Thursday, December 20, 2018
Listen up, chillun! Gather round for yo' vitamins, Ritalin, and chitterlings.
The Committee have been pow-wowing, and after much desk-thumping, dry-humping, and mugwhumping, they have the following communique:
Ins and Outs am here!
Convincing people you're a foodie arsehole by referring to any snacks you prepare as 'small plates'.
Sporting what appears to be a nascent Hitler 'tache because you've promised yourself a pre-Christmas nose waxing at the Turkish barber's, and you want to get your money's worth.
The 1922 Committee. Some boys, them.
A local press or club website training gallery featuring your team. Nothing more than a collection of photos of footballers in bibs jogging in desultory fashion or grinning while playing five-a-side, but oddly compelling.
Feeling somewhat dirty donning one's first pair of New Balance training shoes, having been a staunch Adidas man since childhood.
The eyebrows of Gabriel Jesus.
Being late to the party, but getting properly into the music of Orange Juice. Marvellous.
Having spent many years furious, *furious*, about the fact that the allied team don't in fact, win the match, in the film "Escape to Victory", gaining some inner peace from the fact that the title refers to the eventual, some say more important, victory in World War II.
The film would really have had to be called "Escape After Victory" if they had won the match, which would have entailed two large spoilers, right there.
Politically-aware adult website Pornhub re-classifying all of its Big Black Cock (BBC) content as Big Cock of Colour (BCoC). This follows their previous ‘woke’ categorisation of Big Beautiful Women (BBW) rather than ‘fat lasses’.
Considering at length, then completing, the purchase of a brown corduroy jacket.
"Vic and Bob's Big Night Out". A triumph.
Getting hold of a 20% off voucher for Marks and Spencer, and hotfooting it down there to get your lass' bit Christmas presents, stopping only to ask an assistant where is the "Any old fucking shit" aisle. Cashback!
The pleasing ladies fashion news that choker chains are back as part of a '90s retro' vogue. Giddy up!
Avidly watching tv shows about caravans and motorhomes, eagerly lapping up reviews of assorted Swifts and Elddises despite having no intention of ever getting in a one.
Doing that 'talking with your hand over your mouth' thing the footballers do, when you're at the pub with your mates.
Robert Mueller. A modern day Eliot Ness, and a rare source of good news stories as a succession of Trump's odious mates get despatched to the big house.
Netflick's blockbusting docu-series "The Daft Twats of Sunderland".
Eschewing the gauche Christmas sweater look for a simple lapel badge that says "Hey, fuck your pigs in blankets".
Getting the bum's rush from the Snootytown Golf Club's big Christmas Ball after falling foul of their 'no denim' admittance regulations, your plea that "They're Grim Timms! Heavyweight selvedge denim and that!" cutting no ice with the walrus-tached, blazered up Rotarian who escorts you from the premises.
Telling people that the local social club lays on a 'fabulous' cheeseboard and charcuterie of a Sunday lunchtime. A somewhat lavish description of cheddar cubes, black pudding and chopped up hot dogs.
Believing that downmarket frozen food hawkers Iceland gives any more of a shite about palm oil than it does about the dietary requirements of Kerry Katona's bairns.
That shit Queen film, emboldening knackers of all stripes to inflict the band's shitty music in public houses.
Ian Brown's execrable new single "First World Problems"; an "Another Day in Paradise" for the Pretty Green whopper generation.
Referring to records as 'vinyls'.
Any statement that is followed by multiple 'crying laughing' emojis. The emoji of 'banter'. The emoji of the Fucking Prick.
Beer or Gin or Prosecco 'festivals', where the word 'festival' means nothing more than 'for sale'. Like all other licensed premises.
A bloke of twenty-eight or more summers describing something as 'on point'. Is a bloke who needs a dry slap.
Roaring Home County Brexit whoppers, only able to achieve an erection while watching "Dunkirk" or "The World at War", getting an absolute diamond-cutter on at reports of No Deal preparations, troops on the streets, and urgent medical supply convoys.
Acting all Mother Teresa over the great works you're going to accomplish with the money you're not spending on Christmas cards. It's like two quid for a big box of cards, yeah?
Posting a picture of your so-so Christmas tree online without the devastatingly original caption "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas"
Buying a small cylinder with a woman’s voice to Google shit for you.
All year round poppy blowhards.
Stuttering penalty kick run-ups. Get the fucker kicked, man.
Old Dog’s Mess from Arctic Monkey. A true heir to the ‘self-satisfied Yorkshire cunt’ mantle of Sir Geoff Boycott.
Standing around freezing your arse off in a converted container unit, drinking overpriced little tins of American IPA shite, when you're in the middle of a city littered with warm pubs that sell beer you've heard of.
Letting out a big old Stan Laurel style yelp the first time a Turkish barber goes after your ear hairs with a flaming splint. Disconcerting.
6 Music's decision to replace the Radcliffe and Maconie's iron horse of afternoon radio with the tiresome oaf Sean Keaveney.
The ratio between how much of a hard-faced ratbag a female acquaintance is, and the nauseatingly over the top positivity of her online social media photo commenting style.
People who buy turkey crowns at Christmas. Mocking the poor bird like that. That said, the baby Jesus was given a crown before he died as well, so that's fitting.