News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 30th August 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 29^th August 2015

                                             

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

1.       It has been a week of panic on the Bromham Stock Exchange.  The UCI (Un-quoted Carrot Index) has seen wide swings in value, as parsnip stocks took a tumble, but were rallied by Cabbage Futures.  Interest in Kohlrabi remains uncertain.  The markets are panicking as the Chinese try to prop up failing Pak Choi derivatives, Ginger Gilts and Water Chestnut equities.  Worries over the prospects for growth in beetroots continue.

2.       PC “Letsbeavinyer” Piglet swooped on Friday at BIA (Bromham International Airport) to arrest a pair of known Seend Sympathisers as they attempted to board a flight into the Disputed Territories, with the intention of joining fighters in the so-called IS (Idiots of Seend).  They were detained under sweeping new vegetable export laws introduced by the Parish Council last month, in an attempt to stop the outflow of extremist sympathisers and to curb spinach smuggling.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Breaking In

Breaking In

I parked down by the Castle last week,

A fantastic spot in a little side-street:

Very handy for the shops and the stores,

A location quite difficult to beat.

But as I returned from doing my shopping,

I was in for a terrible shock:

When I tried to get into the car,

I found my keys wouldn’t open the lock.

It looked like I’d have to break in,

An action which could only perturb,

So I got myself into a helluva panic,

As I stood there, helpless, at the side of the kerb.

Then I noticed something that might be of some help,

When I looked into my car at the back –

I’d luckily left open the rear window -

It wasn’t much – it was only a slight crack.

If I could only get my hand inside,

And reach over the top of the glass,

I’d be able to pull up the door handle,

And inside the car be able to pass.

It was a good scheme, tho’ I say so myself,

I just hoped my arm was sufficiently thin,

It would save making a pile of smashed glass:

With a bit of luck, I’d soon be within.

I huffed and I puffed to get my arm in,

Tho’ my technique was terribly poor.

Eventually I pulled on the catch,

And, finally, I opened the door!

What relief! And how happy I was,

As I flopped onto the back seat!

I just had to climb into the front now,

Then I’d have the problem totally beat.

But that was easier said than done,

And it certainly couldn’t be done quick:

I got myself tangled up in the seat-belt,

And it’s painful to sit on a gearstick!

Then at last, I was where I should be.

In triumph I sat behind the wheel,

Getting ready to drive back to my home -

You can imagine how it would feel.

Then I noticed something untoward:

There were some gloves on the passenger seat,

And some de-icer in the door-pocket -

How they’d got there had me totally beat.

The air-freshener was different,

And there was a road atlas in the rear,

But I never carried such an old thing,

And that’s when, suddenly, I felt queer.

I should have realised that I’d cocked up,

I should have known it was all wrong,

For this wasn’t my vehicle you see –

Mine was parked three cars further along!

Copyright Andy Fwathrop 2015

Fairy Chimneys

Fairy Chimneys

Within these ancient river valleys

Hewn from the riven landscape

Bony fingers stretch upwards

Irregular sandstone columns pointing at the sky

Protected from erosion of wind and weather

By basalt boulders perched precariously atop

Thus they sit

Wearing dainty caps

Stretched mushroom shapes

Tall fungal structures

Amid the tuff

Curved and crooked

Twisted, leaning

Top-heavy hat-stones

Defying gravity

Balanced high

Up in the air

Waiting for that moment

When the softer pillar

Will at last collapse

And rain down rocks

To the ground beneath

A fairy chimney no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Cornish Nasty

Recipe for: CORNISH NASTY (PASTY)

Ingredients:

• For the pastry:
• 125g butter, chilled & diced
• 125g lard, diced
• 500g plain flour
• 1 egg, beaten, to glaze
• For the filling:
• 350g beef skirt or chuck steak, finely chopped
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 2 medium potatoes, peeled & cut into small dice
• 175g swede, peeled & cut into small dice
• Lots of freshly ground black pepper

 Method:

1. rub the salt, butter & lard into the flour using fingertips or processor until you have fine breadcrumbs
2. blend in 6-8 tablespoons of water to make a firm dough
3. cut into four pieces, cover & chill for 20-30 minutes
4. heat oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
5. mix together the filling ingredients + pinch salt
6. roll out each piece of dough into a circle or an oval
7. spoon a quarter of the filling into the middle of the dough, leaving a pastry margin all the way around
8. brush the pastry around the open edge
9. either fold over to seal the pastry at one side (Cornish), or else gather up both sides to meet at the top (Yorkshire).  Make sure the pastry is sealed all the way round.
10. brush the pastry with beaten egg
11. pierce the pastry at the top with a fork to allow steam to escape
12. lift onto an oiled, non-stick baking sheet
13. make the other three pasties the same way
14. bake in the oven for ten minutes, then lower temperature to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas4 and cook for another 40-45 minutes until golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. can be eaten immediately, cooled & re-heated or frozen
2. serve with LOTS of gravy & a green veg

That Takes The Biscuit

That Takes The Biscuit

They say a drink’s too wet without one,

And that’s not just a piece of somebody’s wit,

Cos when you settle down with a cuppa tea,

It’s no good without some sort of biscuit.

But finding the right kind can be tricky,

And there’s some myths need de-bunking,

Cos if it’s the wrong consistency,

Then it’ll be no good for dunking.

It’s got to home-baked and British,

Cos those foreigners can be a bit potty.

If you’re not careful it’ll be Amaretti,

A Florentine or a biscotti.

The Flap-jack, Cereal Bar and Blue Riband,

The Club, the Domino and all of that,

These fancy types are all very well,

But they don’t measure up to a Kit-Kat.

But you’re surely asking for trouble,

If you start off with chocolate in fingers.

You see, it melts off in the hot tea,

It covers everything, and it lingers.

Any kind of a sandwich, can be a real bitch,

And an Oatcake’s insufficiently hard,

And a Jaffa Cake’s a bit of a fake:

So’s a Garibaldi, called a Flies Graveyard.

People go to grand cities, to find a McVities,

To find Mis-Shapes, (those biscuits in bits),

To be daintily fed, on slices of Shortbread,

Or crackers with cheese, sometimes called Ritz.

You’d be knackered, with any kind of cracker:

You’d not want to suck, on one of those TUC,

Might even be safer, with some kind of wafer,

But a Bath Oliver’d give you no luck.

Of Ginger Nuts and various Cookies,

Their supporters would sing a grand tune:

Of Marie, Butter Pecans and Fig Rolls,

The Jammy Dodger, the Coconut Macaroon.

Now I don’t want to stand here and Hob-Nob,

About Oreos and Wagon Wheels:

For it would seem, that like Custard Creams,

Each of them turns into goo and congeals.

  

Crispbreads and Mini Cheddars ain’t the thing,

It’d even be neater, with a Ryvita.

Oats and nuts, just ain’t got the guts,

But a Digestive’s a world-beater.

It can be Nice to have a Rich Tea,

A Lincoln, or a Morning Coffee,

But a brown Bourbon, would be frowned upon,

And can’t match a Digestive for toffee.

So taking all into consideration,

My conclusion’s more than suggestive:

Just forget every other kind of biscuit -

You know where you are with a Digestive!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Dervish

Dervish

We sit quietly beneath the Earth, hushed within a hollowed cavern

facing an empty central circle, and shiver in the dark, dimly-lit,

anticipating the coming mystic rite

Four figures enter, heads bowed, black-cloaked, hats like tombstones

dervish-devout, focused upon drum, pipe, and strings

improvising, building slowly to steady, hypnotic rhythm

calming the air around them

The semazen arrive, arms criss-crossed, testifying the unity of God

intoning Qu’ranic eulogy to the Prophet, their delicate first movements

salaaming with care and exactitude, performing sufic rite

describing the spiritual journey towards a new perfection

man’s submission of ego, annihilation of self to God

and ascension towards an ecstasy

the very rapture of being

Black cloaks cast aside reveal the ego-shrouds, white skirts of Mevlana

and, slowly, the turning itself begins, revolving right to left around the heart

turning ever-faster into whirling, like the blood around the body

protons in the atom, their own steady orbit around space

arms spread widely open, one hand pointed up towards the sky

the other back down towards the Earth

connecting God with Man

Eyes closed in concentration, heads inclined upon their shoulders

in the spirit, in the moment, submerged in love

the spinning circulation frenzied for a while, then finished

before returning silently to their cells for further contemplation

and quiet meditation

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Birdnoise

Birdnoise

O for the peaceful quiet of rural pursuits

The calm of the countryside

Of England in the summertime

But not with this combined cacophony

And masses of movement

Of our fine feathered friends!

The sprinkling speech of sparrows

The bit-by-bit bantering of blue-tits

The rosy red-breastedness of robins

There’s the calling, cawing croaking of crows

The boisterous blathering and bantering of blackbirds

The stammering of stuttering starlings

The posing and posturing of pigeons

The delicate dancing of doves

The mind-blowing movements of martins

With sweet sweeping of swallows

And swooshing and swooping of swifts

The great gannet-like greediness of gulls

The shouting and screaming of seagulls

The raucous roisterous rowing of ravens

The whacking of woody woodpeckers

The buzzing of bantering buzzards

The keen calling of cantankerous kites

The flash and the flurry of fast-flying falcons

The pure power of peregrines

The hovering of hawks in the heavens

The careful control of the kestrels

The heavy-handedness of huge herons

And, at last, as the sun sinks in the West

You’d think it was finally all over

That quiet would descend on the scene

But that’s just in the daytime!

Between the dawn and the dusk!

Because, by night, there’s the awful, 'orrible 'ooting of owls!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 22nd August 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd August 2015

                                             

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

1.       History was made this week as Bromham re-opened its embassy in Seend, for the first time in ten years, following a lull in hostilities between the two villages.  The Bromham flag, proudly displaying its motif of “owls rampant” flew proudly over Seend’s main building (a low, mean hut made of wattle and daub).  It is hoped that the re-establishment of diplomatic relations will lead to improved trade, the carrot-crunchers of Seend being one of Bromham’s main export markets.

2.       The election for the leadership of the Opposition party in the Parish Council has now descended into farce, with the four candidates trading personal insults in an attempt to win the ballot.  Liz “Yawn” Piglet, Yvette “Grey” Piglet, and Andy “Beige” Piglet have all ganged up on Jeremy “Left-hand” Piglet, accusing him of breaking the unwritten political code by dating to have a personality, being interesting, talking sense, and discussing actual policies.  All three, if elected, have promised a return to the normal bollocks which the village is more used to.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Sacrament

Sacrament 

In the awesome name of God,

in the victorious name of Jesus

in the mysterious name of the Spirit

By words we acknowledge our God

By prayer we summon our God

And we wait, we are still

And we wait, we are silent

And we wait, wait for the sounds of God

And the sounds of the sacrament

The breaking of bread and the gushing of wine

The pain of sorrow, and the pulse of hope

And the echo of our name

And the bread in our teeth, a cup on our lips

Others breathing beside us

A voice in our face “The body of your Lord”

A power in our ears “The blood of your Lord”

And we wait for the sounds of God

The sounds of the sacrament

The breaking of bread and the gushing of wine

We hear strange sounds in the distance

The misery of other human lives

The scramble for rice, and the searching through garbage

The shuffle of withered limbs, the breaking of brittle bones

The shiver of a pregnant mother, the scream of a motherless child

The trickle of goat’s milk, the sigh of the dispossessed

The mumble of fear, the murmur of distrust

The grumble of empty stomachs, the splash of spent blood

The sounds of a scramble for life

Amid the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

We hear the snarl of a bullet, the snap of a trigger

The thump of lead tearing into flesh, the grinding bite of steel into bone

The sudden crump of unseen mines

The constant moan of riddled skies

The hiss and crackle of angry flames

And the staccato cough of smoking ruins

The whisper of desolation
The sounds of civil war

Despite the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

We hear the bleating of a lamb, and the splitting of a womb

The death of a lamb, and the breaking of a tomb

The beginning of an end, and a word that carries healing

The taste of a mystery, and a God who has feeling

In the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

Yet we still listen for the bursting of joy

And watch for the bubbling smile of release

The happy laughter of children’s voices

The dancing among willows, and the surprise of freedom

The shout of the mountains, and the scream of a new birth

The leap of our spirit, and the whirl of celebration

We still listen to God

The sounds of the celebration of God

And the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Birdlife

Birdlife

Gatherings of gulls

Sweeping, swirling, swooping, screaming

And flockings and flutterings

Of the smaller feathered species

Scatterings of speckled starlings

Silhouettes in the darkening sky

The sun sinking and dying

A roosting of ravens

Eyes sheeny-black and shiny

Amid the cawing of crows

And the hooting of owls

Chirpings, shriekings and chatterings

Alarm calls in the twilight

The shift-change noises of crossing purposes

Between the night-time nesters

Who will sit in fear through the curfew

Of dark-hours till the sun rises again

And the day-time sleepers

Who welcome pale moonlight

Amid the cawing of crows

And the hooting of owls

Shapes and shadows in the darkness

Stirrings, wing-stretchings, shakings

Within the barns and trees

A ruffling and preening of feathers

Sharpened beaks and beady eyes

Of the wakening hunters and raptors

Prior to crepuscular activity

Amid the cawing of crows

And the hooting of owls

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Bradford Park Avenue

Bradford Park Avenue

The rush, the dash, the anticipation

The crush, the crowds, the queuing

Through clanking turnstiles underneath the club-house

Thrust out behind the terraces and the stands

Past the changing rooms and the press-box

Then the wind, the rain, the smell of fresh-cut grass

The excitement, the hopes of youth

Leaning on the barriers to stop the squash

The shouting and the chanting

The insults and the ranting

With scarves and caps and rattles

The cheering, the jeering and the whistling

Pies and pints and cigarettes

Questioning the parentage of the bloke in black

Screaming at the team to get a bloody move on

Shoot! Pass! Dribble! Man on!!

The wingers drifting down the touchline

Ghosting crosses to the middle

For the centre-forward to rise above the rest

And bury the bladder in the back of the net

Or else pushed back beyond the centre circle

On the back foot, into our own half

Where our big defensive line

The centre-halves and full-backs

Commit their crunching tackles

To protect our stopper in the goal

Appealing in wide-eyed amazement

Against every decision

As their opponents bite the mud

The pitch is green, the lines are white

The green and white stripes of The Avenue

The stadium now deserted

Empty echoes of long-gone noise

Crumbling concrete and cracking paint

Rotten wood and glass-less windows

Rain leaking through the patchwork roofs

The water puddling around old crumpled stanchions

Amid the rubbish, the rust and the rot

Tumbledown terraces and tumbleweed growth

The pitch an unkempt meadow

Weeds taller than goalposts

Wasteland of a bygone age

One end of a city that died

The fate of a football club in crisis

Relegated and abandoned

The penalty conceded

Left back in the sixties

And the disappointment of old age

The pitch no longer green, the lines no longer white

The ghostly green and faded white stripes of The Avenue

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Cappadocia

Cappadocia

A hard slog up the climbing roadway

Through the Toros mountains

Wide sedimentary formations

In bold zig-zag patterns

Gash their way across the hill-sides

Into the forbidding landscape

Yet dwarfed by volcanic cones

Whose igneous stones lie scattered

Forgotten playthings

Among the canyons and valleys

Isolated boulders amongst the scrub

Sparse trees and shrubs

Struggle in the high, dry climate

Amongst the debris and tuff-pinnacles

The ground itself crumbling and flaking

Between high rock-hewn promontories

Cheese-hole riddled

With caves and grottoes

Church-studded once

Faded frescoes and carvings

Sheltering monks and acolytes

And the very poorest people

Who eked a living from this place

And in this colour-bleached waste

The basalt and the sandstone

Engage in unequal battle

Pitted against unrelenting elements

Of driving desert-dry winds

Which sand-blast every feature

Smoothing into roundness

Revealing little of the harshness

Of this high plateau’d land-locked steppe

Where strong light casts hard shadows

Of tumbling pigeons

Which flutter here undisturbed

Small creatures in a vast landscape

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it was just a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as I spread the marmalade upon my toast

And heard him explain some more about it

I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table began to fade away

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

Then the room came sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Things I've Learned From Watching Shakespeare's Plays

The Things I’ve Learned From Watching Shakespeare’s Plays             

If you have tears, be prepared to shed them now:

1.       Never poke your sword into the arras, since you might end up killing your girlfriend’s Dad.

2.       If you suspect that your lover has committed suicide, get a proper second medical opinion before doing anything rash, as they might just be in some sort of coma.

3.       Don’t believe in prophecies, as they can be highly misleading.  For example, whole forests can shift their location, for a whole load of reasons – global warming being only the most recent.

4.       It’s a dumb idea to hand over all your assets to your children after you retire, but before you’ve made firm arrangements for your later life care.  Your children may not be as grateful as you might expect and the whole situation could turn nasty.  They may cut the size of your retinue – and who needs that when you’re 80?

5.       When making love to someone in a darkened room, have a chat with them first as it’s amazingly easy to end up having sex with the wrong person.

6.       It’s a good idea to leave quickly when being pursued by a bear.

7.       Don’t count on your friends being the sort of people you want to have closely around you at a toga party.  Knives are very easily concealed as weapons, and likely to lead to such outbursts as “infamy! Infamy! They’ve all got it in for me!”

8.       If in an enchanted forest, try not to fall asleep.  You may wake up feeling a complete ass. Or fall in love with completely the wrong person.

9.       Boys’ affections can be quite fickle.  For example Romeo was madly in love with Rosaline one minute, the next second he’s head over heels with Juliet.

10.   Do proper research on prices on comparison websites.  For example you can usually get a perfectly good horse for rather less than a kingdom.

11.   Payday lenders sometimes have a role to play.  If your cargo is not delivered on time, even Wonga’s extortionate rate of interest can be preferable to hacking off a pound of your own stomach.

12.   Make sure that you know exactly where your acquaintances are buried. One skull can look very much like another.

13.   Don’t believe all you hear about witches.  If you encounter three ugly old women, gathered around a large cauldron, and cackling in verse incoherently, they are most likely to be the local branch of the WI engaged in their jam-making activities.

14.   If you have tricky-to-remove stains on your hands, try soaking them in a solution of bicarbonate of soda before rushing off to see your psychiatrist.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Sunday 16th August 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 16^th August 2015

                                             

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

1.       A Bromham villager, who is now long deceased, has been accused of various historical sex offences.  Ed “Strange-boy” Piglet was a real village character.  Although born a male to a happily-married carrot-picking family, Ed always insisted that he was a girl.  He insisted on being known as Edwina, dressed in female attire, played with dolls and would only associate with girls.  As a teenager s/he took up sewing, knitting and embroidery, refusing all vegetable-picking work out in the fields, in order to concentrate on cookery and home-making.  In a shock announcement, he is now being investigated by several police forces, after an anonymous complainant accused him of being a transvestite and cross-dresser.  In other news, the Pope has been accused of being a Catholic, and several bears have been accused of defecating in the woods.

2.       At the start of a new football season, Bromham Casuals kicked off with their now-traditional heavy home defeat to local rivals Heddington Headbutters. Although striker Dwayne Mooney hit the woodwork in the first half, he was given his usual red card for hitting an opponent in the second half.  Irascible manager, Benny Dogleash, tried out a number of new formations – the diamond, the square, the flat-pack five, and the park-the-bus – all to no avail as the visitors ran out 7-0 winners. Austrian Grand Prix

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Inappropriate

Inappropriate

How can it come about?

How can it happen yet again?

These allegations and accusations

Made recently against you?

For are you not supposed to be a shepherd

Set in Holy Roman authority

Over the sheep within your flock?

Are you not supposed to lead them

On the paths of righteousness

Rather than into temptation

Created by the weaknesses

Of your personal failings?

Are you not a consecrated priest?

Entrusted with the sacraments

And the care of willing souls?

A reverend cardinal indeed?

Not fiddling with the altar-boys

Or inappropriate touching

But a role-model for all believers?

A ministry of care for others

Lived in unnatural celibacy

In a position of respect

Where others dare not challenge you?

And is it not bad enough

That you ask of others

What you cannot do yourself?

That you should abuse such trust

By your dubious behaviour

Without you making victims into liars?

And compound your unclean crimes

By pretending that you are pure

And hiding behind your church

Which conceals your crimes

And helps to cover up the scandal?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Casino

Casino

You can tell they’re coming in, the guide confides

By their happy, smiling faces!

They still have all their money!

We stop and watch the coaches

Filled with many Chinese men

The punters and the gamblers

Bussed in to the casinos

Brought here free of charge

To come and lose their cash

And later in the day

We wander cautiously inside

Out of prurient curiosity

Across the sticky carpets

And through the gaming rooms

To see them huddled round

The dealers and the croupiers

At the carefully spot-lit tables

Unsmiling now, grim-faced

Eyes glazed in worry

Brows folded in concentration

Wagering on the roll of the dice

The turn of a single card

Or the number on the spinning wheel

In games of blackjack, poker and roulette

And though they know the odds

Are stacked against them

They see the pile of chips before them

Their stakes slowly shrinking

And still they chase their daily dream

Trying out their latest System

For the one big win that will beat The House

And save them from their losses

And in the glitzy entrance lobby

We gaze in wonder at the floor

Where bars of solid gold

Are set in glassy blocks below our feet

A tantalising glimpse of the riches

That lie beyond the grasp

Of long- addicted losers

And then we see them on the bus again

Their faces hard and set

Being taken back to where they came

Now watch them leaving, says the guide

Not so happy now!  He laughs

Their money’s gone, gambled away

With all their hopes, poor suckers!

As they leave to find more money

To come and lose it once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Blackcurrant Cordial

Recipe for: BLACKCURRANT CORDIAL

Ingredients:

·         Fresh blackcurrants, rinsed & picked over (but you can leave the stalks)

·         Sugar (see method below)

·         Zest and juice of one unwaxed lemon

Method:

1.       Put the blackcurrants in a pan with enough water to cover

2.       Bring to the boil until the berries split, and remove from heat

3.       Squash the berries in the pan using a potato masher

4.       Tip the mashed berries into a muslin-lined jam/ jelly bag over a bowl, and allow the juice to strain through.  Do not force the juice through – just let it drip of its own accord – or the result will be cloudy.

5.       Leave for several hours, or overnight.

6.       Discard the solids left in the jelly bag.

7.       Measure the clear liquid you have collected.  For each pint of liquid, you need 1lb sugar.

8.       Put the juice & sugar into clean pan, and heat until the sugar dissolves.

9.       Whilst it is heating add the zest and juice of the lemon.

10.    Strain the liquid through muslin again, into a clean container. It should be thick, syrupy and intensely flavoured.

11.    Cool and bottle.  Keep in the fridge.

12.    To serve – dilute with water, soda, lemonade

What else you need to know:

1.       A little goes a long way

2.       Also nice over ice-cream or in porridge

Underdog

Underdog

Everyone said they had no chance

That they would surely lose

Against a better team

Of superior skill and guile

And of greater strength

That their outlook could not be hopeful

That they would surely be defeated

Outclassed, overwhelmed

And all their efforts overcome

And be badly beaten

Just for their impertinence

Of even daring to take the field

And the bookies gave the poorest odds

Saying their challenge could not be rated

But every underdog may have his day

And turn the situation round

By finding those hidden reserves

That no-one knew they had

Springing the sudden surprise

And cause an unpredicted upset

Snatching worthy victory

From out the very jaws

Of expected defeat

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Sett

The Sett

Hidden by the corner of the path

On the rising ground

Where the mound runs into the bank

Are the newest excavations

The latest extensions to the scheme

The diggings being carried on at night-time

A nocturnal construction project

Creating a modern morning earth-work

Revealed by heaps of spoil

The crumbled soil deposited neatly

Outside the D-shaped hole

Which leads darkly down

By under-ground pathways

Into a dark, black home

A subterranean complex

Of tunnels and hidden chambers

Beneath the grassy surface

That provides protection from the cold

And a nesting-space for gravid mothers

Where, in future days

The curious heads of cubs

May appear blinking to the light

A small study in black and white

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Ringers

The Ringers

Tramping one by one

Along the church-yard path

Which bends and turns

Between the weathered headstones

Of long-neglected graves

Testament to forgotten souls

That trod this path before

Around the nave and chancel

To the almost-hidden staircase

Harbouring narrow steps

Which twist and wind, well-trodden

Spiralling upward into the tower

To the musty ringing room

Concealed behind the clock

Where hang ropes and sallies

Through the wooden ceiling

And now the heavy bells

Are rung slowly down

The tenor and the treble

Prepared for ringing

That practice may begin

Of rounds and methods

Changes and hunting

The Bob and Grandsire Doubles

And the Quarter Peal

Aching arms

And brows of concentration

To get the timing right

Ready for every occasion

Of morning service every Sunday

Or joyful summer Saturday weddings

Or the simple sombre tolling

Of a single funeral bell

That may ring on any day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 9th August 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 9^th August 2015

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

1.       The Wiltshire athletics world has been rocked to its very foundations this week by allegations that a number of Bromham athletes have been taking drugs for many years, thus bringing into question their prowess at a number of County-wide events.  Bert “Slinger” Piglet, champion mangel-chucker of 1971 has been accused of taking mind-altering substances, including alcohol and tobacco.  And Doris “Big Girl” Piglet, ladies heavy-weight pumpkin-lifting title-holder of 1983, may have used more than carrot-juice to develop her amazing physique.

2.       And in a complete upset of the odds, the Bromham cricket team have finally won a match.  They bowled out Semington Casuals before tea, taking their last four wickets for just two runs, with an inspired spell of bowling.  Earlier their batsmen had made the awe-inspiring total of 79 all out, with star batsman Joe “Root” Piglet plundering 23 runs before knocking the ball into the long grass at the bottom of the field, and being given out for gratuitous slogging.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Shit-Shoveller's Lament

The Shit-Shoveller’s Lament

It’s all right being a gardener,

In fact it’s one of life’s pleasures,

But it takes a real lot of hard work -

You can’t afford to be a man of leisure.

Take today, just for an instance,

It turned all sort of spring-like, to be sure,

Which could mean only one thing –

It was time to go get the manure.

For a garden needs nutrients,

If it’s to grow veggies and be dynamic,

And you can’t be using chemicals,

If you want your produce to be organic.

So you’ve got to something natural

To dig in with your fork and your trowel,

Which means – and there’s no escaping this –

You need stuff that fell out of an animal’s bowel.

Now some swear by cow, and some by sheep:

It doesn’t really matter whichever you do,

But I have my personal preference,

And that happens to be horse-poo.

So I went on down to my local farm,

To inspect a steaming pile that I’d spotted,

And to dig out several hundredweight,

Of that dark-looking substance, well-rotted.

I took my fork and my shiny new spade,

And I slid that compost into many a sack.

I shovelled that shit for all I was worth,

Until it felt like I was breaking my back.

I weighed the car down, till it sat on its springs:

I couldn’t get more of it in if I’d tried,

But if I thought the stuff had an aroma of the field,

You can’t imagine how bad it stunk there inside!

That brown sticky stuff just gets everywhere:

On your gloves, and your hands, and your wellies,

On your legs, your hat and your jacket,

Till, finally, every single part of you’s smelly.

But there’s one thing I had to remember,

And I hope that it’s obvious to see:

Even though I’ve been shovelling shit,

At least I was getting all of it free.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Hare

Hare

Tramping across the muddy field

Cropped corn-stalks crackle underfoot

Scrape and scratch the boots of many walkers

An advancing army of legs

And pounding tired feet

Which threaten a heavy beating

Of the shallow cover where he lies hidden

Still hoping to evade detection

When, at the very last second

His guile gives way to fear

And in a sudden scrambling and scrabbling

A scurry of noise and commotion

A blur of flashing, dashing action

And flurry of brown and grey and white

An exploding ball of energy

He darts away in unheeding panic

Springing, leaping, bounding from his hide

Escaping into the wide-open spaces

And the freedom of the field’s-length

At full speed, ears pinned back

And in seconds is a furlong far away

Where he can stop to pant

Rest his bursting lungs

And pounding tiny heart

Turning to regard us, wild-eyed

From the safety

Of his distant vantage point

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015