Thursday, October 24, 2019

Ins and Outs: Get Ins and Outs Done

Citizens of the United Kingdom of British Isles Union.  These are trying times for a once-proud country.  The traitorous fat cats of Westminster and the PC Gone Mad Brigade are betraying the Will Of The People!  The brave 17 million didn't vote for parliamentary debates, legal challenges, debates, votes, or any of that shite.  

Spitfires.  Poppies.  Being able to refer to convenience stores and chinese takeaways in language befitting an off-colour 70s comedian.  Blue passports.  Posting rashers of bacon through the letterbox of Asian families.  Bomber Harris on a stamp.  The thwack of Doc Marten leather on dreadlock.  Katie Hopkins on the panel of 'Loose Women'.  

The 52% are reasonable people with reasonable wishes.

While this glorious nation is being denied its destiny by those 'elected in 2017' nogoodniks, what better way to bring back the Spirit of the Blitz than by hunkering down with a tin of bully beef, a pot of british Yorkshire Tea, and a vintage copy of 'Titbits', and enjoying the latest instructions from the Ins and Outs Committee? 

Whether you need to know who's taking an E, and who's taking a knee.  If you're confused as to who's kooky, who's spooky, who's Teemu Pukki, then buckle up, mister, 'cos Ins and Outs am here!


When confronting a dreadful mate in the pub with his many shortcomings, throwing in a judicious Rafa Benitez style "These are facts". 

Getting overly excited when it's Spanish food week at Lidl's.  Like Christmas if you're middle aged.  And like Spanish food.

Opening a pop-up restaurant for meerkats.

Couples that go off and get married with no prior announcement.  Hats off for sparing your friends, family, and most importantly work colleagues from a year or more of remorseless updates vis a vis your arrangements.

Cutting quite the dash in a pair of black Superga trainers.

Seeing a social media photograph of a friend's small child wearing sunglasses, and pouncing straight in there to comment "cool dude", spiking the guns of countless elderly relatives who will be pure foaming.

Eighteen ageing Asians, angling in the Aegean.

Calling time on a fledgling romance following a screaming row, where the other party be chatting shit, claiming that the Voodoo Queens were better than Mambo Taxi.  

Preferring Matt and Luke Goss to Dan Blocker's character in "Bonanza".  Bros before Hoss every time.

The onstage announcement at Woodstock not to eat the brown acid.  First ever TripAdvisor review. 

The mazy dribbling skills and dreamboat good looks of Fabian Schär.

Despite generally viewing the consumption of sweet pastries, cakes and that, as largely the domain of women and the effeminate, being all about the Portuguese custard tart.  Good eating, right there.

Claiming to 'hardly ever go on Facebook these days', because it's easier than saying that you've 'unfollowed' the vast majority of your relatives and friends, because of the shit and/or boring things they say and share.

Striding into the barbers like a boss, and getting a big old shaved-in parting, as normally sported only by professional footballers and moosey-faced bairns in the paper who've been sent home from school.

Scornfully judging people by their unorthodox appearance with the epithet '...completist'.  e.g A herbert with a lipring and clumpy skateboard trainers = 'Deftones completist'.  Ageing feller in a Pretty Green coat = 'Northern Uproar completist'.

Going to one of those illegal car meets, where Daz the virgin from Rotherham is stroking his revolting chap over some chrome-laden souped-up Mazda MX5, in your mam’s Fiat Panda.

Just as the applause dies down following the first song on his latest solo tour, screaming at the top of your lungs to Mark Knopfler: “Just play ‘Local Hero’ will you, man?”

Interrupting your boss midway through your appraisal for no other reason than to ask him if he’s circumcised.

Calling tails on a coin toss because it makes you feel like some Rive Gauche philosopher.

Despite being a middle-aged bloke with no bairns, starting to write a 'mummy blog'.  An occasional 2000 words on how your tits are hurting, or passive-aggressively moaning about how your other half doesn't help out enough?  Piece of piss.  Knock it out before the pub on a Friday.


The afternoon tea industry.  Prissy, faux-posh nonsense that involves selling a plate of buffet food at an inflated price to twats by arranging it photogenically on a cake stand.

Being unnecessarily proud of having completed your post-holiday laundry after four days away.  You've washed clothing that fits into a carry-on case, you're not exactly Dot Cotton or Wishee Washee, yeah?

ale-hop: Quirky plastic cow cunts.

On the rare occasion of scoring a good goal at five-a-side, pulling a 'pornstar being fellated' serious face, while nodding in a 'yeah, this is what I do' fashion.  Prick.

Those 'Captcha' things that require you to prove you're not a robot.  They should have a box where you can write "I have no problem at all with humans being injured due to my inaction."

The traditional advice that the best way to deal with a bully is to stand up to them.  Not so good if you're a wicketkeeper getting picked on by your team's fast bowler.

Them hairy-faced, over-emoting pricks on the Strongbow advert with their 'proper music' desecration of 'Together in Electric Dreams'.

Attempting to engage in a workplace discussion of "Love's Island" by asking "So.  Do you get to see it going in?"

Hearing a 60-year-old female work colleague complaining about almost burning herself on the too-hot water from the taps in the toilet, fixing her with a look similar to Roy Keane hearing about a footballer wearing a snood, and curtly informing her that they have mixer taps in there.

The buyers remorse of the Lexiteer.  Who'd have thought that siding with Every Cunt in the Land in a binary vote could have unintended negative consequences, what?

People who post their holiday photos online, and include shots of the hotel bed.  I know what a fucking bed looks like, you pricks.

The titular Bank Robber from the Clash song.  He may have convinced himself he never hurt nobody (sic), but try telling the blameless bank tellers who suffered with PTSD.  Hang your fictional 70s blag head in shame.

This Boris Johnson feller.  Seems a bit of a cunt, what?

Fourteen-year-old young fellers, slavishly recreating the 80s football casual look, wedge haircuts and Fila/CP Company gear akimbo.

Be-clawed squirrels staring at you as they rip open the wire of the latest of a long line of £1.99 peanut feeders you’ve bought from The Range and chowing down on the contents like Augustus Gloop by a chocolate river. The bushy-tailed cunts.

Turning down the offer of drinks with your dreadful mates, pleading a prior engagement of an 'axe throwing lesson' with Jesy Nelson.

Standing around getting in the fucking way, vaping your fucking Bakewell tart flavoured smoke everywhere, like the Pied Piper of Noncetown.

Notwithstanding the fact that "The Peaky Blinders" is an entertaining TV show, it remains a fact that anybody under 70 years of age wearing a flat cap is A Fucking Prick.

Loudly telling a bar owner that the beautiful hilltop village in Tuscany he lives in “looks like it should be on Red Dead Redemption”.

The sudden realisation that, even if you climb as high as you can on the career ladder and became CEO of the firm you work for, you still wouldn’t be paid as much as Garth Crooks is.