Monday, December 04, 2017
Squad! Word to yo' momma, bitches! It's the most magical time of year again. The crowds, the expense, the tiresome discussions regarding the shrinking dimensions of Quality Street containers.
Christmas, as even the fool knows, is the province of bairns and twats. Ideally, one would slope off like Sherlock Holmes to an opium den and get through the whole thing under the influence of powerful stimulants, red wine, and strong cheese.
Unfortunately, as Ice T was wont to mention, shit ain't like that; it's real fucked up.
In this spirit of twisty-faced resignation, the Committee is here to show you the way. All you hotties, fitties, Jack the Hat McVities, get your finger out your arse, get an eggnog down your neck, and get busy with it.
Ins and Outs am here!
That film where Leo di Caprio spends three hours fending off the unwelcome attentions of a carpet; “The Remnant”.
Unfailingly referring to any dreadful mate seen reading a work of improving literature as “Billy Bookcase”.
"Davey Attenborough and his Daft Fishes"; top notch aquatic shenanigans.
Attempting to obtain compensation from record shops on the grounds that you were knowingly mis-sold P.P. Arnold.
Terns, sturgeons, and stern surgeons.
The Rugby League World Cup. The only sporting event where they have the final at the start, then again at the end. Like ‘Memento’ but with loads of huge blokes with tiny ears.
The parliamentary sketches of The Guardian’s John Crace. That said, has it really come to this? Broadsheet political satire for entertainment? Mother, the Sanatogen!
The pneumatic musical stylings of Charli XCX.
When frequenting a social/workingman’s club with an officious committee overly fond of small printed notices, defacing them so that instead of finishing ‘By order of the Committee’ they say ‘By order of the Peaky fucking Blinders’.
Meeting Mel Machin and Mal Meninga in the Manchester Malmaison for mimosas, marmalade and memes.
The relief, upon one’s return to the workplace, of finding that you’ve missed out on a collection, some say whip round, no matter how worthy the cause.
Fretting about the Vodafone couple. Will Mateyboy from The Office's face be glistening like a glazed doughnut by Xmas Eve or not?
Telling your bird that her Christmas-themed poncho from Lorraine Kelly's seasonal collection ('Because Ye'r Special!') is delightful, in fact she looks like Clint Eastwood in For A Few Dollars More, with slightly more stubble.
Maggie Gyllenhall’s excellent performance, and pleasing diddies, in “The Deuce”.
Being A Good Boyfriend and patiently sitting through “Say Yes to the Dress”, with the unspoken proviso that at least one of the brides-to-be has big knockers. Otherwise, on goes Sky Sports News.
Eagerly anticipating the organ donor people’s Christmas announcement of who it was that got George Michael’s heart last year. No doubt someone special, special, special.
Being unable to get angry with the warmongering or the human rights abuses of Kim Jong Un, due to his little chubby face being just toooo adorable!
The happy world inhabited by the marketing creatives behind the ‘You’re So Money Supermarket’ campaigns. Freed from the cares of the workaday world, or any necessity to refer to their somewhat mundane 'product', these freewheeling, coke-snorting innocents are at liberty to engage in whatever fripperies, juvenilia or flight of fancy that comes into their heads. Lovely.
Considering your music highlight of the year to be Ed Sheeran getting knocked off his bike and breaking his arm.
The excellent form of Burnley FC defender Ben Mee. Look out for his promising younger brothers Shay Mee and Anywayyouwant Mee.
The gushing, overly-earnest messages sent in by listeners to the otherwise excellent Lauren Laverne show on 6Music.
Complaining about being the recipient of “Mansplaining”. Fuck off and Google next time, yeah? (It’s a search engine).
Footballers who express their intention to ‘go again’ following an underwhelming result. That’s big of you. Cheers.
Internet Billy Bigtimes, venting on social media about what they’ll do to the ‘scum’ that robbed their work tools. If you were that much of a hardman, the local toe-rags would have left your van alone, yeah?
Claiming that you once got through a bag of Aldi’s Easy Peelers without finding at least one furry blue feller mouldering away in there at some point. Never happened.
Anybody participating in the phenomenon of the Coca Cola ‘Holidays are Coming’ truck. Not for nothing, but if you and your gormless spouse are pitching up with your unfortunate children to show them a lorry hawking cola then you, Sir or Madam, are a cunt.
Being rumbled by a lass at work with big, drawn-on eyebrows when you’ve been innocently singing “I’m doing my face, with magic marker” from “Tilted” to yourself.
Chatting to a posh feller at new voguish gin bar “Onanist”, and, upon learning that he manages a hedge fund, asking “Why don’t you buy your own hedges, you cadging rich fucker?”
Wafer-thin ham. Given the relative popularity of the two items, why not ham-thin wafers? Eh?
James Franco’s mugging acting style in “The Deuce”.
Any fool who types using ampersands in the middle of sentences. Worse than Space Hitler, them.
Claiming you do Hot Yoga and that the instructor’s mood music is “Motherfucker = Redeemer” by Godspeed You Black Emperor.
Paul Merson’s bad Cliff Clavin-looking muzzy.
The Rover’s Return pub. Almost every bloke who’s had a pint in there has been lifted at some point for rape, sexual assault or noncing. It’s either full of sex cases or grasses. Avoid.
Claiming people have 'lost their shit' over a pictorial representation of an equation that contains a possibly ambiguous multiplication element. No, they haven't.
Aled Jones. Walking In The Air? More like Wanking In Her Hair, the dirty bloody sod. And him married with bairns, for shame.
Being all up on Instagram, claiming you’re “fat-stackin’ dead presidents”, when in fact you’ve got £17 to last you to next Thursday, and you’re bringing sammidges in for your bait at work.
Going to a Christmas market and shelling out the thick end of a fiver for an ‘authentic’ German bratwurst THE EXACT CUNTING SAME as you can get in The Lidl’s, six for £1.59.
Old Dog’s Mess Trump, re-tweeting Little Britain videos. Computer says no!
Attempting to make some headway with a bleach-blonde cruiserweight rock chick in ‘Trillians’, claiming vaingloriously that you ‘look like Ronnie James Dio, you drive an ‘05 Renault Clio’. What is is with uncooperative heavy metal enthusiasts and their scant knowledge of Billy Bragg lyrics?