Christmas having come and gone in a haze of delayed flights, minor family ructions and a festive dinner of liver-flavoured-tofu with fava beans and Chianti, I’m now back in Blighty, and pondering the current trend for cards wishing me a “prosperous” New Year. I know there’s a credit munch on and all, but I still would have thought that wishing me any of health / happiness / career fulfilliment / spiritual enlightenment / anything similarly nebulous and dippy would score above “prosperous” in the corny Hallmark-esque seasonal cliché stakes - unless you’re my bank, or something.

A-ha! That must be it; all of our banks have gone bust and are now being propped up by Milton Friedman’s gullible go-to guys in the eventuality that his unregulated trough-fest ever went tits up - i.e. you and me. For the banks to send out cards wishing a “prosperous” New Year to the customers whose propsperity they have so comprehensively shat on would be irony which even Alanis Morrisette would have problems stomaching - so when the Credit Crunch started to bite, they sold all their pre-ordered “prosperity”-themed seasonal greetings cards in bulk to Tesco and Wal-Mart for use by the general public, and used the money to buy a fleet of solid gold Bentleys to carry them to meetings with various governments in which they would plead poverty and ask for huge handouts to maintain the obscene bonus structure which keeps them in mountains of cocaine and overseas luxury goods, the continued bulk purchase of which by Surrey merchant bankers and their fragrant partners is apparently so vital to our economy’s recovery. Or something like that. Anyways, this semi-discombobulating trans-annual inter-personal aspirational verbiage-based conundrum is nothing that a poll won’t solve.

Wishes-wise, I’ll keep it old skool; massive New Year love and a very, very happy 2009 to all site regulars, to anyone who might be visiting for the first time, and - heck darn it - to everyone else as well…

Right! That last Rick Astley CD has been hastily stuffed into a jiffy bag and dumped unceremoniously at the Post Office, and I’m off now to swap mince pies for panettone, and nut roast and sprouts for… erm … pizza alla noce e cavoletto di Bruxelles. Instead of Morecambe & Wise, it’ll be Portofino & Intelligente, and instead of queueing from midnight on Christmas Day outside Next with the other chavs waiting for the sales, I will only be able to grind my teeth in impotent frustration half a continent away whilst warehouse-loads of unsold stock from previous years are wheeled out and marked down by 5%. Yes, I’m off to the land of my fathers, which at least means a week’s respite from crappy puns for yous lot.

Hope you all have a wonderful Christmas….

Here at Very Poor Towers, we really are on a one-man mission to save your Christmas from the credit munch! Following our series of fantastic promotional offers with reputable eBay seller de-clutterer, we’ve now gone one step further and invented what we think is the perfect Christmas gift - “Dancestar Shystar (TM)”

“Dancestar Shystar (TM)” is an interactive 3-D dance competition game which is fun for all the family. The game is deceptively simple, and is based around a pair of hi-tech Super Dance Pads:

Using Super Dance Pad 1 for the left foot and Super Dance Pad 2 for the right foot, simply follow the enclosed set of instructions (pictured here) in time to any piece of music:

“Dancestar Shystar (TM)” is suitable for every piece of music ever composed, so hours of fun are guaranteed whether you’re a grandmother who wants to relive the Max Bygraves-style romance of the war years in a gentle waltz, or a speed-techno-freak who wants to annoy the crap out of the people in the flat below by jumping up and down on your floor all night.

“Dancestar Shystar (TM)” is also multi-format compatible; all you need to do is bring your Super Dance Pads and instruction sheet, and “Dancestar Shystar (TM)”’s technology will dock automatically with your radio, your TV, your stereo - even your MP3 Pod Player! You can even play simultaneously with friends anywhere in the world - all you need is the facility for a realtime satellite link-up (not included).

All this, and a frankly ludicrous price tag of £49.99! “Dancestar Shystar (TM)” really is the ideal present for someone who thought they might need an UNintendoed Wee, but found themselves caught short. All major forms of payment - i.e. Paypal to a new untraceable e-mail address I’ve just set up, or small denomination notes in a brown envelope - are readily accepted.

Finally, never forget that “Dancestar Shystar (TM)” is A Very Poor Present - and that’s your guarantee that it’s exactly what it says on the box.

RIP Oliver Postgate, creator of Ivor the Engine, the Clangers and most importantly Bagpuss; the man who pretty much defined the childhood televisual experience for anyone of my age. Working with partner Peter Firmin out of a disused cowshed near Canterbury, making many of the characters by hand (his wife famously knitted the Clangers) and scripting / producing everything on a fairly free rein and an incredibly tiny budget, Postgate’s production company Smallfilms succeeded in entrancing pretty much every child born in the UK from 1960 - 1985.

Bagpuss deserves particular mention; only 13 episodes were ever made, but if a more wonderful childrens’ programme has ever been produced, I’m yet to see it. In an age of CGI, blaring soundtracks, shouty repetition and drekk like Teletubbies and Dora the Explorer which exist solely to encourage kids to become hyperactive nightmares / good consumers, the sepia-tinted “temps perdu” presentation of Bagpuss still looks and feels, 35 years on, like pure magic.  Astonishingly, BBC mandarins at the time didn’t recommission it because the characters were considered “too old-fashioned” - mind you, this was at the same time as when they taped over most pre-1970 Doctor Who episodes rather than spend money on some new blank reels (!)

My eternal thanks are to Mr Postgate for such a hugely positive influence on the early part of my life. He’s proof that talent and invention will always be more important than big budgets, and the BBC would do well to his example in mind for the sake of the corporation’s future.

(I’ve used that title before, but it’s worth a repeat airing given the context.)

Those who have encountered me in the flesh will know me as something of a preternaturally old git, in terms of my curmudgeonly attitudes at least. Physically, I’m still relatively young-looking, and am still incapable of growing a REAL beard (my current lame attempt is sub-Timberlakian in its wispiness), although on the other (wrinklier) hand, my back has been giving me some grief in recent weeks due to a combination of the cold weather and over-enthusiastic deployment of my “widowmaker” forehand in table-tennis matches.

But no amount of old gittiness in the world justified the phone call I received about 10 minutes ago;

- (Ring ring) “Hello?”

“- Hello, Mr Tafkass? [Slow, deliberate voice as if addressing a six-year-0ld] This is Sharon calling from Geriatro-Rob. Do you remember we called you a couple of weeks ago to talk about your mobility? Your MOBILITY? [A total lie, by the way; I’d never had a call from them. Her assertion was obviously a cold-call tactic designed to sow doubt in the mind of an ageing respondent; pretty underhand, really] Well, we’re happy to tell you that you’ve qualified for a free assessment! One of our sales sharks, AHEM, highly-trained representatives can come to your home any time you like, morning afternoon or evening. It’ll only take 10 - 15 minutes, and you could qualify for one of our SPECIAL PROMOTIONS!”

At this point, I gave the game away, blustering “Just how old do you think I am? What database(*) have you got my name from? I’m 35, for heaven’s sake!” - and this was met with an extremely hasty “Sorry, goodbye (click - buzz…..)”.

Of course, what I should have done was to play along; put on my reedy 40-fags-a-day-for-life voice and keep her talking for 15 - 20 minutes with some inconsequential ramblings about the good old days when you could leave your front door open and there weren’t any immigrants or paedophiles and oooh! Isn’t that Russell Brand awful, and you can’t see a white doctor any more, they’re all terrorists now and the Post Office has shut down and it was all different during the war and why can’t I heat my house any more and what happened to the Light Programme and I remember when this was all Gracie Fields (etc etc)….

I could even have booked an appointment - it would have been illuminating to see whether their rep actually offered me a discount on a stairlift, or whether his Stannahs of professional conduct were higher than that…. (geddit? Oh never mind.)

(* - I am curious as to how they’ve pitched me in the well-over-60s demographic; it’s quite possibly because I’ve recently been ordering quite a few black and white films for my grandmother. Or it might just as easily be the preponderance of dad-rock CDs I order for myself.)

A new TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI for y’all; no less than my second-favourite UK number 1 single EVER (a plethora of VP points for anyone who can guess my favourite).

It’s the absolutely titanic “Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick”, by Ian Dury and the Blockheads. For our transatlantic audience who might not have had the pleasure, the late Ian Dury was a former artist who, in his early ’30s, ditched his easel and embarked on a music career. After several years in an unsuccessful pub rock band, his brilliantly witty everyman musings caught the public mood in the aftermath of the punk revolution, and (along with the likes of Ray Davies and Billy Bragg) he’s now hugely revered for his encapsulation of “English” themes in his songs. His “gor blimey guvnah” barrow-boy persona is something of a mirage; he didn’t come from a rich background, but did go to grammar school and then the Royal Academy of Art, studying under Peter Blake.

Similarly, Dury’s backing band, The Blockheads*, were, under a veneer of ordinary-blokiness, one of the tightest bands ever to walk a stage. “Rhythm Stick”, with its innuendo-filled lyrics and nonchalant delivery, might seem superficially like a bit of a joke song, but the musicianship is astonishing. It’s in the key of F-Minor which is fairly hard for both piano and guitar, but the real plaudits go to bassist, who lays down a funk bassline worthy of Bernard Edwards at his best. In fact, it’s pretty much the ideal song for me, appealing equally to the musical anorak and the lover of smirking innuendo that is your humble editor.

(* - “interesting” factette;  when Frankie Goes to Hollywood were embarking on their career and were found to be musically, erm, limited, The Blockheads were brought in by producer Trevor Horn to record the first demo of “Relax”.)

Many of you will know that, belying my opulent sharp-dressed Armani-undercrackers image, I do my roadwork in an ageing Fiesta 1.1, in Unpolished Red (pimped with optional rust streaks). The car in question was a gift from a friend and had served me incredibly well despite its 17 year age, never once breaking down.

However, last weekend all that was to change; twice in fact. Firstly, the alternator, which had been on the blink for some time, finally decided that providing me with the combination of windscreen wiping, in-car heating and Radio 2 was too much for it to manage, and I juddered to an unceremonious halt on the A2 near the BNP stronghold of Eltham. To do them justice, both the local AA man and garage which provided me with a new alternator were very kind and helpful (once they’d established that I wasn’t black or anything), although I did feel it wise to affect my best “Gorblimey, owight mate, see yer DAAAAHN the Old Kent Road, apples and pears and various other orchard fruits” mannerism for the duration of our discussions.

The second breakdown was entirely my own fault. In a scramble to park up near to my favourite South London winter boot fair, I “woman-parked”, i.e. drove the car forwards into a space which really should have been parallel-parked into. SCCCCCRRAAAPE!! - went my front offside tyre against the high pavement which I’d intelligently neglected to spot. Nonetheless, bargains on my mind, I eagerly bounded out of the car, stopping only briefly to quizzically register a faint hissing sound coming from somewhere in the vicinity….

Fast-forward half an hour and I’m sitting in the car driving back on the M25, chuffed with my purchase of Haircut One Hundred’s entire back catalogue at the cost of 2 pence plus a bit of fluff which I’d been looking to get rid of from my pocket for some time anyway. All of a sudden, the ride becomes extremely bumpy, and my mind goes back to that faint hissing noise… oh, bollocks. I limp onto the hard shoulder, and of course the valve had been destroyed, and the tyre’s now flatter than the atmosphere at a Gary Glitter NSPCC charity gig. It took me an hour and a quarter in the pissing rain to change the bastard, 45 minutes of which were spent trying to loosen the tetanus-tastic rusted-up compartment under the car where Ford helpfully lock up the spare wheel away from anything evil and dangerous like, say, convenient access. Being under the car offered me a degree of protection from the water - at least it did until a lorry happened to drive past every 10 seconds or so. Grrrr….

Oh well; I’m sure that the wrath of whatever god of mechanical functionality I might have offended has been assuaged by my tribulations. I am likewise confident that the car will start first time when I try it in a few minutes, despite it being by some margin the coldest day of the year so far…

Idle musing of the day… John Lennon and Yoko Ono. D’you reckon John ever actually received a near offer?