The Good (Allotment) Life

The Good (Allotment) Life (or a tale of how NOT to grow your own) 

I’ll tell you all a cautionary tale,

If you’ll just give me some pardon,

Of how I dug out an allotment,

Down at the end of my garden.

 

The patch was all covered in weeds,

And at first I started to panic,

But you can’t let things stand in your way,

If you’re set on a life more organic.

 

So I rotavated and weeded and dug,

And laid the jungle all to a waste.

All this in pursuit of some veggies,

And produce superior of taste.

 

The effort I put in was enormous,

What with much raking & tilling.

Every day I was quite knackered,

But I found it strangely fulfilling.

 

And when I’d got it laid out quite flat,

There was still the marking & hoeing.

There seemed so much I’d still got to do,

And I hadn’t even started the sowing.

 

Then it all had to be fertilised:

Compost, manure, whatever you call it -

But the man on the farm where I went,

Just said I should call it horse-shit.

 

I carried it and tipped it onto the patch;

I dug it all in and then sat.

Only to discover I’d created a toilet,

Mostly for the use of our cat.

 

So I raked it all over once more,

And then had to do some light weeding.

Then, at last, after weeks of effort,

I finally got to the seeding.

 

Beetroot, pumpkins and potatoes:

I went at it quite maddish.

Courgettes & beans all in a row,

And in the corner – some radish.

 

I planted out carrots, potatoes & peas,

Some caulis, cabbage and kale,

And I looked out on it so proudly -

How could it possibly fail?

 

I soon found out there were problems:

For as soon as I’d worked off my nadgers,

The beautiful crops that were growing,

Had just become fast food for the badgers.

 

The crops were under attack night & day,

Although I was clean in my habits.

For as soon as the lettuces came up,

It was feeding time for the rabbits. 

 

Pigeons, mice and slugs all attacked me:

I tried to drive out their tails,

But they all seemed to get past me,

To say nothing of squash-eating snails.

 

I ranted & raved in frustration,

And scared them away with my shouts.

Well – you have to do something,

If you’re going to hang on to your sprouts.

 

Bad weather then came down upon me,

As I struggled with every means.

It’s a lot of effort to go to,

Just so I can freshly eat beans.

 

But now I’ve got my freezer full,

After working and busting my gut,

For after the initial famine,

I find I’m now facing a glut.

 

So I’d just like to say in my summary,

It’s very well trying to live The Good Life.

But there must be easier ways to get by,

Than feeding all of the local wild-life.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Turning Away

Turning Away 

Lying quietly, carefully,

Body rigid, not touching,

Willing her not to wake,

Fearing any response to my body’s warmth,

Selfish solely for my own sake.

 

Dreading any physical contact,

Lest she rouse and realise

The coldness of my touch,

The acting, the pantomime,

For this girl I once wanted so much.

 

This love thing could never last,

It just wasn’t meant to be.

Such a shallow, sordid affair,

My affections have wandered,

And I know I no longer care.

 

Perhaps she feels the same way,

Or has picked up the signals?

Maybe she already knows,

Of my indifference?

Or somehow my guilt shows?

 

Not long till this is over,

And I can leave this bed for the last time,

And make my way across town,

Where a young girl with blonde hair,

Waits for me to make her my own.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th August 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 29^th August 2021 

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

1.      D-Town is in mourning this week after it was announced that one its greatest and most well-known musicians, Carly Whens, has died at the age of 86.  Whens, one of the most prolific and talented players of the triangle known to modern fans, leaves a short piece of string, a bent triangular piece of metal and a small hammer to posterity.  Whens, although a key part of the rock band The Strolling Bones, anecdotally was no fan of rock music, preferring to play jazz triangle in his spare time. He was occasionally known to play blues triangle, and even made an album of country music featuring the triangle.  The triangle, although often considered to be a minor and trivial instrument by many, had the virtue of being better than Arsenal – at least it has three points. 

2.      And a shortage of key workers, principally drivers for HGV, buses and milk-floats, is critically endangering the delivery of vital supplies to The Vize.  Supermarket shelves have already been stripped of essential supplies such as Crunchies, Curly-wurlies, Pringles BBQ flavour and Kung-pho Pot Noodle. Shortages like this have not been seen since the great Tea Trolley Disaster of 1971, when several councillors were unable to have biscuits served with their morning tea. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

A Life In The Country

A Life In The Country (or the tale of a poor City boy) 

Now I’ve been a City boy for all of my life,

But of the town I’d had my fill,

So I was persuaded down into Wiltshire,

To share in the rural idyll.

 

At least, that’s what I thought when I got here,

As we moved in next to a farm,

With green fields and village nearby,

I savoured the countryside charm.

 

They told me the country was only two things:

That’s fornication and farming,

But there’s not much farming in winter -

Now, there’s a thought that’s alarming!

 

But the first full day came as a shock:

The cockerel crowed at five in the morning,

Before it had even started to get light,

Before the day had begun dawning.

 

I thought “this is no good to me”,

So I’ll walk to the village down the lane.

But that’s a dangerous thing to do,

Because none of the drivers are sane.

 

With tractors & Land Rovers out for a spin,

They take up all of the road.

So I ended up in the ditch -

It was quite a nasty episode.

 

But the wildlife was really amazing:

Rabbits and deer, and some pheasants.

There were horses, sheep and some cattle,

And near to the village, there was one of the peasants.

 

I walked past the church on the High Street,

And casually wandered into the shop.

But they’d no fresh hoummous or pastrami -

I didn’t think it was much cop.

 

But I soon got to know some of the locals,

For their company I was much needing.

A lot of them looked quite alike,

But I think that’s due to the in-breeding.

 

And local customs and pastimes,

For knowledge I was certainly yearning.

It seemed to be mostly goat-nadgering,

And the odd night of rick-burning.

 

Fox hunting, mole-trapping and poaching,

Their style needed no cramping.

Out in the fields in the night-time,

Shooting rabbits – or lamping. 

 

There’s no train stations around here.

“What about buses?” I asked meekly.

“Oh there’s a regular service,

But it only goes twice weekly”.

 

So to do any serious shopping,

In Devizes I have to go in a car,

Which seems kind of ridiculous,

But the locals just answer “ooh-arr”.

 

There’s still a sub-Post Office:

For that we ought to give thanks.

It’s just as well, really,

Seeing as there aren’t any banks.

 

But there are many great things to enjoy:

We’ve moved away from houses like boxes.

There’s badgers and hedgehogs,

And buzzards and kestrels and foxes.

 

You don’t get all this fresh air in the town,

The green fields and the walking.

The peace and the quiet are splendid,

And canals – now you’re talking.

 

So I’ve decided it’s not too bad in the end:

I don’t want to sound stricken.

But, I’ll have to be getting along now -

It’s time I was milking the chickens.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Moving Day

Moving Day 

Men come marching down the path,

Clear intent upon their faces.

They don’t give me a passing glance,

As one by one they shift the packing cases.

Mum and Dad don’t seem to mind,

And make no move to halt the flow.

I can’t bear to see them take our things,

And wonder where we’re all supposed to go.

 

Are we being thrown out upon the street?

And do the neighbours think it’s so?

Or is there more to this than meets the eye,

Another reason that we must go?

Mum says they’ve found another house,

Not far from here, and already signed,

But I don’t want to go from here,

Nor leave my play-mates far behind.

 

She says it will be better there,

A bigger garden, more room to play,

I’ll make new friends along The Avenue,

And soon forget those down our alley-way.

Young boys need space to breathe,

And says all this to calm my fears.

She smiles at my confusion,

And wipes away my floods of tears.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Ham Hock Terrine

Recipe for: TERRINE of Ham Hock (& variations) 

Ingredients: 

·        2 small/ medium ham hocks, unsmoked, approx. 1kg each

·        Stock:

o   500ml/ 18 fl oz cider

o   2 carrots, peeled & chopped

o   2 sticks celery, chopped

o   1 large onion, chopped

o   2 bay leaves

o   6 sprigs thyme

o   3 star anise

o   6 whole peppercorns

·        2 tblsp wholegrain mustard

·        Handful fresh parsley, finely chopped

·        1 sheet, or sachet, gelatine (enough to set about 1 pt of liquid)

 

Method: 

1.      Cook the meat:

a.      Put the hocks and the stock ingredients into a large pan

b.      Add enough water to just cover the hocks

c.      Bring rapidly to the boil, then reduce heat to a very gentle simmer

d.      Cook for about 2 ½ hours, or until the meat is falling off the bones

e.      Lift the meat out with a slotted spoon into a bowl & allow to cool completely

f.       Reserve the cooking liquor, but also allow to cool

2.      Prepare the terrine ingredients:

a.      Grease a 1-litre terrine mould or loaf tin with a little sunflower oil, then line completely with clingfilm;

b.      Shred to cold meat with your fingers, keeping a few larger chunks, siscarding fat, gristle, sinews & bones;

c.      In a large bowl mix the shredded ham with the mustard & parsley;

3.      Assemble the terrine:

a.      Press the ham mixture firmly into the prepared mould, but don’t squash it down too tightly.  It should be full, with no gaps, but not too tight.  Level the surface with a fork;

b.      Take about one and a half pints of the reserved stock, by straining the pan juices through a very fine sieve into a clean pan, and bring to a rolling boil;

c.      Allow it to reduce down to about one pint, then remove from heat;

d.      If using a sachet of gelatine, sprinkle directly into the hot stock & stir until completely dissolved, and allow to cool.  If using sheet gelatine, soak in a little cold water first for 5 minutes to soften, then squeeze out & add to the hot stock.  Either way, make sure it is fully dissolved;

e.      When the stock is cold, but before it sets, pour carefully over the meat mixture in the mould, tapping to remove air bubbles.  There should be enough to fill the mould & to create a thin top layer of stock.

f.       Cover with clingfilm and put in the fridge for several hours, preferably overnight, to set completely.

4.      Serve the terrine:

a.      Remove the set “loaf” from the mould, using the clingfilm lining to ease it out.

b.      Turn upside down onto a carving plate;

c.      Using a sharp knife, carve thick slices & serve. 

What else you need to know: 

1.      You need two days to make this: one day to assemble it all, and a good overnight chilling to solidify properly to make it carveable;

2.      Variations: any cooked meat or combination, e.g. chicken, game, rabbit, veggies.

3.      Serve with: salad garnish, chutney, bread/ toast.

Beyond The Fence

Beyond The Fence 

Strange how this barrier affects me,

This line of cross-beamed posts.

How familiar I am this side of the fence,

How alien the other side seems.

For this is mine, and that is theirs:

I stand in my own ground, looking out.

Within this boundary I feel certain,

But the other side summons up doubt.

Kestrels and buzzards fly on regardless,

Using the sky’s common air-space,

Ignoring the obvious separation,

Which I still perceive in this place.

The wildness of the country,

With its plants and creatures laid hidden,

Seems to beckon me forward,

But my mind yet says it’s forbidden.

It seems easy for the eye to wander,

Across fields of grass and thick clover,

But far too great an endeavour,

To actually get up, and climb over.

What fear keeps holding me back?

There is no-one there that I can see:

I guess it’s the usual paranoia -

Is there someone out there, spying on me?

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 Heron

 Daily at dawn and at dusk,

His ghostly glide-path,

Takes him down to his target.

A stealthy attacker,

Coming in from the blue beyond,

A large shadow in the sky,

Darkening the surface of the pond.

 

There he sits patiently waiting,

An expert fisherman on the bank:

A huge, hungry bird,

With an eye glinting and greedy,

Wondering which ones to target

From among the frightened fish,

Swirling in panic just beneath the netting.

 

It’s the battle to survive, the battle to eat,

And the battle to feed the young in the nest,

Which drives his hunting attitude.

The koi and the carp,

The orfe and the comets,

And the shimmering Shubunkins

Are my darling ornamentals,

But to him are just his dinner.

 

It’s a battle of wits between us:

Ever-watching, ever-vigilant,

Neither of us will give any quarter,

In the struggle to be the victor,

To be the one last left

Staring down into the water.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Black Hole

Black Hole 

It reveals itself again,

As Winter’s reedy grass recedes,

Down there, at the foot of the fence,

A hole into a blackness beyond,

Where creatures scurry who knows whence.

A trail, a path so obvious now -

Damp, dark and muddy,

Between the slats of wood, a funnel,

Leading into the undergrowth,

Entering a tangled natural tunnel.

Deserted passage in the day,

Abandoned so it seems,

While ever there is light,

But a busy feral footpath,

And crowded highway throughout the night.

Leaving the ordered,

The known and familiar land,

Where garden crops are sown,

The track-way dives through the portal,

And disappears into an unknown.

So my mind tends to flow,

A blackness revealed in Winter:

Bad thoughts, tangled, confused,

A dark hole of depression,

An old pathway, well-used.

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

 

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd August 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd August 2021

 

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

1.      The withdrawal of D-Town Special Forces from around the military compound near Trowvegas has now descended into total chaos.  The last milk-float out of the beleaguered outpost left at midnight on Thursday, and was forced to abandon its consignment of orange juice.  A special humanitarian running of the 49 bus service has been implemented to bring out the families of technical personnel and interpreters, but people have been unable to access the bus station to board these mercy missions. 

2.      Following the tragic death announced yesterday of the inventor of the trouser press, we would just like to celebrate the towering achievements of other Moonrakers who have passed on recently.  These include: Tess Tickle (discount sexual services), General Synopsis (weather forecasting), Abi National (banking services) and Barry Tone (musical theatre).   

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Senior Escorts Limited

Senior Escorts Limited (or My Life As An Ageing Hooker)

I get my assignments from the agency -there’s quite a few of us on the books.

I’m working for Twilight Escorts, for I still haven’t lost all of my looks.

I’m what they call a Silver Stallion, serving older ladies, with a quick wink.

You might have thought they were past it, but there’s more call for it than you might think.

 

I specialise in the older clientele: crusties, crumblies and old wrecks.

I’m not worried about their ages, as long as they’ll pay me for sex.

For everyone has needs to be met, and if I can speak to you frankly,

There are worse ways to spend your afternoons, than providing some hanky-panky.

 

For elderly widows get lonely, and just want to have some fun days,

But I think that it also helps that we do pensioner discounts on Mondays.

I can only handle one or two jobs in a day, but it’s not the energy that I lack.

I just have to be quite careful, or else I’ll put out my back.

 

My ladies have simple requirements, and don’t make complex conditions.

I’m not quite as lithe as I was, so I don’t do funny positions.

I’m clean and I travel quite light, and I’m one of their younger boys.

I don’t need much equipment: just baby-oil and one or two sex toys.

 

Afternoon is the most popular time and, I know that it sounds corny,

But it’s when the clients are mostly awake, as well as feeling most horny.

So, after I’ve parked my Zimmer frame in the hall, and perhaps been offered a medicinal whiskey,

It’s time to get on with the business, and chase her round the house, if she’s frisky.

 

It’s all straight-forward once in the bedroom, and I’m certainly not mocking.

I’m quite used to false teeth and false limbs, and rolling down their surgical stockings.

Medical appliances hold no fear for me, and I’ll also help with suspenders,

And afterwards we’ll share a cup of Sanatogen, and settle down to watch Eastenders.

 

But I can’t stay for too long at their house, even though they might make a fuss.

I can’t drive any longer at my age, so have to go and catch the last bus.

I’ve got my regular customers, but the flow is hardly a Niagara.

Still - my doctor’s quite understanding, and keeps me supplied with Viagara.

 

I provide a reliable service, and it’s one I think that appeals,

For my latest advertising slogan, I’m selling myself as “Feels on Wheels”.

We’re sponsored by Help The Randy, and other organisations you’ll learn.

Our latest out-sourcing contract is in support of Urge Concern.

 

Satisfaction’s not guaranteed, I feel I just ought to mention,

But what better way can you think of to fritter away most of your pension?

So if you’re in need of my services, and we cater for all sorts of ages,

Log on to our website at once, or look for us in Yellow Pages.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

The Girl At Greggs

The Girl At Greggs (other High Street Bakers Are Available)

 

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 2021

Pea & Mint Soup with Prosciutto

Recipe for: SOUP –PEA & MINT with PROSCIUTTO STRIPS 

Ingredients: 

·        2 leeks, trimmed, washed, thinly sliced

·        200g potatoes, peeled & grated

·        500ml / 18 fl oz chicken or vegetable stock

·        200g fresh or frozen peas

·        150g yoghurt

·        2 tblsp chopped fresh mint

·        2 slices prosciutto, excess fat removed

 

Method: 

1.      Put leeks, potato and stock in a pan and bring to a simmer

2.      Cover and simmer for 8 minutes

3.      Add the peas and cook for another 10 minutes

4.      Take off the heat , check that the vegetables are completely soft, and blitz to smooth consistency with a hand-blender

5.      Stir in the yoghurt and mint

6.      Season to taste

7.      Meanwhile lay the slices of prosciutto in a large non-stick pan and fry until crisp

8.      Allow to cool, then tear into strips

 

What else you need to know: 

1.      Serve with crusty bread

Burglar

Burglar

Awoken by a bump in the night, a noise I wish could have resisted.

I didn’t want to investigate, but the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand, I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs, to discover who might be there.

 

There was a light on in the kitchen: so - there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him: “Hey! I’m armed with a big poker!”

I heard a noise and dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes was one I could hardly believe.

 

The youth, he was just sitting there in the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes, with cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening, slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

 

He wasn’t armed and dangerous, and there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t wear a long stripey jumper, nor have a bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me; in fact, he didn’t even frown,

Just said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! -and put those curling-tongs down!”

 

I said: “A man’s home is his castle – about that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes; in fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that as I was here now, he could guess how I must feel.

He didn’t have the heart to burgle, and from me he’d better not steal.

 

House-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be; the risks hardly make it worth-while,

Biting dogs and alarm systems were really cramping his style.

The hours were anti-social, always having to come in the night,

And he wasn’t getting much sleep, never seeing much of the daylight.

 

By the time I’d heard his story I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him; - well, I very near cried.

I saw him out through the door, once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future, and then I wished him all the best.

 

I locked the door behind him, reflecting on what we’d both said,

And, knowing that crime doesn’t pay, made my way happily back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered my wallet and keys he’d lifted,

He’d been back again in the night and all my valuables shifted.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Deer

Deer

Stumbling, I almost fall forward,

A stray bootlace dragged in the mud

Of the trail as I wearily walk,

So bend down to make the thing good.

 

Glad of the rest, but breaking my rhythm,

Quickly all fingers and thumbs,

Then looking up suddenly

I am almost struck dumb.

 

Frightened, but standing her ground,

Stands the trembling, terrified beast,

Staring unblinking straight forward,

Determined to face me, at least.

 

Not thirty feet between us,

The doe regretting her error,

Unwilling to turn her back upon me,

Despite her evident terror.

 

Time stands still for an instant,

The deer holding my stare,

No sound and no movement

For either of us, both fully aware.

 

Unmoving, the tableau continues,

A stand-off on the track,

Impossible to break away,

Neither can turn back.

 

This meeting of different worlds,

Here in the heat of the day,

Each uncomprehending the other,

The deer desperate to slip away.

 

Then a change of scent, or some movement,

Perhaps a sound somewhere to the right,

It takes just less than a second,

And she’s suddenly passed from my sight.

 

The bushes have swallowed her up,

And with a movement of some grace,

The lady has turned and fled,

Vanished, leaving without any trace.

 

I look about for her, of course,

Searching around everywhere,

But Nature has concealed her well,

Almost as if she’d never been there.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021