gel in the shower, singing out your homemade jingle "Minty balls, minty balls! Pop a minty ball in your mouth". Any ladies wishing to join in (unlikely), simply sing "Minty minge, minty minge! It's the minge that's good to munch."
When seeing an oncoming motorist who, in your expert opinion should have his lights on by this time of day, muttering sourly "Carrot munching cunt" as you pass by one another.
Any Merseyside DJ who chooses to play Underworld's "Born Slippy" at any nite spot where Stevie G and his Anfield chums are 'having it large' at their Christmas bash. Hash tag bantz to the maximum, what?
Describing one whose appearance is at once corpulent yet down-at-heel as a "Food bank robber".


Getting all arsey about such consumerist transatlantic guff such as Black Friday and Cyber Monday, only to find yourself compromised after buying a Russell Hobbs kettle off of Amazon that you simply had! to have.
Being slightly worried that your 'delightful' teenage son is going to have a disappointing time this year, since his Christmas list consisted of Julien Blanc tickets, a Dappy Laughs DVD, and a Sheffield United Ched Evans replica shirt.
Films and TV shows with zombies in. Popular with the same twats who were all about vampires last year. Get to fuck, will ya?
Grown ups who purchase a chocolate-based advent calendar, then proceed to give a full and frank account of their delicious daily adventures via the magic of social media.
Russell Brands. The daft singsong voice, dressing like a musical theatre chimney sweep, the constant stream of unfunny/half-baked nonsense. What this man needs is one or more 'Jim McDonald' style male friends to tell him to 'catch himself on'.
Noting with a slight tinge of sadness that televised darts no longer brings any joy to your cold, flinty heart.
Imposing a moratorium on ladies posing for photographs wearing false moustaches as if it's the most hilarious thing ever. Sorry gals, it is no longer amusing.
"It's a Wonderful Life"? It's a big load of shite, more like! Some old fud is going to top his self, then doesn't top his self. Big waste of two hours.
Opportunitistically sourcing a consignment of 'Frozen' dolls with the intention of spending the pre-Christmas period up to your nuts in single-mother guts in an exploitative black market scenario.
On seeing a hostage being released after however many years, having the unworthy thought that 'He still looks a bit chunky. There must be some nourishment in that rat soup they have.'
Hearing some fellow in a workplace toilet vigorously cleaning his hindquarters, making a noise akin to somebody sanding down the handrail on an oak staircase, and being struck with the chilling thought: Have I Been Wiping My Arse Wrong All These Years?
"Uptown Funk". A shite Wham b-side, that's what that is.
Ending a fledgling relationship primarily due to the other person's use of the word "to" instead of "too" in written communications.
When showering, the awful moment when, after much slapping and squeezing of the bottle, the last glob of shampoo falls from your hand and disappears down the plughole faster than you can say "Aw shite, there's me shampoo gone".
Being impatient with acquaintances who are only trying to make a little small talk. When being asked what you're doing for Christmas, it is unacceptable to reply "Your mother".
Driving five miles out of town to save two pound a bottle on Champagne for the festive season. Such tightwaddery is out of keeping with the champers lifestyle.
That kid who cannot pronounce the 'chimp' bit in 'Mail Chimp'. I use Mail Chimp!
The bigwigs at the BPI and Disney, shutting down The Pirate Bay, FORCING a brother to source torrents from less reputable sites. Try explaining to a crying five year-old girl on Christmas afternoon why "Frozen" contained five minutes of Ben Dover's hairy arse going up and down!
John Lewis and his shitty imaginary penguin.
Misguided and muddled attempts to foster racial harmony that end in restraining orders. Who knew that approaching Asian women on the underground and handing them a piece of paper with "I'll ride you! " on it could have such unfortunate consequences?

Friday, August 29, 2014

Ins and Outs: September '14


Hoots mon, cock up your beaver the noo! 

This September sees our Caledonian comrades from north of Hadrian's Wall deciding whether they want to be independent or if they've just been bleating on all these years for no reason. While the Ins and Outs Committee is a strictly English group, with no place for Jock Q. McTavish at the table, the constituent members are all keen proponents of plaid skirts, going commando, tonic wine and extreme inebriation in a public place.

While avoiding any specific reference to Scotland, politics or Bonnie Prince Charlie Nicholas, it is to be hoped that the Committee latest epistle will enable the floating voter to tell their cock-a-leekie from Mock the Weeky, the Darien Scheme from the Tangerine Dream, and their braw bricht moonlit night from their geet big massive shite.

Ins and Oots am here, ye ken?


Vincent Tan's hot sister, Poon.
Looking upon the televised travails of Kellie/Frank Maloney and remembering nostalgically the good old days of James/Lauren Harries, when a chap could have a good old belly laugh while pointing out "It's a gadgie in a frock!" without fear of rebuke for one's 'problematic' attitudes. 
Visting the Musee d'Orsay and spending a good twenty minutes transfixed in front of "L'Origine du Monde", eventually emerging from one's reverie and sagely opining "They went in for a hairy clopper in them days, what?"
Post World Cup, referring to any acquaintance with the forename James as "Ham-ez".
Nicki Minaj's tremendous new offering "Anaconda", a glorious appropriation of large chunks of Sir Mixalot's "Baby Got Back" in celebration of Ms Minaj's magnificent hindquarters.
The Mohorovičić discontinuity. Splendid stuff.
Watching documentaries about Northern Soul and thinking back to the first time you ever watched a programme that harked back to the glory days of the Wigan Casino et al, featuring the same handful of clips and the same talking heads from the scene, some of them mere thirty-somethings the first time they were called upon to reminisce about necking bombers and dexys and putting talc on the floor. Great memories. KTF.
Spending a short break with aged parents. Not the most exhilarating holiday, but you will gain valuable new insights into the forensic techniques of American police in the late 1990s, due to a daily diet of 'True Crime' TV documentaries. At deafening volume.
While queueing to get in the VIP area of "Roofies" nite club, confiding to a smoking hot Payroll Administrator that 'at the minute, I'm rolling an '05 Astra'. Bitches respect that shit.
Being blackballed from the local judging panel of 'Britain in Bloom' after getting into a splenetic, bile-filled correspondence with the Chair over whose is less dull out of Midlake and The National.
On meeting the parents of your beloved for the first time, and being left alone with her father, circumventing any efforts on his part to play the heavy father by making pointed enquiries as to how much dowry he was proposing to pony up should this thing go the distance. Veiled references to daddy's little girl stating a preference to hire a stately hall for the ceremony ought to keep the old buster in line.
Loving Bangkok, hating on Pattaya.
That great Jon Spencer's Blues Explosion tune. Can't remember the name, but in the middle of it he shouts "Blues! Explosion!" then they all start playing at 100mph. That one.
The new series of children's serial "Dr Who", where the viewer sees very little of "The Doctor", with most of the crises being dealt with by a new character "The Practice Nurse".
Ham-fisted attempts at satire.
On being asked to pass back a stray 'penny floater' football to children in the street, sending in a crisply-struck ball that swerves both ways before dipping viciously and crashing into the bespectacled face of a small boy, necessitating an increase in one's pace in order to avoid a subsequent inquest.
Telling the GLW that her new fashionable 'bob' haircut is The Very Thing and is rather reminiscent of Bam Margera.
Giving yourself side by adopting a Derek Nimmo style glottal stammer after a few pints. 
Local free newspapers. Say what you like, but you can't swat a fly or dispose of the waste from your grill pan with Guardian Online or Yahoo News, can you? That said, anyone paying cash money for a newspaper in this day and age is, frankly, a tool.
Using one's tongue, expertly dislodging a hitherto recalcitrant piece of food from between one's teeth.


Second hand exposure to the banal Mumsnet-style social media quacking of dough-faced unfunnyman Jason Manford.
Dudley Do-Rights getting buckets of ice water tipped over them in order to buy £3 worth of attention. Almost makes one long for the halcyon days of plain women posting online photos of themselves sans cosmetics.
Vladimir Putin. The man's a bally wrong 'un. There, I've said it!
Christy Mack arrivistes. Some of us liked her before it was trendy.
Dates. Three hours of laboured small talk where your hand ends up in your pocket far more often than down the front of her décolletage.
The re-booted "Planet of the Apes" franchise. The producers of this simian gash are the ones that should be booted. Right up their jacksies.
The reprehensible text-pest lo-jinks of disgraced soccer coach 'Malky' Mackay. Very little prospect of him ever being ordained Archbishop of Banterbury.
Coeliac disease sufferers. Just a bunch of puffs who cannot handle their gluten.
Going to the home of a lady for whom you previously entertained tender feelings, to be confronted by some ghastly trite quotation about family life or phrase from a godawful pop song stencilled on a living room or bedroom wall. After such an affront to one's sensibilities there is no way she is coaxing a hint of tumescence out of a chap, try how she might.
Seriously, put "wall quotes" into Google images. The horror.
Workplace sicknote shithouses, afforded a 'phased return' in order that the strain of sitting at a desk for a full day isn't too much for them. To compound their blackguardery, they then breezily mention that they're off to the gym in the afternoon, after completing a mere four hours of what they understand as work.
Social media mothers, remorselessly cataloguing Every Single Day of your foul children's summer holiday activities in order to outdo that no-bidness bitch whose bairn goes to school with your youngest, who thinks She All That because she took her kids to Alton Towers one time.
Daniel Radcliffe. Face it, you're the Mickey Rooney for the noughties. Kick back and count those sweet, sweet wizard residuals and stop with the daft rom coms with actresses who tower over your dwarf arse. It just ain't happening. 
Computer games being reviewed alongside proper culture in newspaper sections and television shows. They may as well be reviewing the week's output of Babestation and similar channels, and providing listings of local shops that will sell single tabs to youths without insisting upon proof of age.
Attending a terrible 'fake festival' full of low rent tribute bands such as Kings of Leigh-on-Sea, The Mock Mock Turtles and Jackie faux-Motherfucker.
That shower of Dundonian shithouses at The Beano, rejecting your letters page joke for the umpteenth time since 1998. What child of today wouldn't find it hilarious that Dennis the Menace's favourite Cornershop single is "Brimful of Gnasher"? 
Ill-advised females who use a photograph of their children as a Tinder or Plenty of Fish profile picture. Sorry pet, but Ian Watkins is off the market at the moment.
Pulled pork. Looks like bloody cat food.
Robert Smith off of The Cure. You're, like, 60, and still dressing as a fat goth and pretending to be a-feared of spiders? Bitch, please.
Using one's tongue, inadvertently dislodging a hitherto unsuspected piece of food from between someone else's teeth.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Top 10 Footballers Who Sound Like Female Adult Film Actresses...

...and their specialities.

Alexis Sanchez - sultry latin looking 'Milf', always having it off with her teenage son's mates.

Laurent Koscielny - East European, large natural breasts.

Lilian Thuram - Black woman, lots of very vigorous anal.

Andrea Pirlo - Late 80s/early 90s European, very hirsute 'down there'.

Jay Bothroyd - Posh older lady, mainly does 'JOI' videos.

Shinji Kagawa - Japanese faux-schoolgirl.  Pixellated genitals.

Kasey Keller - Corn-fed, silicon-enhanced, alliterative blonde.

Papiss Cisse - Indonesian transsexual, keen interest in watersports.

Luka Modric - Yugoslavian, erstwhile lover of a warlord accused of ethnic cleansing in the 90s.

Billy Davies - British girl, regularly starring as a 'chav teen' despite being the far side of 30.

Keep flicking to kick, sports fans!