Saturday, December 19, 2015

Top Ten of 2015

Word to yo' moms, I come to drop bombs.  Calm down, FBI spybots, I don't mean actual explosives, only YouTube videos of pop songs.

While voguish hipster blogs and newspaper websites will try to convince you in their round-ups that people genuinely listen to that Kendrick Lamar album (a din) and Grimes for pleasure, and tell you that Adele and Justin Beiber are making worthwhile music, your old pal the Colonel will give you the real deal.

Courtney Barnett - Pedestrian at Best
A shouty number from the excellent Antipodean singer-songwriter. The downbeat "Depreston" was also a contender.

Galantis - Peanut Butter Jelly
A summer favourite in all downmarket nite spots. A good video.

Rat Boy - Fake ID
Sweary pop-punk that may well have been devised by a computer generated algorithm to appeal to Steve Lamacq.

Majical Cloudz - Downtown
A fun singalong version of the Petula Clark classic.

Missy Elliott - WTF (Where They From)
Yacka to the yack.

Ezra Furman - Restless Year
Pretty much the best orthodox Jewish crossdresser singer-songwriter around in my book. Then again, my book is called "Ezra Furman is pretty much the best orthodox Jewis crossdresser singer-songwreter around".

Riton - Rinse and Repeat
Dancefloor banger inna de area, and that.

Unloved - Guilty of Love
David Holmes addresses the issues of a scarcity of lost 60s chanteuse classics for him and Tarantino to put in film soundtracks by creating his own.

Jamie XX - Gosh
Soaring loveliness from the uncommunicative knob-twiddler.

Bloc Party - The Love Within
Never had any use for Bloc Party, probably never will again, but the synth sound on this is worth the entrance fee alone.

Have fun with it!

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Ins and Outs: Christmas 2015

Happy Christmas and that, yeah? Imagine, if you will, a series of statements about a bearded man that could apply equally to Santa Claus and to peace-loving, enemy-of-the-state Jeremy Corbyns. Some self-assembly side-splitting satire there. Send it in to Private Eye or 'The News Huddlines' when you're finished, they might give you a tenner.

To the chase. Want to tell your winter wonderland from your munter from Sunderland? Your Happy Hanukkah from your Erich Honecker, your tinsel decorations from your Isil decapitations?

Well wonder no more, my pretties, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


Refusing to have any truck with the odious neologism 'selfie', preferring instead the term 'Self Taken Image'.

Listening to any Nick Cave song while shaving. Feels like you're in a film and something Enormously Significant is going to go down once you've got your clothes on.

Convincing a gullible friend that Loughborough is pronounced 'lowbrow'.

Wyclef Jean. The thinking person's Will.I.Am. Not a massive achievement, but still.

The comedic stylings of Amy Schumer. First rate.

After having some rugby bores in your local pub, going on about how you can have a pint in the stands, and sit with opposing fans and everything, hauling up your slacks and telling them that's because it's a shit game that doesn't inspire any passion, played and watched by posh cunts.

Recently-single friends who embrace the digital dating age with gusto, seemingly viewing the search facility on PlentyofFish as an electronic Panini sticker book, to be completed as rapidly as possible. "Got, got, need, got, need, squirter."

Sidling up to a flighty-looking Learning Support Assistant in 'Cozy Joe's' and pigeonholing her on subject of the recent Comic-Con event at the local arena, stoutly maintaining despite her confused denials that you saw her there dressed as Emma Frost off of 'X-Men'.

When friends are discussing the recent activities of Chinese artist and activist Ai Weiwei, chipping in with and bellowing "Stop the bus, I want Ai Weiwei!"

The hot water bottle and the electric blanket. Fine bedwarming solutions, but not exactly rock 'n' roll. Put them together, though, then you've got a frisson of excitement going on.

That sitcom that's always on; "Science Guys". Them and their catchphrase "Bosingwa!" - priceless.

Gaining a little grim entertainment while attending an 'earthy' family wedding by keeping a mental tally of racist statements vouchsafed to you, a propos nothing, by your fellow revellers.

Lobbying the local council asking that they ban any future performance of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" due to its insensitivity towards the transgender community. And because it's shit.

Missy Elliott is back. Yacka to the yack!

Moving to the fourth largest city in the Netherlands to open a scrapyard that specialises in 'Utility' pickup vehicles, calling it, with grinding inevitability, "Ute Wrecked".

Banging on the DJ booth, asking the custodian of the turntables to take off that "Peanut Butter Jelly" song because you have a nut allergy.

Knowing so little about 19th century Russian literature that you have to Gogol 'Dead Souls'.

Folk who collect mugs or postcards from various foreign cities. Easy to mock, but it's nice to gain genuine pleasure from something so simple and, frankly, inexpensive.

Referring to a stay-at-home evening of onanism as 'Kodi and chill'.

Confusing Tinder with Twitter. Difficult to follow current events as they happen via the medium of photos of pouting ladies who are keen to stress they are not looking for 'casual' or 'players'. On the plus side, though, some lovely dates with Joey Barton and Stephen Fry.


Going on about the after effects of a strong cup of coffee like you're Hunter S. cunting Thompson. Bitch please, it's only a cuppa.

The mistaken belief that 'banal, hackneyed saying or observation + picture of a Minion = fresh comedy gold'.

Jurgen Klopp. Zany cunt.

'Hilarious' photographs wherein young ladies wield a false moustache on a stick or one of them little cards that makes it appear you have A Slightly Different Chin!

Gamergate and similar faux-controversies. Grown-ups who spent most of their leisure time playing computer games have poor social skills and little respect for women - who'd have thought that?

The return to the music scene of Phil effing Collins. Tory voters - you may be losing your tax credits, but you've got your baked-bean-headed musical messiah back. Swings and roundabouts, what?

James Bond films. Is there any need for these tiresome, Little Englander wank fantasies in this day and age?

Tough Mudder and similar assault course enthusiasts, thinking they the shit because they enjoy titting about in clarts of a weekend. They need to bring back 'The Krypton Factor', that would sort the w. from the c.

Peter Oborne. Not fooling anybody. His real name's Peter Ginger.

Posting pictures of your 'afternoon tea'. What's that, a little sammidge, a scone AND a cupcake? On the top shelf of a twee cakestand? Oooh, I've just come.

Emojis. Fuck your emojis. Dirty leering winky-face. I was born an emoticon man and I'll ruddy well die an emoticon man. :p

Lonely Planet cornholes, vapouring on about their trip to see The Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis? Aurora Boringbastards more like!

People complaining about Christmas decorations being up too soon. It's like they start moaning earlier and earlier each year.

Pornographic actors having to conclude proceedings by finishing themselves off manually while a lazy/unskilful female ON TEN TIMES THE MONEY just lies there waggling her dugs and batting her eyelashes.

Sleaford Mods. Two Eight-Ace-lookings tramps doing third rate John Cooper Clarke shtick? FTS. The emperor's new tracksuit.

Sharing your full and frank criticism of the latest John Lewis advert, as though there is a genuine expectation that a mawkish shop advert aimed at thick people should have any artistic merit.

Missing five-a-side, having been mercilessly kicked in a previous game by a so-called friend unable to live with your mad skillz.

Cyclists who feel the need to give an in-depth account of the number of miles covered and the route they took. I used to like playing on me bike when I was little but I didn't go on and fucking on about it or dress up like Eddy Merckx.

Schmucks with their 'man cave' BS. Just be honest and call it a 'tug shop' or 'wanking chamber'.

A new LP from Adele? Dreadful music for dreadful people who buy (buy!) their music from supermarkets.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Inept Geordie Manager of the Year 2015

It's the last day of the EPL Premier League of English soccer, when the big football issues are rounded up and herded into a big shed like cattle. While there are minor sidebars to decide, such as who gets to avoid the Europa Shield and so forth, the real pith and moment surrounds the question of just who is the most useless Geordie twat of a manager? The Shearer Cup, if you will.

Is it Steve "Brucie" Bruce of Hull Tigers, or John "Special John" Carver of the Newcastle Sports Direct Jets? Only by crunching the numbers can the answer be found, so let the crunching begin!

JC: Despite the fact that he speaks in a cut-glass BBC style accent, John Carver is actually from Newcastle. This often goes unnoticed by many people despite the fact he mentions it In Every Fucking Interview, thinking that his Tyneside roots will compensate for an absence of any tactical, motivation, or communicational ability.
SB: Often keen to play up his Geordie credentials and boyhood affinity for NUFC whenever there is a chance of landing the manager's job or explaining why the mackem supporters didn't care for him, Bruce is actually from Corbridge in Northumberland. So not technically a Geordie. However, his enthusiastic support for the fine products of Tyneside's baked product solutions chain The Greggs sees him score well in this round.

JC: Sacked from the MSL soccer franchise Toronto Moosefuckers, Carver's record as a gaffer is not the most glorious. Despite this, and his abysmal results in the SJP hot seat, he seems to think this track record, as well as being a professional Geordie, entitles him to a full time contract at a Premier League club. Quite the set of balls.
SB: A managerial career at two-bit clubs such as Sheffield United, Birmingham Zulus, Huddersfield and Sunderland have seen him plough a consistent furrow of mediocrity, leavened by occasional promotions. Signed a three year contract in March 2015 despite being in the midst of a relegation battle. Not daft, this lad. Two words - compen fuckinsation.

Hot or not?
JC: Recently voted the Best Looking Man in the World by himself, JC's rugged looks may be just the thing for the odd fruity boiler in Grey's Club or down Bar Luga, but it's safe to say Harry Styles and him out of Twilight Saga can rest easy enough in their beds.
SB: Dashing good looks are not Brucie's strong suit, with the Hull boss looking as though he's been bobbing for chips in a deep fat fryer. Looking like a rougher version of Mrs Brown or Queen Bea from Prison Cell Block H, Stevie's ongoing love affair with the pies is unlikely to see him gracing the cover of GQ or Massive Arms magazine any time soon.

JC: An endless supply of excuses flow from the mouth of Carver like honey from a bee's bellend. Whether he's blaming the hot climate of QPR in May, or bemoaning the fact that a few protesting fatsos waving bedsheets were putting off his team of millionaire footballers, he's never stuck for a reason why It's Not His Fault, Honest. Strong work.
SB: Famously claimed that Sunderland supporters wanted him out because he supported Newcastle, rather than the more prosaic reason that his team were shite and going to get relegated. Has also been quick to blame disgruntled supporters at Hull rather than himself or his players when things have gone wrong.

Nose Straightness
JC: With a nose as straight as a Roman road, or one of Iron Mike Williamson's upfield punts into touch, the Newcastle manager finishes on a high with a perfect 9 out of ten.
SB: Oh dear. With a schnozz that looks like a blind cobbler's thumb, Stevie's conk is all over the place, with the integrity of a FIFA enquiry. If Steven Fry ever mated with a proboscis monkey (not that he would) the resulting offspring might grow up to be a less bent-nosed version of Steve Bruce. Essentially, I'm saying, no, his nose isn't straight.

Final Score: John Carver 34 Steve Bruce 21

There we have it. John Carver, a man so hapless he hasn't seen a hap in years, is clearly the Most Useless Geordie Manager. Another proud title to add to his Best EPL Manager In My Opinion and Greatest Golfer accolades. 

 Enjoy the Championship John, you fucking knacker!