Well, it’s 2013 now, and pretty much 18 months have passed without me lifting a blogging finger in anger. In the meantime, all of the world’s problems have been completely sorted out - thanks largely to the irresistible intellectual force of bloggers everywhere, who have ensured EVERYONE online makes a REAL effort to think about issues, and works in harmony to SOLVE problems rather than just hurling insults at each other constantly. (Oh - no, hang on; in fact, the planet’s mired nipple-deep in stinky crapola, blogging is now utterly irrelevant thanks to Twatter and Faecebook, and people hate each other more than ever.)

In this strange modern world, I, like so many other rapidly-ageing ultra-conservatives, long for a return to simpler times, when the environment didn’t exist, when all Muslims were loveable bit-part movie sidekicks played by Art Malik or the fat one in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, and when the liberal media’s agenda wasn’t being run by shape-shifting illuminati space-lizards from the planet Xooberon. But, unlike most rapidly-ageing ultra-conservatives, I’m in a position to do something about it (well, something other than crapping on endlessly about immigrants, the BBC, marxists and “greenies” on the Telegraph’s comment pages, that is.)

We live in the worst recession for a century; the poor are going to shit, so I thought I’d join them… and so with very little fanfare and no further ado, I would like to announce the imminent relaunch of Shit Sandwich. Please make your way over there - you’ll not find loads of new features, plenty of intellectually and sexually-stimulating content, as well as all the old favourite contributors. Hurrah!!!

www.shitsandwich.co.uk

Yes, as hinted in previous bletherings, this is post #1000 of our humble blog - and it’s perhaps appropriate to mark it with a shit title pun which no-one will get. (”Mille” being “a thousand” in French. And Italian. And possibly Spanish, although only if you pronounce it “eth-eth-eth” whilst simultaneously murdering some sort of bovine creature. By the way, I mean “milestone”, not that the blog is a millstone around my neck…)

Needless to say, I’ve enjoyed it massively - probably quite a lot more than most readers* - and I hope you’ll carry on visiting (or at least pop back once in a while) for a while to come yet. And slightly wanky / self-referential (especially considering no fecker reads it these days) though it may be, I’d like to thank a few contributors without whom it would all have been even shitter. Bren and Kyklops from far-off foreign climes, Chez from far-off Plymouth, and Hotdog, whose input, despite our political differences, was usually quite brilliant. Most of all LZ, whose contributions (and shorts) inspired everyone, Pal, who more-or-less ran the show in the early days and is MUCH missed, and MOST most of all, of course, TM, without whom it wouldn’t exist at all. He is the wind, as I’ve said before, beneath my whinges. Thankyou all massively.

Finally - there WILL be another real-o-meet at some point this year, even if the turnout only numbers one eighth that of the previous crowd**. More info to follow.

(* - To paraphrase Bob Monkhouse: “They laughed when I told them I wanted to write an occasionally-humorous blog which would run to over 1000 posts: no-one’s laughing now…”)

(** - of eight.)

This morning, whilst in the middle of the mind-numbingly dull task of painting every room in an empty flat with only my DAB tranny for company (woof!), I suddenly tired of my usual diet of Radio 5 Live (the BBC’s attempt to appeal to the Daily Mail demographic by means of phone-ins which feature mostly shouty builders called Dave who start sentences with “I’m not racist, but…” and self-righteous stay-at-home mums from Tunbridge Wells), so I turned the dial to see what I could find, eventually alighting on Planet Rock. “Dr Feelgood” by Motley Crue, “Spirit of Radio” by Rush and “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young were the first three tracks served up for my delectation; I was impressed. Then came the adverts; first up, a plug for the latest issue of music mag “Mojo”, featuring a Neil Young interview and an exclusive CD with a re-interpreted recording of his classic album “Harvest”. Fan-bloody-tastic, I thought; even the adverts are good! I belong to a demographic after all! FINALLY, there’s a radio station for MY kind of guy!

And then the next advert came on: “Over 50? Overweight? Struggling to control your cholestorol levels? Then try Flora ProActive.”

Yeah, cheers for that.

Aaaand relax. Now that’s better; a month of blogging sacrificed in order to spend more time taking care of the sundry stresses and woes of the world, and I’ve emerged into… well, a January 2011 which contains just as many sundry stresses and woes as did the end of 2010. Honestly, you would not believe it - I come back from holidays and there’s already a MOUNTAIN of crap to force down the metaphorical WC of getting-sorted-out-ed-ness with the bog-brush of my hard graft. I don’t know where to start; there’s [ED - at this stage, I should probably truncate Tafkass’s stream of whiny consciousness, as all you can expect is a big long list of minor mundane tasks which are of no interest to anyone. I’m sure you almost certainly don’t want to know about the chip in the windscreen which threatens MOT failure, the urgent renovations needed to the kitchen wall of the flat, the backlog of records and CDs to post, the mortgage application, the car insurance, the visit from a prospective house-buyer necessitating a long-overdue spring-clean, or the membership forms which have to be sent to the English Table-Tennis Association in his capacity as secretary of the Burmarsh club. Do you?]

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, New Year. A time for ridiculously hedonistic parties (check - a fantastic house-do in Clapham, almost certainly the best NYE I’ve ever had), pretending to plan a diet (erm.. yeah, whatever), joining a gym and regretting the cash outlay for 10 of the subsequent 12 months (I could, but on the other hand, who needs proper cardio-vascular exercise when you’re straining every sinew against Folkestone’s finest 60+ table-tennis players every week?), and most of all, RESOLUTIONS. This year, I’ve resolved to a) learn the guitar properly, to at least grade “8″ standard, b) find a life-partner, get married and ideally have a child on the way by December, c) double my income from work purely by increased application on my part, d) travel extensively to the three continents I’m yet to visit, and crucially e) not to worry too much if I fail to live up to unrealistic expectations.

Seriously - I’ve resolved a) to show a happier disposition to the world. “Angry Taf” is all well and good, but I think that “Smiley Taf” is probably more of a hit with the honeys. And everyone else. b) to lift stuff using my legs, and not my back. 3 consecutive years of winter sciatica & pulled muscles now, and despite my peak conditioning as a semi-professional sportsman in the lower reaches of the Folkestone TT league, I suspect that age is catching up with me to the point where I need to start taking a bit more care. And finally c) to blog more. Shit Sandwich / VP has always been great fun - and I’m hoping that, despite the blog phenomenon having somewhat jumped the shark, the glory days aren’t over just yet. Another VP get-together may even be in the offing; post number 1000 seems a good reason, and that’s not far off. All you lurkers / former regulars / anyone passing -please do chip in from time to time, even if it’s just to tell me exactly how bad that self-penned “joke” was. (A case in point: Q - What did Obi-Wan Kenobi say to the middle-aged woman? A - “Menopause be with you”).

(Oh yeah, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! )

A quick note on my prolonged inactivity; I’ve been propah mental busy managing my vast rental portfolio on top of the normal eBay shenanigans, so there’s not been a lot of time for blogging; a situation which, like “I’m a Celebrity”, is unfortunately likely to persist for the next few weeks. In addition, TM, having finally found the perfect film for his height range, is heading off to New Zealand in the next week or so trying to get cast as an extra and hoping that his skin-tone isn’t too dark - so all told, it’s probably a good time to go into hibernation for a month or so. Barring anything earth-shattering, I’ll be back in late Dec / early Jan.

In the meantime, as if you were organising a guitar-playing contest between Jimi Hendrix and Harry Hill before dealing with your offspring’s excreta, I’ll wish you a Hairy Mis-Match and a Nappy. D’you hear?

Stuff I’ve learned over the last week; a mixture of genuinely interesting facts, less-than-genuinely-interesting speculations and downright bullshit. Quite a heavy football leaning this week, for some reason.

1) The word “kop” (as in a stand in a stadium, most famously at Liverpool’s Anfield, but also used for steep terracing at several other football stadia) comes from a place called Spion Kop in South Africa, site of a battle in the Boer War. The steep banking to one side of the battle site created the feel of a natural arena. (Riveting stuff, eh?)

2)  “Bebo” is actually an acronym, for “blog early, blog often” - an injunction which briefly inspired me between the 29th of September and 1st October (if you count two fairly crappy blog posts in three days as “often”), before I forgot about it completely, much as everyone else has now forgotten about Bebo.

3)  “Coatto” is the Italian for “Chav”. Sorry, hang on, I mean “Coatto” is the Italian for “rough and ready, honest, free-spirited, down-to-earth individual”. At least that’s according to Manchester United striker Federico Macheda’s description(s) of team-mate Wayne Rooney…

This is a classic example of what i call “Roy’s Constant”*, whereby when you take a quiet week in football (for instance, when all the leagues take a break for international qualifying matches, as they are doing currently), combine with hundreds of Premiership mercenary Carlos Kickaballs returning to play for the banana republic of their birth, factor in the inevitability of them being interviewed by their local press, and you will ALWAYS get some gobshite saying something along the lines of “My Premiership team mates give mental retardation a whole new meaning, the town where I play is the pus-filled arsehole of the world, and every English woman I’ve met there looks like Sloth from The Goonies and smells of rotting fish”, before “clarifying” their statement once their agent phones to remind them that the internet doesn’t magically stop at Heathrow.

(* - so called in honour of Dutch striker Brian Roy, who, shortly after transferring from Hertha Berlin to Nottingham Forest, opined the following: “Berlin has everything. It is a cosmopolitan city with theatres and the people are open-minded. They are not as narrow-minded like the people in Nottingham. There are no theatres, no cinemas, hardly anything. All Nottingham has is Robin Hood – and he’s dead.”)

- An arrogant disdain for the international community’s cessation of whaling.
- Bjork’s bravely avant-garde, but ultimately slightly disappointing, recent oeuvre.
- Wars fought over the right to exterminate the genus Gadus Morhua.
- The refusal of patently culpable financial institutions to refund Kent County Council (I’m not so bothered about the many other councils affected by this).
- Using lardy ex-girl-band-members to hawk bargain bucket frozen chilli dip turkey twizzlers to chavs using the frankly ludicrous pretext of maternal heroism.

Yes, there have always been plenty of reasons to dislike Iceland, but perhaps none more all-pervasive than the recent explosion of Eyjcouldntpossiblypronouncethat-butIknowthatattheenditlooksabitlikeskull. I, like many others, was affected by the second-most-irritating ash of all time*, stuck as I have been for most of the last week in strange foreign surroundings (erm, well, at my parents’ house in Italy), and facing the prospect of massive inconvenience and expense (I’d have had to switch the computer on to rebook my flight, AND I’d probably have felt morally obliged to buy my folks a bottle of wine to say thankyou for putting me up for another few nights. And did Gordon Brown, the foreign office or the navy offer ME any help with all this? Did they bollocks.)

Actually, I’m quite proud of my stiff upper lip and Dunkirk spirit - I may not have rowed across the Channel in a thinly-veiled attempt to boost my ailing father’s low-to-zero chances of once more manning the Swingometer at the upcoming election, but I DID check the internet every day for updates AND I didn’t throw too much of a strop when it was looking like I wouldn’t make it back in time for yesterday’s episode of “Waterloo Road”. And luckily, my strategy of coping with the disruption by gorging myself on pizza and red wine worked a treat - just as I was about to give up on the flight and resign myself to the horrors of the TGV, the independent-and-in-no-way-influenced-by-commercial-pressure safety authorities decided that volcanic ash wasn’t actually dangerous after all. In no time at all, the airspace had opened herself up to me utterly like the cheap, accomodating transportational whore she is, and, just as I had foreseen when booking back in February that the very last flight out before the  ban would be at 6am last Thursday, my return reservation was also for the very first one back (8am yesterday). Huzzah!

(* - After Leslie, obviously. Also in the running - the black guy from “Casualty” in the ’90s. He was a bit up himself. Well, the character was at least;  I’m sure the actor’s probably a very nice man. Actually, I’ve just wikipediad him - he’s Ian Wright’s cousin, so may well have been exposed to the same genetic mutation which causes Ian to suffer from such severe gobshittism.)

Oooooh, it’s a tough choice this week; is it…

a) Atrocious leather-kicking multi-millionaire chav thug with the IQ of a rock sleeps with money-hungry tart allowing the tabloids to manipulate half the country into paroxysms of hypocritical moral outrage?

b)  Ghastly barking transsexual-looking she-chav with huge lumps of silly putty bizarrely sewn into her skin cynically marries money-hungry lunk-head to gain maximum publicity for her ex-husband business partner who just happens to be releasing a book on the same day?

Or is it…

c) Evil manipulative bastard with weird centre-parting singlehandedly responsible for the death of music figures out that a neat way to increase his public standing and get some lovely free(ish) publicity for him, Beryl Coles and his other “star” proteges, would be to subject everyone to a shit-ridden saccharine version of a lyrically-inappropriate REM song about suicide which, having previously had a serviceable melody, is now punctuated by said celebri-twats trying to outdo each other by fitting in as many unnecessary extra notes as possible, climaxing with Mariah “I’m pretending I” Care-y bracing herself, gurning and yodelling “Eeeeoooowwwweeveryyyboooowooodyyy Huaaaaoooooeeeeeuuurrrts” at the top of her incredibly fucking annoying squeaky voice.

Fairly evidently, it’s a) and b) - I give quite a big shit about c) - any high-profile “charidee” single always gets me contemplating. Whilst the bottom line is that the money raised will do some good on the ground in Haiti, it’s arguable that the publicity garnered by Cowell and his acolytes in aid of the furtherance of their crappy careers is worth far, far more (to them alone, obviously. Because I can’t see Cowell giving any of the nicely-boosted profits from his subsequent single - which will reportedly be a reworking of “The Girl is Mine” performed by SuBo and the reanimated corpse of Michael Jackson* - to charities in Haiti or anywhere else.)

Furthermore, the showbizification of disaster-relief is such a well-worn path now that it risks beguiling people into the mistaken belief that they just need to buy the single and everything’ll be OK. TM envisaged the typical consumer’s purchasing decision process thus** -

“I’m feeling beneficent today … I know, I’ll buy that Cowell / REM song from iTunes to help the people in Haiti…. ooh, look The Hills … OMG I can’t believe Heidi said that to LC … and hello! - when is she going to get rid of Spencer? Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, Haiti. It’s, like, terrible what’s happened out there and stuff?… maybe I should assuage the nascent sense of guilt that I think I should be feeling… but how? Oh yeah! The Cowell single … click click, done - that should make everything OK. Now where’s the remote, I LOVE The Hills…”

So personally, I won’t be buying “Everybody Hurts”. I may or may not give some money via another conduit, but I figure that if my elected representatives have £20 billion of my money to spunk on Trident and another £5 billion to jazz-wank on a ludicrous idea like identity cards (next to a mere £20 million so far allocated to Haiti), my efforts would probably be better spent lobbying them to up the foreign aid budget (although I’ll almost certainly end up not doing that either).

Still, better callous than Cowell-ous.

(* - No it won’t.)
(** - Quite possibly whilst watching “The Hills”.)

Went to Calais yesterday for a liberal dip in the EU’s wine lake, and can’t resist a quick chest-puff:

A 75cl bottle of Banrock Station’s quality mega-selling environmentally-friendly Shiraz Mataro? £5.69

Being tight enough to cross the Channel to pick up 15 x 3 litre boxes of the self-same wine at a ludicrous 22.36%* of the UK RRP? Priceless.

(* - Discounting the £19 crossing fee. And future bills for liver treatment.)

So 2009 leaves us, having provided very little of note apart from the death of the King of Pop, the dearth of any other kind of decent pop, the birth of the right-wing US Teabagging movement and a long-awaited global agreement to, at some point yet to be determined, maybe think about the possibility of considering sketching some draft proposals to do with the environment (or not).

It’s scarcely been a vintage year blogside either; the impenetrable vicissitudes of work, love and the Texan mindset have meant that VP no longer has the “fellowship” of fantastic regular contributors it previously enjoyed - as a result, it occasionally feels as if I’m pissing somewhat into my own wind* these days. However, I know that you’re still out there; the stats suggest that the reading figures are in rude (well, at least pre-watershed-risque) health, and every time I think of packing it in, someone fairly random in my life who I wasn’t even sure owned a computer will pop up and tell me how much they’re enjoying the paltry fayre I’ve served up over the last few months.

Microblogging sounds like somthing spiteful you might do to the drains of someone you dislike, but apparently it’s the future of online interaction. And whilst I’m not quite ready to abandon VP and join the hordes on Twatter, I can see the benefits to both writer and reader of keeping content shorter, pithier and more regular - so that’s (largely) how I’ll be going about it in 2010, although I won’t rule out the odd lengthy ill-conceived ignorant rant about something which has got my goat / indepth account of my latest social idiocies.

Happy New Year to one and all… hope you enjoy our new direction.

(* - Ancient Chinese proverb: “Man who piss in wind always gets his own back”)