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Sunday, 18 August 2019

The Home Front

The Home Front

Every dreary day seems just the same,
Getting through the housework or the shopping,
Passing time and anxious waiting,
The clock forever ticking, never stopping.
Answering the children’s questions,
About their father who’s far away,
Counting down the lonely hours,
Until the hoped-for home-coming day.

He could be on patrol this very minute,
Through the muddy landscape, on the tramp,
Fearful of what might happen next,
Before he can make the safety of camp.
Heavy cannons screaming overhead,
Dealing with the cold, the mud and little sun,
Hoping not to be caught in a fire-fight,
Trying to stay alive till it’s over and done.

Back at home, the picture’s different,
Although it’s no less of a strain.
The weather’s cold and always dreary,
There’s fog and ice and driving rain.
But the harder part is something else,
Reading reports in the daily paper,
Hearing of recent enemy actions,
Dear God, this War’s no jolly caper.

Life must go on, keeping things together,
Maintaining home, things of that kind,
Wondering what’s happening out in France -
It’s always hard on those left behind.
The not knowing works upon the nerves,
Never hearing anything that’s clear,
Always imagining the very worst,
Ever feeling that dreadful, creeping fear.

She wants for all of it to be over,
She longs to lead a normal life.
It’s so hard to keep up the bravest face,
But she knows her man looks to his wife.
She’s the commander of the Home Front,
Doing her bit, doing her own share.
He needs something to come home to,
And it’s her job to make sure that it’s there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Saturday, 17 August 2019

The Battle Ahead

The Battle Ahead

Yet another day to get through:
It’s the only way they can be sure -
There’s always more equipment,
And relentless training to endure.
They look around and watch the other men,
See determination in their eyes.
They’re focused on what they’re doing,
Just a bunch of regular guys.

The trainers shout encouragement,
There’s no let-up in the toil and sweat.
They’ve got to keep on making progress,
For there’s the daily targets to be met.
Every man here has his reasons,
Knows he’s got to do what’s right,
For he’s got to be prepared,
And ready for the coming fight.

Out there, it’s going to be relentless:
No-one will have time to wait for you.
They’ll have to be fit and healthy,
If they’re to have any chance to pull through.
There’ll come a time when they are on their own,
Even though their body’s wracked with pain.
They’ll need to look out for what’s coming,
And pick themselves up, time and time again.

For the battle has moved along now:
And it’s not in foreign fields they roam,
But right back here in Britain,
In the place that will soon be home.
The enemy has changed in nature:
It’s not unseen men with explosives.
The fight’s all about understanding,
Against an apathy that’s become corrosive.

Overcoming injury and debility,
Working circuits round the floor,
The rehabilitation seems endless:
A soldier’s never-ending war.
Life will surely change for the worse -
Even getting around is far from fun.
Missing limbs and other wounds,
Means carrying a stick, no longer a gun.

Discomfort, agony and pain,
The wounds, the stitches and the cuts –
It’ll take bravery and persistence,
And more than a fair share of guts.
Medical staff are the ones giving the orders,
They’re the guys to be obeyed.
Though “Operating Theatre” means something else,
There’s still good reasons to be afraid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Friday, 16 August 2019

Bumps & Bruises

Bumps And Bruises

Be careful, darling, as you crawl along,
Beware the dangers on the ground.
I’ll try my best to protect you,
Because your Daddy’s no longer around.
There’s things out here that could harm you,
My precious, listen hard to me.
It would be so easy to hurt yourself,
With perils that you might never see.

You can’t know yet, but it’s a bad world out there,
In ways you cannot even conceive,
And there’s a struggle that’s going on,
With men fighting for what they believe.
They’re at it now in lands far away,
Armed forces pitched in terrible fight -
I can’t expect you to understand it,
But they’re just doing what they know to be right.

It’s why your Daddy went off last year:
He felt that he just had to go.
He was doing his job and playing his part:
He never meant to be a hero.
He wasn’t especially brave or tough -
Just a regular guy doing his bit,
Dressed up in his uniform,
And carrying the usual kit.

He was a soldier, trained and true,
Posted on patrol near foreign borders.
He didn’t question what he had to do,
But carried on, and followed orders.
We missed him during every tour,
Time without him always seemed to drag.
But we understood the job he did,
For Queen, and Country and the flag.

He expected to come back home to us,
Just like all the other men,
But too many bumps and bruises,
Means that we’ll not see him again.
We’re alone now, there’s just you and me;
You’re my precious, you’re my beauty,
You’ll grow to admire that soldier, your father:
A man protecting your freedom, and doing his duty.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Thursday, 15 August 2019

Welcome To Your World

Welcome To Your World 

This poem was written to welcome the news that the world population had just passed the 7 billion mark

Happy Birthday! Welcome to the planet!
Being late would have been such a crime,
Good you didn’t leave it any longer, though,
In fact you’ve got here just in time!
There’s been a lot of babies born lately:
You’re number seven billion, as it goes,
But you’re such a pretty little baby,
Just look at those lickle fingers and toes!

You see, things are getting rather crowded,
As you can most probably guess.
We haven’t had the time to clear things up,
We’re really sorry about all the mess.
It’s just that we’ve been really busy,
I’m sure we’ll find a little space for you.
You don’t take up very much room – yet,
But you’ll have to join the back of the queue.

You see, human life is competitive,
And just getting through it has been our goal,
We haven’t had chance to bury the waste,
Whilst we were digging all of the coal.
Resources are all in short supply,
Because of this recent baby boom,
And the really bad news, if you’re desperate,
Is that there’s a long wait for the bathroom.

Anyway, I’d best leave you my advice,
Give you my opinion before I go:
There’s a few problems that need sorting out,
I just thought you should probably know.
We never did find cure for cancer,
Malaria’s still a killer I think,
And we did get a bit carried away -
So a few species did become extinct.

I think we’ve cocked up the environment,
With rivers diverted and the lakes shrunk.
We’ve produced quite a lot of waste,
And, circling the planet, we’ve left lots of junk.
I know it looks like we’ve used everything up,
And, yes, there’s a fair bit of pollution,
But don’t worry about it for too long,
Because scientists are seeking a solution.

Burial plots are full – standing room only,
Which is an increasing problem, I fear,
But you’ve got to keep things in proportion –
Given that we’ve dissolved the atmosphere!
Did we really need the ice-caps anyway?
The planet can take its chances -
We’ll get out of this pickle somehow,
There’s bound to be technical advances!

With all this increased life expectancy,
Better health care, space flights and GM food,
What have we got to worry about?
We should be in a much better mood!
So religion, world hunger and crime,
Are topics I feel I ought to mention.
The planet’s probably buggered I fear -
If you could give it your best attention?

So I hope you’ll have a great party,
With cake and jelly, and music that’s loud.
Don’t worry too much about who to invite -
I’m sure there’ll be bloody big crowd.
Best of luck, and I’ll leave you to it then.
I hope you have a life that’s happy and sunny,
Although I think I forgot to mention,
That we haven’t left you any money.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Tuesday, 13 August 2019

The New Vicar

The New Vicar

Our village is small but quite pretty, with a shop, a pub and a church.
Then our vicar broke some commandments, and left his flock in the lurch.

So the bishop then had to be summoned, and we told him how we’d been rocked,
By the antics of our latest Reverend who, in the end, had to be defrocked.

And thus it was that several months later, and I heard it only by chance:
A removal truck had been spotted - our new vicar had moved in to the Manse.

So, being of a neighbourly demean, I thought I’d meet him as soon as I could,
And welcome him to his new parish, and nip any problems right there in the bud.

I wandered along up to his front door.  Well - you can imagine my shock,
When the door was soon answered by a tall young chap in a smock.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing!  He stood there with a mop of long hair.
He had tattoos and an earring and, before I knew it, I had started to stare.

His beard was short and quite wispy.  But the greatest of all of my cares,
Was what he was sporting below: my God – a pair of pink flares!

Now I’m not an expert on the latest fashion, nor am I up with the latest trend,
But what had possessed our good bishop such an odd character to send?

I think I’m as broad-minded as anyone, but, to me it was as plain as the light.
I could see that we were headed for trouble, and that I’d have to put the chap right.

I told him that we liked our services traditional, not happy-clappy.
So if he’d like to keep things the same, we’d be grateful, there’s a good chappie.

Singing Onward Christian Soldiers was just what we expected to sing.
No trendy, modern stuff would be needed, and very short sermons – that was the thing.

Our church organist is in his eighties: he’s deaf, and so isn’t sure if, or when
The choir has finished already, so the rest of us just sing the last verse again.

And after all of this advice, I saw that his eyes had gone sort of glazed.
He looked at me in some surprise - in fact, he was totally amazed.

Up to this point, the poor chap hadn’t spoken, but the door he now opened wide.
He gestured for me to enter, so I thought I’d better step inside.

“Wait there” he said all at once, “before you get into more of a lather,
I’ll go and get the man that you really need – he’s the new vicar here – my father!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Monday, 12 August 2019

Is There Anybody There?

Is There Anybody There?  (or what the dead may have to tell us from the other side)

Now I had an old maiden aunt,
Who on her death-bed was lying.
I stroked her cheek, and held her hand,
But inside I knew she was dying.

As her time slipped slowly away,
She rallied briefly and muttered.
I strained to catch what she was saying,
But just couldn’t make out what she’d uttered.

She’d obviously had something to tell,
But the mystery remained unresolved,
And I knew that I wouldn’t rest,
Until the puzzle I’d solved.

So when she’d been laid to rest in the ground,
I went to seek what I lacked.
I contacted a spirit medium,
To see if I could make some contact.

The lady in question was a gloomy old girl,
With a crystal ball and an old ouija board,
But she seemed to know what she was doing,
So my hopes had presently soared.

She first noted the particulars,
In order to narrow the search down.
We didn’t want any old maiden aunt,
But, specifically, my own.

She pulled across the dark curtains,
And then she started the séance.
I wondered what was she was up to,
But then she went into a trance.

She started moaning & groaning,
And rolling around on her chair.
And then she suddenly shouted:
“Is there anybody there?”

The answer was quite spontaneous,
And the table started to rock.
I felt there was a ghostly presence,
And then was some sort of knock.

“Is there a message for someone here present?”
Asked the lady spiritual guide.
“Do you want to say something,
From across on the other side?”

Now, I have to say that I heard no-one answer,
But the clairvoyant was still swaying.
She seemed to be listening intently,
To what some ghostly voice was saying.

I’ll admit I’m a bit of a sceptic,
And of the occult I’m not really fond.
And I didn’t fancy ectoplasm,
Nor voices from the beyond.
Then suddenly it was all over:
We’d come to the end of the session.
What, I wondered, was the result
Of this bizarre intercession?

My spiritual lady became now composed,
But what on earth could this presage?
She put her ringed hand on my arm,
And then she delivered this message.

“I’m sorry I passed away before I was ready.
But I was in no fit state to shout.
Just don’t forget next Monday -
You need to put the rubbish bins out.”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Sunday, 11 August 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 11th August 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 11th August 2019

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Shock reports are coming in that a rat has been found dead in his cage.  Residents have expressed amazement that the rat was not being more closely monitored after a possible incident of self-harm only last month.  His owner, a Miss Emma Royds said ‘I went to the cage and found him unresponsive.  I mean he never actually talked much, but on this particular day he was lying on the bottom of his pen with his feet in the air.  I suspected immediately that he was not well.  I tried to revive him, but with no luck.’  Local authorities suspect that there may have been foul play, since the rodent had been due to stand trial for several offences which may have implicated people in High Places, including the Lady Mayoress (who happens to own a Pest Control company).

2.      And it is suspected that the demise of the above rodent may have led to the extensive local power outages on Friday night.  The local Electricity Company blamed the grid failure on a sudden shut-down of one its feed-in generators, a wheel which is normally powered by caged rats.  Coincidence?  Do ursine creatures defecate in areas of high tree density?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Saturday, 10 August 2019

It's The End Of The World On Saturday

It’s The End Of The World On Saturday

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.
Can I stay up late the night before?
If we’re all getting fried on the week-end,
There’s no point being a bore.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.
The pastor says there’ll be a Great Flood.
There’ll be fires, and earthquakes,
And boils & locusts & rivers of mud.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.
I want to be one of the saved.
It’s what we’ve all waited for,
The ending that we’ve all craved.

There’ll be no time for quips,
We’ll squeak like pips.
It trips off the lips,
As our confidence dips,
When we meet our apocalypse.

Mam, it’s the end f the world on Saturday.
The cataclysm is here.
Judgement Day is coming.
No time for trembling in fear.

For we’ve been groomed,
Our future has loomed.
We’ll all be entombed,
The ending zoomed,
As we prepare to be doomed.

Mam, it’s the end of the world I’m sure.
I don’t want to be one of the sinners -
I want to be lifted to heaven,
I want to be one of the winners.

It said in Ezekiel,
There’ll be no equal,
To the terrors,
And the meek’ll
Inherit the earth.

* * * * * * *

Mam, the earth didn’t end after all;
It’s all been a terrible let-down.
I thought I’d be sitting next to Jesus,
And be one of the stars in His crown.

Mam, it seems it just wasn’t to be:
There wasn’t any of God’s wrath -
It’s all just the same old same old,
There was something wrong with the math.
I think I can tell,
All is still well.
There wasn’t a death knell,
No ringing of bells,
No fires of hell.

Mam, it seems the signs & portents were wrong.
The reasons aren’t simple to capture:
The End of Times didn’t come,
And I wasn’t lifted up in the Rapture.

If there’s no Second Coming,
If we’ve all mis-read the code,
I’ll have to take that library book back,
And pay back that fiver I owed.

Mam, the end of the world didn’t come in the end.
There’s no point living in fear.
It’s all so – disappointing,
So Armageddon out of here.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Friday, 9 August 2019

Call Girl

Call Girl (or how telephone sex is not as good as it’s cracked up to be)

I’m a great fan of online banking,
And I use it to manage accounts.
But last week I ran into a problem -
On the screen were the wrong amounts.

So seeking to sort this problem at once,
To the bank’s Call Centre I rang.
I listened to music for minutes,
As on the phone I was forced to hang.

Then a recorded voice quite sharply said:
“Press 1 for this, and press 2 for that”.
So I worked my way through the options,
Trying not to feel like a prat.

My digits blazed over the keypad,
Pressing this, pressing that, and then you
Think you’ve finished at last,
But there’s always one more menu.

At last I got to where I wanted,
After this long game of hide and seek
For it was just with a human being,
That I desperately wanted to speak.

At last came a female voice quite confident -
I wasn’t trying to be choosy.
She asked if she could help me,
And told me her name was Susie.

I stumbled through with my problem,
But really I hadn’t much of a choice.
I’d become all kind of nervous, you see,
Seduced by the sound of her voice.

So began my fantasies & questions:
I went right through the book.
Was she young, and was she pretty?
In fact, how good did she look?

I started to imagine for myself:
What was the colour of her hair?
For her voice was so gentle,
I decided she had to be fair.

Could I ever get to know this girl?
I could feel my cheek starting to heat.
Could we take this relationship further,
And arrange somewhere cosy to meet?

I wanted to take this thing off-line:
I felt that she was waiting to be whirled,
Away from her Call Centre employment,
To something more solid in the real world.
She carried on talking, working her script.
She was a mistress of her profession.
She was confident & well-drilled.
Would she listen to my confession?

She worked her way through my problem,
But the solution had started to vex.
Did a one-sided fantasy like this,
Count as telephone sex?

I wanted to keep her talking, you see,
And try to keep her involved.
I felt we needed to build up some rapport,
So I brought up new things to be solved.

Her voice was so delightful & sexy,
But always in command, never a fall-girl.
I wanted this to go on and on,
To take things further, with my dear call-girl.

Her accent betrayed nothing at all,
But she seemed like an English rose.
I’d no idea where she was,
But she certainly felt very close.

Eventually, I screwed up my courage,
And asked her if there could ever be more.
That’s when she said it was against the rules,
And besides, she was talking from Bangalore.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Thursday, 8 August 2019

Creamy Potato Gratin



  • 1 red onion, peeled & very thinly sliced
  • 1.5kg firm potatoes, peeled & very finely sliced
  • 25g butter
  • 25g plain flour
  • 600ml milk
  • 250g mascarpone
  • Salt & freshly ground black pepper
  • ½ tsp ground nutmeg


  1. heat the oven 170C/ fan 150C/ 325F/ gas 3
  2. in a large 5cm-deep ovenproof dish, arrange alternate layers of potato & onion slices
  3. melt the butter in a small saucepan & stir in the flour, stirring for one minute
  4. gradually add the milk, stirring constantly until you have a smooth white sauce
  5. whisk in the mascarpone & seasoning & pour evenly over the potatoes & onions in the dish
  6. sprinkle with the ground nutmeg
  7. cover the dish with a lid of lightly-oiled foil & bake for one hour
  8. remove the cover & continue cooking for 30 minutes until the top is golden & crispy, and the potatoes are tender

Wednesday, 7 August 2019

Ee - It's Grim Down South

Ee – It’s Grim Down South (or how a Yorkshire-man laments his homeland)

When I was a lad, at home in the North,
I was told that I lived with great bounty,
In the best place that there was:
Yes it were Yorkshire – God’s very own county.

We’d grand hills & dales to go walking,
With so many sheep you’d be amazed,
Which drove the great wool industry,
With its mills wherever you gazed.

At home, things were quite rough though:
Our house was subject to flooding.
We’d no access to sand-bags,
So were forced to use lengths of black pudding.

The food were boring & monotonous,
I’m really sorry to gripe.
For, although I’m quite fond of a pork pie,
You can only eat so much onions & tripe.

The tea was made strong & very sweet
To bolster our old working men.
You could stand your spoon up in it -
You had to be right sturdy back then.

You’d be woken by the sparrows,
Coughing first thing in the dawn,
And, to the strains of a Hovis advert,
You’d set forth to your work in the morn.

You’d work in the spinning mills,
The factory, or one of the pits,
And think of yourself as quite lucky
If you didn’t suffer from nits.

And rickets & diphtheria were all of the rage;
Keeping pigeons or whippets the usual thing.
We kept our coal in the bath-tub,
And in the lavvy, you had to know how to sing.

The women were fierce & big-chested,
And Tetley’s ale was always the best,
Rugby League was the sport among men,
And brass bands played without any rest.

The toil was rough and it was hard,
But you took what work you could find.
My father was broken down daily
By his labours in the Treacle Mine.

But among the chimneys and the grime,
We still thanked God for our lot,
For we could still have a bath monthly -
Aye – whether we needed it or not!
But then the industries all closed down,
And took all the amusement away.
The North were classed as “Special Needs”,
And down South I was forced to stray.

So I came down here to see what were brewing,
To work, to live & to marry.
Thirty years I’ve managed to survive,
But I’ve not been as happy as Larry.

For the hills are all piddling & gentle,
And the beer is always served flat.
There’s no proper cricket teams,
And I can’t say any fairer than that.

But I think I’ve given the South a fair trial now:
For thirty years I’ve been right plucky,
But I’ve missed the doom & the gloom
I just didn’t realise: I were that lucky!

So one of these days, I’ll just get up & go,
My image will soon fade from your view.
I’ll bugger off back North again,
And be no longer here to bother you.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Tuesday, 6 August 2019

My Pre-Nuptial Agreement

My Pre-nuptial agreement 

You know I love you, my dearest:
A fact I’m sure you’ll always treasure,
But before we go too far my love,
It’s time that we took some measure.

There will surely come a day, my love,
In future times some way ahead,
When you’ll love me no more I guess,
And you will wish that I were dead.

You won’t be able to speak to me,
Nor will I to you, I’m thinking.
We’ll argue every time we meet,
And then I’ll take to drinking.

And you will want to go your own way,
And leave me very far behind.
And we’ll wonder what brought us together:
Well, they say that love is blind.

So let us decide right now, my love,
I don’t want my heart breaking.
Let’s not argue, but just agree,
Just what you think you’ll be taking.

You can have the old arm-chair in the corner,
With its frilly covers & such.
You always seemed to like it,
But it was never up to much.

You take the stereo and the CDs,
Because music wasn’t my thing.
You can hang on to most of our stuff,
Even that old wedding ring.

Please have all of our furniture
The savings accounts if you must,
For you know that once we are parted,
You won’t be seeing me for dust.

Keep all of our pots and our pans:
I don’t want to stake much of a claim,
But there’s one or two things I’d like,
I guess, if it’s all the same.

I’ll take my toothbrush & some personal things,
Like my little black address book,
My diary, my writings, my pictures,
I’m sure you won’t give much of a.. second look.

But there’s one thing I want to make clear,
And I’m saying it quite flat.
I’ll be filing for sole custody
Of our one-eyed, old ginger cat.
For I know that he loves me,
And his feelings will never waver,
As long as I keep feeding him daily,
I’ll never lose his favour.

Unlike you, my love, who’ll only get bored,
He’ll stay with me forever.
You know where you are with a cat,
But with you – well, that’ll be never.

For as you grow older and fatter,
In my eyes you’ll become just a jade.
Our feelings will fall apart daily,
And our love will definitely fade.

But old Samson’s ugly enough now,
He’s not the most elegant pet.
You know where you are when you start out:
And it’s as good as I’m going to get!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Monday, 5 August 2019

Doing Porridge

Doing Porridge 

They’ve found it in the long-dead stomachs
Of ancient peat-bog dwellers so old,
For it’s a very durable substance,
Once it’s set and allowed to go cold.

Scraps of it still adhere to kitchen walls,
Where a pan of it once exploded,
And it carries many a memory,
Once it’s been analysed and de-coded.

It’s a reminder of times quite distant,
A material that’s said to be fissile,
And, once rolled into a tight little ball,
It can even be used as a missile.

Now this food-stuff’s something of a winner,
And its utility takes some beating,
For it’s popular North of the Border:
A Scottish substitute for Central Heating.

Yes - I speak of a dish of hot porridge:
High in fibre, vitamins and protein,
It lowers cholesterol & blood pressure:
A meal that’s fit for a queen.

A humble bowl is so full of goodness,
Low in sugar and easy digestible,
Not like one of your fancy breakfasts,
But a food that’s a wholesome comestible.

It’s much better than a full English,
Yoghurt, muesli or hominy grits.
It tastes much smoother too,
Because it doesn’t come with the bits.

It’s not fishy like old kippers,
Nor crunchy like you get with fruit and with nuts.
It slides down all soft and seductive,
Then it sticks to the sides of your guts.

But you have to make it the true way,
Neither too heavy, nor too light.
Neither too hot nor too cold,
If you want it to be just about right.

Oatmeal and water and some salt
Is the method that really rocks,
And then you must stir it all clockwise,
If you want it to suit Goldilocks.

For the stirring keeps the Devil away,
And forces him to run and to hurtle,
And if that doesn’t seem to work,
You can despatch him with the spurtle.
Tho’ it’s Scottish, it don’t use a sheep’s stomach,
So from this dish there’s no need to hide.
You don’t need to eat it with Irn-Bru,
And, unlike Mars bars, it’s not even deep-fried.

They sell it in Prêt -a-Manger to take away,
And even McDonalds are in on the game.
So there must be profits in oatmeal,
But it’s good for you all the same.

It may be a guard against cold weather,
But here’s the point – if you want to take notes:
They say it’s an aphrodisiac -
So there’s more than one way of getting your oats.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Sunday, 4 August 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 4th August 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 4th August 2019

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      A man from D-Town is celebrating this morning after winning nearly £20,000, five houses and three hotels, merely by playing a 20th-century non-computerised board game.  A Mr Ron Seal, of Letsby Avenue in the town, beat nearly three others to win the prestigious prize, in front of an audience of two.  He used his lucky “racing car” token to speed around the board and to gradually defeat his opponents.  He claimed that his victory was due to skill and aggressive tactics, not merely to Chance or the roll of the dice, and to not having spent any time in Jail.  He thanked the local Community Chest for helping him.

2.      Meanwhile another man, Mr Terry Dactyl, has claimed a new Wiltshire record for an attempted crossing of the Crammer without touching the water.  Using only recreational drugs and a skateboard, he flew the first thirty metres involved whilst completely spaced out of his mind.  When he was arrested he asked for 30 other offences to be taken into account, and the address of the nearest rehab clinic.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Saturday, 3 August 2019

All Hung Over

All Hung Over (or the morning after the night before)

If you could all talk a bit quieter,
And keep some of your noise down,
I’d be grateful to you for the favour,
For I’ve been a bit of a clown.

My head is terribly throbbing.
My mouth’s the bottom of a bird-cage,
And my tongue it’s all coated
My skin is burning in rage.

My limbs are all of a tremble,
And my throat is feeling all furred.
The room it is spinning round slowly,
And my vision has become decidedly blurred.

I can hardly bear to open my eyes.
I can’t stand this too-piercing light.
I’m suffering real badly this morning,
For the major sins of last night.

I badly need some Alka-Selzer,
To settle my stomach real quick.
I can’t stand here for much longer.
In fact, I think I’m going to be sick.

I’ve over-indulged – that’s clear.
I obviously don’t know when to stop.
But I’ll be alright tomorrow,
And I’ll never touch another drop.

The pounding pain in my head is real bad.
I think I started drinking last November,
But how I made it home again last night,
You know – I really can’t remember.

I guess it must have been quite a session.
I know that we started with beer,
Then we went on to spirits & cocktails.
After that, nothing’s quite clear.

There were drinking games and some forfeits.
I must have drunk lots and lots.
Just a few tequila slammers,
Then “drink your way through the bar” using shots.

My clothes are all of a mess,
And now I’m starting to worry.
For the brown stains on my shirt,
Shows that we must have stopped for a curry.

Or it could have been even worse.
If so, I’ll have to go into re-hab,
For the truth is I might have succumbed
To the charms of a doner kebab.
I’d like to lie down for a while,
At least until I’m feeling more chipper.
I’d like to get undressed,
But my fingers may not cope with the zipper.

They say the best cure is a full English,
Or an omelette with ham & quite cheesy,
But now every time I smell food,
I just start to feel queasy.

But, I’ll have just have to get a grip of myself,
And shake off this beer-smelling fog.
For the pub’s open again quite soon
And it’ll be time for some hair of the dog.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019