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?