News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 30th June 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 30^th June 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       A county-wide manhunt is now under way, seeking to know the current whereabouts of Edward Piglet, a former employee of the Bromham Undercover Surveillance Trust (BUST), who has revealed which regulars in The Wounded Ferret have failed to buy their round in recent years.  Piglet initially holed up in the Protectorate of Heddington but, threatened by an extradition request from the Bromham authorities, quickly fled to The People’s Republic of Trowbridge.  However, as he has not officially passed from their Transit Lounge and into Trowbridge territory, efforts to find him have been thwarted.

2.       Despite a televised Probation Appeal Court hearing this week, the infamous Boars’ Murderer, Ian Piglet has been told that he must remain in the Bromham Home for The Terminally Insane, rather than moved to Bromham Maximum Security Prison, as he had wished.  Piglet, with his then girlfriend Myra Hindquarters, was responsible for the abduction and subsequent murder of up to five small pigs in the 1960s.  The bodies, which are thought to have been buried on Minty’s Top, have never been found.  Piglet has consistently failed to tell police where the porkers are buried, toying with the emotions of the victims’ owners and the general public alike.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Hay Fever, Anyone?

Waterworld

Who turned on the water-works?

And left the nasal tap

Running and dripping

In the middle of my face?

It seems the flow is never-ending

A steady stream of liquid

Pouring from my puffy eyes

And dropping from my nose

Into crumpled handkerchiefs and tissues

Who made the view so bleary

Unclear and smeary?

The blubbing and the blabbing

Dabbing and wiping

Through the sneezing

Wheezing in the throat

Drowning in a soggy world

Sometimes gushing in a torrent

Then slowing to a gentle leaking

In this wet and watery world

Of pollen-polluted nostrils

In a hot and fevered face

That can only find relief

Buried deep within a pillow

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A Pain In The Grass

It’s That Time Again (or A Pain In The Grass)

It’s summer again and the sun is shining hot:

It’s a very special time of the year,

When I start dreaming of young bodies,

Yes I just want them to come near.

You see, because the heat is now on,

I’ve got the urge to be there once again.

And I’ve selected,

To get re-connected,

And for seeing them I’ve got a great yen.

To see and hear some young ladies,

I admit that’s what I’m hunting.

With their moaning and groaning,

Their cries, and even their grunting.

The agony and the ecstasy,

As they show off their legs in their short skirts,

And all in the tightest of underwear -

So tight, you’d think it must hurt.

For, despite all of the dangers,

And the presence of strangers,

It’s clear that I yearn,

Whilst waiting my turn,

To see some darling young honey,

And to hand over a pile of my money.

The fittest bodies are a fine sight,

Just the thing to whet the appetite.

And with every squeak,

And every high-decibel shriek,

Not forgetting the sweat,

That’s what you get.

You seem to forget,

For a nearly year and then –

It’s Bloody Wimbledon again!

 copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Gooseberry & Elderflower Semifreddo

Recipe for: GOOSEBERRY & ELDERFLOWER SEMIFREDDO

Ingredients:

• 100g blanched whole almonds
• 650g gooseberries, topped & tailed
• 125g golden caster sugar
• 100ml elderflower cordial
• 2 eggs separated
• 300ml double cream

 Method:

1. chill an 800ml serving dish in the freezer (round is OK, but a loaf-tin is better)
2. preheat the oven to 190C/ 175C fan/ gas 5
3. toast the almonds on a baking tray for 10 minutes, shaking half-way through.  When they are done, chop roughly
4. meanwhile cook the gooseberries – put them in a pan with 75g of the sugar & 2 tblsps of water.  Simmer briefly, just enough to dissolve the sugar and to soften the berries, whilst leaving them whole
5. stir in the elderflower cordial, then split into two bowls.  Leave one lot whole, and puree the other lot with a blender.  Set both aside to cool.
6. take three bowls:
1. in the first whisk the egg yolks with the remaining 50g sugar
2. in the second whisk the cream until it forms soft peaks
3. in the third whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until they form stiff peaks
7. in a large bowl combine the cooled puree and egg-yolk mix
8. fold in the whipped cream, then the egg whites and finally the chopped nuts
9. pour the whole lot into the chilled dish, cover with clingfilm, and freeze for at least 4 hours, but preferably longer or overnight
10. to serve: remove from freezer 20 minutes before eating to soften a little.  Cut a wedge or slice for each serving, then spoon over some of the reserved whole gooseberries

 What else you need to know:

1. this will keep in the freezer OK for days, but keep it covered to prevent a build-up of ice-crystals
2. it does go rock-hard, so some time to melt a little before cutting is a good idea
3. the loaf shape is better, as it’s easier to cut a slice off one end, rather than a round cake-shape
4. the fruit content can be changed completely e.g. to raspberries

The Girl at Greggs

I should point out that other High Street bakeries are available....

The Girl At Greggs

I’ll tell you a tale of love unrequited,

That’ll drain your emotions to the dregs,

Of how I made a grand fool of myself,

All because of that gorgeous girl at Greggs.

She was pretty, she was down-right handsome:

About her there was nothing nasty.

She was real classy in her uniform,

And the Queen of the Cornish Pasty.

She moved behind her counter like a tiger,

Serving customers with a flourish.

And shortly I began to have feelings:

My romantic hopes I started to nourish.

Would she ever notice me all forlorn?

Would a girl like her even look twice?

Pining across the Starburst doughnuts,

Lusting after her savoury slice?

I worshipped the ground that she walked on,

I hoped that together we’d have fun.

I admired her loaves, both wholemeal and white,

Her tea-cakes, her croissants and buns.

But I wasn’t alone in seeing her charms:

There was a rival for her heart -

The man from the bakery fancied his chances,

And soon made a play for her mixed berry tart.

I couldn’t compete with his range of pastries,

His slices, and fancies, and pies.

And the size of his macaroons,

I could see had really opened her eyes.

So she cared nothing for me, it was clear,

And I knew that I’d just have to lump it.

The bakery man had all the answers -

So he was the man getting the crumpet.

The baguette and the pain-au-chocolat,

No longer tasted so buttery rich,

I’d missed out on the special meal deal -

There was nothing filling my sandwich.

The coffee had become watery and thin:

It made me feel foolish and sick.

I’d not used my loaf to win her -

I was a pork pie short of a picnic.

My sausage roll seemed smaller next day,

And jelly had gone into my legs:

I began to feel like a real doughnut,

Pining for my beautiful girl at Greggs.

But she no longer works there I’m told,

According to breakfasting chaps.

I’ve moved on to Reeves on the High Street,

And I no longer dream of her baps.

Which just goes to prove that love is painful:

For an omelette you have to crack eggs,

And you can get your cream horn filled anywhere –

You don’t have to go just to Greggs.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Alchemy

Alchemy

Flames flicker in the soot-blackened hearth,

Spreading shifting shadows, faint slivers of light,

As he finds his stash, opens up his treasure,

And samples the precious liquid bright.

The bottle unstoppered, now pouring,

Holding carefully, the glass he gently grips.

Deep ruby-red, thick viscous elixir,

He brings the dark drink up to his lips.

Sweet liqueur, spreading ease and warmth,

Through the body and the soul,

He wonders at the chemistry involved,

To achieve this alchemic goal.

Never telling of his secret source,

Where the bowing blackthorn grows,

Guarding the special knowledge,

In the place that he only knows,

Where, on a dark and misty morning,

Gathering frost-crusted blackened fruit,

Sour sloes, purple, bunched and bitter,

Berries barbed by thorns down to the root.

Hands scratched and pricked, fingers aching,

Bags of fruit booty stolen one day.

Cleaned, bruised, the sticky fluid easy flows

Into gin, then sugared, shaken, stowed away.

Weeks waiting, days dawdling, the magic starts,

A transformation, slow but steady,

Watching, wondering, the bottles shaken daily,

Until the new tincture is finally ready.

But this alchemist has no strange equipment,

Nor is there any wand or magic spell,

To create this luscious liquid,

From such base materials, so well.

In the darkness something strange occurs

Between ingredients once so rough.

Sourness transports to gentle sweetness,

And the passage of time proves enough.

Then, captured within each bottle,

A winter drink that’s red, and thick and oozy,

Not to be wasted on the cocktail set,

But kept for those who are more choosy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Manopause - The Male Menopause

Manopause

You can see I’m not the youngest of men,

And getting older’s one of Nature’s laws,

But I was amazed to find that this state,

Has a name – and it’s the Andropause!

I thought “bloody hell! It’s named after me!”

And apparently it happens to males,

So here I am in my (ahem) early fifties,

Hanging on to youth by my finger-nails!

I thought I’d better get on and take action,

To counter the loss of libido and sterility,

Between my mid-life and Alzheimers,

And to get back some of my virility.

Now I’m a Man Behaving Badly,

Re-stating what it is to be male -

I’ve started learning guitar and the uke,

And I’m growing my hair for a pony-tail.

The mountain-bike is order,

And, cos I don’t want to look like a Charley

I’m going to get me a motor-bike,

Which, of course, will be a Harley.

That’s what I’ll ride in good weather,

But I’ll need something cooler of course,

So I’ve been round to the dealers,

I’ll soon take delivery of my new Porsche.

I’m having my ear piercing tomorrow,

To show you all that I’m one of the few

And, to complete the picture, next week,

I’m going in for my very first tattoo.

Then I’ll wear my baseball cap with pride,

Pulling it down low over my eyelids.

I might have to have some work done there,

But I’m determined to get down with the kids.

You see it’s not all testosterone and Viagra,

And I say this without any compunction,

There’s more ways than hormone treatment

To ward off erectile dysfunction.

No – the hot flushes and flashes,

The irritability and sterility can wait -

There’s a lot more to be worried about,

Such as the state of my prostate.

  

I may be losing my hair and my marbles,

Gradual decline may be a part of the story,

But I’m determined to hang on to my manhood,

And go out in a grand blaze of glory.

You see some of it may be biological,

But it’s psychological, to tell you the truth,

I’m a grumpy old man, sporting a fake tan,

And I’m trying to hang on to my youth.

So you can all look at me and laugh,

As you sit there with your slack jaws,

But I won’t be the one who’s declining -

I’m off to defeat the Manopause.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 23rd June 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 23^rd June 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Following an expose by the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) of the unauthorised surveillance activities carried out at the Grockle Central Headquarters (GCHQ), an investigation has been demanded by Bromham Parish Council.  It is suspected that the phone-box in the High Street has been systematically bugged by agents working for the shadowy forces of darkness.  Rita Chakrapiglet, Head of the Bromham Busybodies, has said that the suspected activities constitute a major breach of International law, an invasion of individual privacy, as well as a complete waste of time, since the phone-box is usually out-of-order in any case.

2.       The authorities in Bromham have been incensed this week by the opening of an “office” of the Seend Separatist Movement in the independent republic of Trowbridge.  The office is claimed to be merely for the purpose of conducting peace negotiations after the long-drawn-out guerrilla war which has waged across this part of Wiltshire.  However the Bromham Popular Front (BPF) has counter-claimed that the office is a propaganda exercise, set up to soften the image of this hard-line organisation.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The First Gooseberries of Summer!

Recipe for: GOOSEBERRY FOOL

Ingredients:

• 500g gooseberries, topped & tailed
• 1 tsp orange zest. Finely grated
• 100g caster sugar
• 5 tblsp elderflower cordial
• 250ml double cream
• 250ml greek yoghurt

 Method:

1. put the gooseberries, orange zest, 75g of the sugar and 1 tblsp water into a saucepan
2. cook for a few minutes until the gooseberries are soft & slumped
3. add 2 tblsp of the elderflower cordial & stir to mix
4. leave to cool, then chill in the fridge
5. put the cream, yoghurt, remaining sugar and remaining cordial in a bowl
6. whisk until the mixture holds its shape, then loosely swirl in 2/3 of the gooseberries
7. spoon into serving glasses, then chill in the fridge for a couple of hours
8. when ready to serve, top with some of the remaining gooseberries and a splash of the cordial

 What else you need to know:

1. this is delicious, but VERY rich – a little goes a long way.  Serve with ice-cream wafers or biscuits to add a different texture & to spread out the richness
2. this recipe also works with other soft fruits e.g. raspberries or red/ black-currants

A Difference of View

A Difference of View

He said it was just a minor marital tiff

A petty disagreement

And that he was merely emphasising a point

To his beautiful wife

In the garden of the restaurant

As he grasped her warmly by the throat

Reducing her to tears

And forcing the Domestic Goddess to flee

From the family home

With her children

To an undisclosed location

I suppose we should be thankful

It wasn’t a major altercation

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Horseshoe

Horseshoe

The spade bit harshly down into the surface

Turning back the dry crust of the earth

To reveal a peatier blackness beneath

The gash growing wider as I worked the ground

I hit the damned thing hard enough

A sudden clang of metal hitting metal

A solid and unyielding object

Jarring both wrist and knee

Provoking a flurry of curses

Dirt-encrusted, I pulled it up

Disengaged it from the soil

That had clasped it close interred

Abandoned, or lost, long ago

The jagged, rusted surface harsh against my fingers

Bent out of shape, nail-impaled

The holes clogged and solid

Yet still a horseshoe

And I thought about the foot that had held it

The living flesh upon the hoof

The toe, the quarter, the heel

The weight borne upon the limb

The tendons and ligaments and tissues

The keratin structure that met the metal

The cornified material that meant that man

Could ride upon his back

Or give him the grip required

To let him pull the cart or plough

And how he had probably worked upon this ground

Toiled to earn his daily oats

And I could see the farrier in the blacksmith’s yard

The hot-bellowed forge-fire behind him

The anvil, the pincers and the hammer

The nippers and the knife

The clincher and the rasp

His protective leather apron

Spread between his legs

And the sweat beaded upon his brow

The spread of his mighty shoulders

As he sought to pull the horse

To where he wanted him

But now this long-buried thing

This damaged, crumpled crescent

Is but a modern curiosity

Residue of a different world

An age of hard rustic labour

An old talismanic, folkloric object

That might symbolise good luck

Or at least provide a welcome break

From the back-breaking task of digging

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Roundway Hill

Roundway Hill

Sitting at last, gathering breath,

From the hard climb up the track,

Staring across the ancient landscape,

Allowing myself at last to look back

Towards the far village steeple,

Rising through late morning haze,

Shimmering in the distance,

Attracting my sun-dazzled gaze.

Calves and feet gently aching,

Boots well covered in fine dust,

Kicked up by my plodding progress

Through the chalk’s crumbling crust.

Orchids peer shyly through the long grass

Of this upland meadow where calmly I wait,

Tiny, quick flashes of colour,

Right down the track to the gate.

Butterflies dance in gaudy profusion,

Fluttering round, ignoring the heat,

And a fox flees into the wood,

Less than fifty yards from my seat.

Far below me, down in the cornfield,

Seeming like dots, are boxing hares,

Standing, running, darting and feinting,

Pre-occupied with Spring-mating cares.

Recovered, exhaling slowly,

Back on my feet, I continue the climb,

The steady tramp, tramp of the boots,

Marking out the rhythm of time.

Head gently clearing, eyes lifting,

Up to the summit of the long hill,

Driving my aching legs forward,

With the sheer force of my will.

No thought for the tension and stress,

That can clutter my mind these days:

Exhaustion drives it all out,

And calms my soul in so many ways.

Daily detoxification

Can be found on this high ground,

And the tiredness of an aching body,

Works like a drug, leaving me sound.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Watchers Of The Skies

Watchers Of The Skies

Someone, somewhere wants to know

What we’re getting up to

Our access, our codes and security

Our secrets and confidences

The bits and the bytes and the bleeps

The residue that gives us away

Tracking us through online DNA

To follow the digital trail

Of our electronic footprints

Through the blizzard of data

They’re tapping and taping

Wireless communications

Intercepting the signals

Listening to the chaff and the chatter

Clocking our clicks

Scraping our screens

And capturing our keystrokes

Deep-mining the datasets

Following our every move

Wherever we go

Our emails and calls

Our texts and our tweets

Interested in whatever we do

Whatever we’re looking at

Whichever the websites

And whoever we’re talking to

And who are these spooks and these spies

In their dubious agencies

And non-existent departments

Focusing their prism upon our lives

With their online surveillance?

What is the intelligence they seek?

The knowledge they need to keep us all safe?

The mandate they work to?

And who are the masters they answer to

So unaccountable and unreachable?

Are these the same people

Who seek to calm us with platitudes

And tell us that we have nothing to fear?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 16th June 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 16^th June 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Bromham went in total lock-down this week ahead of the much-anticipated Wiltshire County Eight (WC8) meeting, which is to be held in that big house at the edge of the village.  A police car has been combing the High Street for any signs of concealed bombs, but so far only litter has been found.  The expected anti-WC8 protest meetings have so far failed to materialise, although there was a bit of argy-bargy in an argument in the back room of the Wounded Ferret on Thursday night.

 2.       A man has been arrested and charged with criminal damage, after a portrait of the leader of the Parish Council, was defaced on Tuesday.  The portrait, which languishes on the back wall of the butcher’s shop, was covered in pink slime when a sausage-making machine, which was being used by the accused at the time, exploded after too much “rusk” and “other flavouring agents” had been added to the mix of the latest batch of Bromham’s Best Bangers. 

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Hesitation

Hestitation

Some chaps find it hard to speak straight:

Their listeners just have to wait.

Their speech is a mess,

They start to digress,

Then it’s all stop, start and...er... hesitate.

I don’t think it’s cos they’re stupid or dumb,

More like their minds have simply turned numb.

They become all unsure,

It’s so hard to endure,

When all they can come up with is “um”.

This problem can make them feel sick,

As they battle with their verbal tic.

They might come out with an “ah”,

And they don’t get very far,

I’m sorry – I’m not taking the mick!

Don’t mock – it could happen to you, man -

Bet you wouldn’t know what to do, man.

So don’t be uncertain,

Nor go for a burton,

After all – they say “to ‘er is human”.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Not Romeo & Juliet

Not Romeo and Juliet

She said it was more than the romance of a moment

Not just a school-girl’s crush

But something deep and meaningful

A relationship built over the months

Of the terms and the holidays

She knew was young, and this was her first

The only time she’d ever been in love

But he’d smiled at her and marked her work less harshly

So she’d calmed down in the class-room

And started to take more notice

And he’d been understanding and kind

Flattered by her girlish attentions

And he’d talked to her when she needed a friend

Found her crying at the end of a school-trip

And held her hand on the way home

And she said she pretended to forget things

When she went home at the end of the day

And had to go back to find them

Just to be alone with him for a moment

And lay her confidences before him

She thought that the texts, the emails and messages

Must have begun at that time

Soon turning from friendly to flirty

Till they fell for each other in a bad way

In a fond flurry of foolishness

And trysting as lovers in hidden locations

To shield their passion from friends

Made their secret seem somehow star-cross’d

Beautiful, romantic and sentimental

Something that others would not understand

But he knew that he was far too old to play Romeo

That he had betrayed his position of trust

And that she shouldn’t, couldn’t be his Juliet

Yet he still ran off with her to Paris

To start a new life on the run

And now there’s a sad little court case

To try and sort out this love tragedy

And everyone’s crying

They should have both known

That it would all end in tears

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Red Onion Marmalade

Recipe for: RED ONION MARMALADE

Ingredients:

• 3 tblsp light olive oil
• 700g red onions, very finely sliced
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
• 150g golden caster sugar
• 150ml sherry vinegar
• 250ml full-bodied red wine
• 2 tblsp fresh raw beetroot juice or grenadine

 Method:

1. heat the oil in a heavy pan, adding onions, salt, pepper & sugar.  Stir to mix
2. cover & cook on low heat, until mixture has produced some liquid
3. uncover & cook on gentle heat, stirring occasionally for about 30 minutes, until the onions are completely soft (but don’t allow to brown)
4. add the vinegar, wine & beetroot juice & cook on higher heat for 30 minutes until thickened a little
5. remove from heat & pot into warm sterilised jars.  Cool completely before sealing & labelling.

 What else you need to know:

1. the key to this is long, slow, gentle cooking.  The onions should have a completely soft, silky texture
2. improves with age as it matures
3. great with cheese, pates & terrines, cold meats & roasts

Toast Rack

Toast Rack

Breakfast’s the laziest meal of the day,

A quite casual repast as a rule -
It’s not something so organised

That you need to watch the toast cool.

No - straight from the toaster and onto the plate,

Horizontal and any which way -

Whack on the butter and marmalade:

A sloppy approach to the start of the day.

The idea of it all in a line,

All vertical and serried in ranks,

It’s just too orderly for my taste,

We don’t need it on parade – no thanks!

Life’s too regimented as it is,

Without starting the day so formal,

So keep the toast-rack in the cupboard,

Chill out, and carry on just as normal!

Copyright Andy FAwthrop 2013

An Angel On The Bus

An Angel On The Bus

We were getting worried about Grandma,

A widow, she’d long been left all alone,

She was getting more and more forgetful,

She seemed to be in a world of her own.

But she was a determined old lady -

We didn’t want her being put out to grass.

Then one day a new vista opened up,

When she got hold of her first bus pass.

She took to it like a duck to the water,

She became known as the “Off-peak Rover”;

Soon she was a frequent traveller,

And used it to voyage about all over.

Her confidence picked up, we noticed,

And she became increasingly keen.

When we asked her to tell us about it,

Her features became calm and serene.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve had an encounter,

About which it’s not seemly to boast,

But on the Ninety-Seven last week,

I ran into one of the Heavenly Host.”

Now we thought this was pretty unlikely,

And knew that Grandma was liable

To be somewhat over-impressed,

By things she’d read in the Bible.

We asked her what she was talking about,

What on earth was making her so happy,

And, suspecting that we doubted her word,

She became all defensive and snappy.

She said she’d seen an Angel on the bus,

A Close Encounter, of the heavenly kind,

He was just sitting there all on his own,

And she’d been so near, on the seat just behind.

She could have reached out and touched him;

To his collar and the hairs on his neck,

And she trembled in her joy and elation,

As she sat there, high up on the top deck.

His figure was picked out in silhouette,

And about him there was a sunny aura,

At least that’s how it looked at the time,

As she’d remarked to her friend Dora.

  

He had a special and ghostly presence,

His aroma made her feel slightly faint,

But there was one further thing that clinched it,

The proof that he was truly a saint.

She was a woman of faith and belief,

She didn’t need to have her flames fanned,

But it was right there in front of her,

Truly this Angel sat at God’s right hand.

She knew that she would have missed this vision,

If she’d been travelling by cycle

But there it was clearly, on the label,

In bold, curly letters – “Saint Michael”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A One-Way Ticket To Mars

One-Way Ticket (to Mars)

I was looking for a new challenge:

Something to banish senility’s fears,

When I spotted the advertisement,

A good way to spend my retirement years.

It said they were looking for astronauts,

To head on out into deep space,

So I signed myself up for the training,

And made my entry into the space race.

They had a great vision for mankind:

It was a mission to colonise Mars!

We’d be blasting off from the Earth,

And journeying towards the stars.

Yes, we were setting off for the Red Planet,

To establish a colony, or a base-camp,

Like the pioneers in the days of old,

I felt like Columbus as I mounted the ramp.

The blast-off was truly spectacular,

As our rocket rose towards the night sky,

And Mission Control raised a big cheer,

As they sadly waved us good-bye.

Then we pulled out of Earth’s gravity,

And, as we carefully avoided The Moon,

It hadn’t yet even occurred to me,

That I’d become a hostage to fortune.

You see, when a man settles down for a while,

And there’s no alcohol on board, no drinking,

His thoughts turn to existential matters,

And that’s when I got round to some thinking.

If we’ve dropped all of our boosters,

And we’re voyaging in this tin can,

How are we going to get back from Mars?

Won’t we be stuck there, to a man?

I voiced my concerns to the captain,

And mentioned it to the rest of the crew,

But they all just fell about in their laughter,

And said that they thought that I knew!

It turns out that this is a one-way journey!

I’ve been issued with a single ticket!

There’s no possible way to return -

Well – I mean – that’s simply not cricket! 

I knew that it would take a long time,

If mankind was to make his mark,

But I didn’t realise just how final,

That day when I’d turned up to embark.

We’re to be the first of our species,

To land on Mars – that is our fate,

And if we survive our arrival,

Our next job will be to pro-create!

Now I’ve had a look round at the rest of the crew,

And there’s none I’d want go out with on a date,

So it could be a long, lonely existence,

If I’m the only one not taking a mate.

There’s one girl who’s been looking at me,

And paying me lots of attention,

I think I know what’s on her agenda,

I think I can spot her intention!

So here I am, trapped in this spaceship,

With only the Sun’s gravity to tow it,

Heading off to a fate worse than death –

It’s space, Jim, but not as we know it.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 9th June 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 9^th June 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Reporters have been camped outside the Royal Bromham Hospital For The Terminally Bewildered for most of the week, following the news that the bloke who lives in The Big House On The Hill was admitted for “exploratory” surgery on his piles on Tuesday. However, there is no news.  No bulletins have been issued.  The Wife of The Man Who Lives in The Big House on The Hill does not know either, since she has not been to see him in hospital yet.  No-one at the hospital will say anything due to something called “patient confidentiality”.  We can only speculate, like everybody else.  A goodwill gift of grapes was politely refused.

 2.       Following the revelations that Bromham-based multinational companies, such as Boggle, Starfucks, Crapple, and now Yodelfone, have paid virtually no Council Tax or Parish Dues over the past few years, it has been revealed in a secret undercover operation by the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), that ursine creatures do in fact defecate in woodland areas, and that His Holiness The Pope is in fact a Catholic.  Watch this space for more exposes of the bleeding obvious.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Beneath The Surface

Beneath The Surface

There! Near the reeds, on the far bank

A sinuous, slow movement

Languid and lazy

A suggestion of a dark shape, a shadow

Beneath the silvered surface

The shimmering pond-water

Implacable, cold, lily-covered

Under a slow-warming sun

Its midge-infested meniscus

Disturbed by the easy-rising minnows

Conceals a waiting presence

Snout, and focused steady eye

Belie the beating gills and waving tail

Needled fins and razored teeth

Lie in silent patient deadly wait

Inside a green and grassy cover

Until it is time to strike

To kill and eat

Before disappearing

Back into the depth

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Honey Roast Gammon

Recipe for: HONEY-ROAST GAMMON HAM

Ingredients:

• 2-3kg unsmoked gammon joint (soaked overnight in water, if possible)
• 1 carrot, halved
• 1 onion, quartered
• 2 celery stalks in chunks
• 1 bay leaf
• 4 thyme sprigs
• 1 tsp black peppercorns
• 100ml honey
• 100g Demerara sugar
• 50ml Madeira
• 3 tblsp soy sauce
• 3 tblsp English mustard
• 2 tblsp Worcestershire sauce
• 50 cloves (to stud)

Method:

1. put the drained gammon & vegetables in a large pan & cover with cold water
2. bring to the boil, skimming off any scum
3. add the bay leaf, thyme & peppercorns, then simmer for 2 hours, topping up he water f necessary
4. meanwhile make the glaze: put the sugar & honey in a saucepan & slowly bring to the boil
5. when the mixture starts to foam, remove from the heat & add the Madeira
6. leave to cool slightly, then add the soy, mustard & Worcester sauce. Set aside
7. when the ham is cooked, lift out onto a large roasting tin
8. heat the oven to 170C/ fan 150C/ gas 3
9. using a sharp knife & scissors & fingers, cut the outer skin of the ham away, leaving an even layer of fat.  Score the fat in a criss-cross pattern.  Stud each diamond of fat with a clove
10. brush the glaze over the ham and roast/ bake for another hour, basting frequently
11. when browned, set aside to rest for 15 minutes before carving

Roundway Hill

Roundway Hill

Sitting at last, gathering breath,

From the hard climb up the track,

Staring across the ancient landscape,

Allowing myself at last to look back

Towards the far village steeple,

Rising through late morning haze,

Shimmering in the distance,

Attracting my sun-dazzled gaze.

Calves and feet gently aching,

Boots well covered in fine dust,

Kicked up by my plodding progress

Through the chalk’s crumbling crust.

Orchids peer shyly through the long grass

Of this upland meadow where calmly I wait,

Tiny, quick flashes of colour,

Right down the track to the gate.

Butterflies dance in gaudy profusion,

Fluttering round, ignoring the heat,

And a fox flees into the wood,

Less than fifty yards from my seat.

Far below me, down in the cornfield,

Seeming like dots, are boxing hares,

Standing, running, darting and feinting,

Pre-occupied with Spring-mating cares.

Recovered, exhaling slowly,

Back on my feet, I continue the climb,

The steady tramp, tramp of the boots,

Marking out the rhythm of time.

Head gently clearing, eyes lifting,

Up to the summit of the long hill,

Driving my aching legs forward,

With the sheer force of my will.

No thought for the tension and stress,

That can clutter my mind these days:

Exhaustion drives it all out,

And calms my soul in so many ways.

Daily detoxification

Can be found on this high ground,

And the tiredness of an aching body,

Works like a drug, leaving me sound.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Mission

Mission

We left upon a high tide

Of love and hope and enthusiasm

That pushed us gently off from home

Out into the starry night

To travel upon waves of faith

And the best of our technology

We embarked upon the journey

In our silvered ship of dreams

Carrying deep within the belly of its hold

Supplies and building blocks of life

Essentials for the colony

And a fragile early settlement

And now we can only wait

And voyage on regardless

Tracking our co-ordinates

On our pre-determined trajectory

A long-distance one-way ticket

Through cold and airless space

There will be no return

No coming back across the void

From this long-term venture

To a dry and dusty planet

With its darker horizon

Orbiting further from our Sun

But we may survive for long enough

To thrive and procreate the species

To build a tenuous foothold

Upon the rocky surface

Where we can stand defiant

And watch the Earth rise once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Snouts In The Trough

What is with these guys?  Don't they get paid enough as it is? Are they stupid? Or greedy? Or both?

Snouts In The Trough

It’s good that we live in in a democracy,

With flags blazing and banners uncurled;

Here in the Mother of Parliaments -

An example we hold out to the world.

And we take this stuff damned seriously:

We’re not mere amateur hobbyists,

But now we’ve taken our eye off the ball,

And let in the canker of lobbyists.

But it takes two to tango they say,

Someone who needs a question to be asked,

And someone whose position is privileged,

With a streak of greed that’s thinly masked.

There’s a lack of transparency

In this access for cash

Their action is rash

Trying to look flash

As they sit in a sash

Making a huge mash

And principles into trash.

Where’s honesty and integrity gone?

Public service in office?

It’s gone down the abyss

They’re taking the piss

By behaving like this

Let’s give them a hiss

Tell them to kiss

Their cushy jobs good-bye.

Only hidden cameras and microphones

Have blown this thing open -

Insider access is a wheeze

They start with a tease

Then outline their fees

Soon acting with ease

They should be on their knees

Not slopping in grease

And wallowing in sleaze.

And to add insult to the injury,

By using these tools, they take us for fools,

And with faces all innocently turned,

Claim “I was only following the rules!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013.