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.