More Than Enough

More Than Enough

You heard more than enough

When you listened in the night

To me talking in my sleep

Whispering a name that was not yours

And sweet endearments that were not meant for you

 

You felt more than enough

When you stood and shivered

Cold and fearful, as I tried to touch you

And make it right again

To fix what could not be mended

 

You said more than enough

When you walked away from me

In a trail of burning anger

That would not settle

Which hung around you, dog-like, snarling

 

You did more than enough

When you disappeared

Without any final words

Leaving no explaining note

For me to dwell upon, or find any consolation

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 30th January 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 30^th January 2022 

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

1.      Viewers of DAFT (Devizes Area Film & Television) channel were treated to the unedifying spectacle of local superstar A-Dull apologising for the cancellation of her one-night residency of the back room of the Gobspitters’ Arms pub last Tuesday night.  With make-up and snot coursing down her botox-filled face, the singer and performance artiste confessed that her show simply “wasn’t ready”, despite nearly thirty minutes of rehearsals.  Her crew (basically her heavily-tattooed boyfriend Vince) had been struck down by a three-day hangover, and was unable to carry her gear into the pub for her.  The number of ticket-holders, described as “a round number”, was unknown so the position on refunds could not be clarified.  However Gary, who drinks most nights at the pub, said he’d stand a round to any of her “fans” who dared to turn up. 

2.      Meanwhile, the long-anticipated Fifty Shades of Gravy report has been delayed yet again after the intervention of The Nit Police, who are investigating possible cases of wrong-doing.  The Gravy Report is the expected end-result of the Gravy Enquiry into possible unauthorised gravy parties held at the Town Hall during last year’s Covid Lockdown rules.  Rumours were said to be “jus” what could be expected by a bunch of bureaucrats brought up on school dinners which had featured obscene amounts of custard, lashings of tomato ketchup and bowls of grey tapioca pudding. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Sunflower

                                                             Sunflower

A slate-grey cloudy sky

Glowers from above

Hangs heavy on the morning

Low ceiling’d over daytime

Shading each dew-damped surface

With sombre tints of black and grey

 

A palette washed of any colour

Provides no point of focus for the eye

But among the general wash

Of drab and dripping greenery

Rises one tall defiant stick

Huge leaves drooping sadly

Towards the sodden earth

 

And almost proudly

Bears its over-loaded head

Faces up towards the light

And spreads one sudden smile

In a gash of vivid colour

A burst of golden yellow

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022 

Gigolo

                                                                 Gigolo

Your back arches slightly

Settling into my confident embrace

As we take our turn around the floor

Dancing late into the night

Under the sparkling necklace

Of deck-lights

Flickering in the breeze

Reflected across the silent sea

 

Your hand squeezes mine tightly

To tell me that you are happy

With my commanding movement

My manicured appearance

My attentive service

And my obvious devotion

 

You murmur quietly

That we make a lovely couple

Despite the difference in our ages

Dressed to impress

Our smiling faces

Turned to the world

The envy of others

 

You tread lightly

Calm and collected

For tonight you may have anything

Whatever you desire

My time is completely yours

To do with as you please

I whisper what you wish to hear

 

My nightly work

Professional and paid-for

Personal and discreet

Tailored to your requirements

And whatever you can afford

 

You have your life

And I have mine

We are both content

With the nature of our transaction

But there can only be this evening

And we do not ask each other

Too many questions

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Spicy Parsnip Soup with Bacon & Garlic Croutons

Recipe for: SOUP – SPICY PARSNIP with Bacon & Garlic Croutons 

Ingredients: 

• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 knob butter
• 1 large onion, peeled & very finely chopped
• 1 large carrot, peeled & finely chopped
• 1 stick celery, cleaned & finely chopped
• 1 medium potato, peeled & finely chopped
• 5-6 parsnips, peeled & finely chopped
• ¼ tsp ground cloves
• ½ tsp ground cinnamon
• ¼ - ½ tsp ground chilli powder
• Salt & freshly-ground pepper
• 1 pt vegetable stock (or slightly more)
• 2 tblsp low-fat yoghurt
• 2 rashers streaky bacon
• 1-2 slices stale bread, cut into small cubes 

Method: 

1. heat oil and butter in a large flameproof casserole over a medium heat
2. add all the chopped vegetables & stir well to coat in the oil/ butter
3. cook gently, stirring occasionally until lightly coloured – about 10-15 minutes
4. add the cloves, cinnamon & chilli, stirring well & cooking for two minutes
5. add the stock & bring up to a slow simmer
6. cover with a lid & leave to cook for 45-60 minutes, stirring occasionally, adding more stock/ water if it is getting dry
7. check with the point of a knife that the vegetables are cooked & quite soft
8. remove from the heat & cool slightly
9. liquidise with a hand-held liquidiser
10. taste & adjust seasoning
11. stir in the yogurt and mix well
12. if it’s thicker than you like your soup, add a little water/ stock
13. for the bacon bits – bake, grill or fry the rashers until crispy.  Drain & cool, Cut into small pieces
14. for the croutons – place on a baking tray, sprinkle with garlic-infused oil, using your fingers to mix well.  Add salt & pepper.  Bake in a hot oven for 7-10 minutes. Keep an eye because they soon burn!
15. Serve the soup in warmed bowls, sprinkled with bacon & croutons

 

 

Lonesome Tonight

Lonesome Tonight

This was written in memoriam for the sad loss of Lonesome George, the last of the tortoise sub-species Chelonoidis Nigra Abingdoni, who died suddenly in the Galapagos. 

UPDATE - This happened back in 2016.  Recently, however, it turns out that they have found another tortoise of the same sub-species.

He survived the pirates and whalers,

The seal-hunters and invading goats;

He out-lasted all the invaders,

As they came to Galapagos in boats.

 

For large tortoises are valuable things,

Eaten for food and killed for their oil.

He was the last of his sub-species,

The last one to walk on Santa Cruz soil.

 

Declared the rarest animal on Earth,

To see him the tourists were attracted.

They came daily in their great hordes,

But this his habitat badly impacted.

 

They moved him to a new island,

For to study him they wanted to try,

To give him a better chance of mating,

Hoping that he wouldn’t be shy.

 

They brought him females over from Pinta,

But to bachelor habits he seemed wed;

He avoided all of these ladies’ wiles,

And not one did he take to his bed.

 

Although there was reputedly just one,

A small one that seemed very well-met,

But it was just a case of bad eye-sight:

Turned out to be an old German helmet.

 

Mind you, he weighed over two hundred pounds;

His neck was three foot long and well scrawny,

And with a shell all tattered and beaten,

No wonder the girls didn’t feel horny.

 

But perhaps he was bored, or infertile,

Or there’s a faint chance he was gay,

Either way, there was no breeding took place,

So that’s the end of his legacy I’d say.

 

He was about a hundred years old,

So perhaps he just ran out of steam.

It’s hard being a lonely old reptile,

When there’s no-one else on your team.

 

No longer will Time be marked in his eyes,

Or ten million years that he’s been linked.

This strange evolutionary remnant,

This last of the line, now sadly extinct.

 

Let’s mourn this sad loss of diversity,

The weirdest that Nature could forge:

Good-bye to a conservation icon,

And a fond farewell to old Lonesome George.

 

It’s another bad sign of the times,

To see the end of George’s life-flight,

But isn’t the truth of the matter that,

It’s really us that’s “lonesome tonight”.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Empty House

Empty House 

I may have been mistaken

When I heard another door

At the far side of this room quietly closing

At the very second I entered

Leaving someone else’s breath

A feeling of their presence

Within the empty space

 

Yet there is nothing here

Except this puzzling void

Pregnant with the possibility

That the designer of these rooms

Is inside this labyrinth

And may still be here walking somewhere

Just beyond where I can see

 

The next door is locked

The handle rattling in my hand

And I must retrace my weary steps

Back from an unexpected cul-de-sac

Only to think that he is now behind me

Yet when I turn to face him

There is no-one there

 

His elusive presence troubles me

As I seek him out without success

For whilst it may appear

That our paths must have crossed

At some time upon my search

I cannot find any clear sign

That he was ever really here

 

At times I believe that I am quite alone

Inside this deserted edifice

Yet then I hear faint sounds

Just beyond where I am standing

Which defy all definition

 

I worry at this illusion in my mind

The elaborate trickery

Or circularity of perception

Turning round upon itself

Allowing me to almost see

Myself disappearing

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Unanchored

Unanchored

Her leg hangs languidly

Over the side of the lounger

Above long- forgotten drinks

Their ice melted in the heat

On the light-bright surface

Of the blinding polished deck

Amid a tangle of abandoned magazines

Crumpled pages colour-bleached

Lost beneath the relentless, blazing sun

 

The yacht wallows gently

Shallowed near the shore

Warm water cradled

Swinging slowly round

Shifting position, drifting with the tide

In the heat-baked afternoon

Where nothing stirs

And there is not a breath of air

Nor any breeze to cool the burning day

 

Suddenly aroused, the girl looks intently

Towards the shimmering island

Alert to its spice-infused aromas

Believes she hears it calling

Feels the bow pull against the chain

Dragging the light anchor

Through the soft white sand

Beneath the gin-clear water

Where acid-blue fish dart

Between shafts of flickering sunlight

 

She aches to step ashore

To feel the firm-ness of the Earth

Beneath her naked feet

A home to hold on to

A fixed point within her orbit

Un-shifting, unchanging

A steady, stable foundation

Where she could remain

Upon which she might build a life

And feel that she had finally arrived

At some long hoped-for destination

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd January 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 23^rd January 2022 

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

1.      Diplomatic tensions have heightened this week as the breakaway state of Trowvegas continued its build-up of tractors on the border with D-Town.  In response, the town has begun to marshall its fleet of electric milk floats in order yo demonstrate that an invasion will be strongly resisted.  The 49 bus route is still managed to get through, albeit with armed guards riding shotgun on the top deck. 

2.      And in tragic news for the world of Wiltshire show-biz, the death was announced on Thursday of larger-than-life vegan performer Curried Parsnip & Sweet Potato Nut Roast.  His seminal albums “Fart Out Of Hell”, “Two Out Of Three is 66.7%”, “Eating Popcorn By The Dashboard Light” and “I’d Do Anything For Pork Scratchings But I Won’t Eat That” formed the soundtrack to the lives of many an overweight spotty friendless teenager, sitting alone in his/ her bedroom in their underwear whilst ordering catering size packets of Pringles online. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Waiting

Waiting

I pushed my way through the throng to the bar,

My ears assailed by drink-induced sound.

I’d put off it off as long as I could –

It was my turn to get in the next round.

 

Two lagers, two beers and a Guinness:

I knew that this wouldn’t be cheap.

But when I’d found my way to the target,

I saw that they were standing three deep.

 

I waited, I wheedled and I pushed,

I wormed my way through with a grunt.

Finally I crawled under their legs,

And eventually came up at the front.

 

They were all shouting and yelling:

Everyone was giving it a try,

Waving their fivers and their tenners,

Trying to catch the barmaid’s lazy eye.

 

She moved with the speed of a retarded sloth

On Mogadon, or a backward old tortoise.

Unimpressed by the frenzy of punters,

As if life itself held little purpose.

 

She took several passes, to find the right glasses,

To serve out pale ale or strong cider.

She poured gin-and-tonic, in a state catatonic,

And for beer, needed an old dog to guide her.

 

Some ice and a slice were beyond her:

Optics, mixers and bottles bemused her.

She couldn’t add up for toffee,

And the till completely confused her.

 

All around me were desperate people,

Yet from serving them quickly she shrunk.

With service at this glacial speed,

There wasn’t a chance of getting near drunk.

 

Empires rose and fell, and Hell froze over

In the time it took to serve out one cocktail,

And the period to complete one round

Was measured on the geological scale.

 

Nothing seemed to sir this girl up:

She was the world’s slowest barmaid.

By the time she served the guy next to me,

He’d lately died and his body decayed. 

 

But I hung on in there, pinned up at the front,

Trying to catch her with a nod and a wink.

I might be several years older now,

But I was determined to get me a drink.

 

Galaxies formed, and faded away,

And the Universe fell in disorder.

Till she, at last, asked me what I wanted

And, finally, it was my turn to order.

 

But time had moved on, my memory gone,

I must have looked like a proper chump -

I’d forgotten the drinks that I’d come for,

And on the bar, my head I started to thump.

 

I racked my brains for some answers,

But there were only “ifs” and “ands” and “buts”,

And that’s why we’re all drinking crème de menthe,

To wash down our pork scratchings and nuts.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Steam

Steam

A heavy grinding, churning sound assaults the senses

Blacks out everything around, a skull-shaking

Teeth-rattling, deafening intensity of shuddering

The platform vibrating, juddering asunder

 

Then, dirty grey, clanking, slowly rumbling past

Spitting waste into a slate-grey sky

Hot, black, sooty smoke blown from chimney-stack

Hissing, wheezing steam escaping valves and joints, orifices

Leaking clouds of white, dripping water dribbling

Down onto cold wet, coal-black tracks beneath

 

Hot iron’s sound and smell, coal and fire and oil

And the whispering pressure of the boiler

Hard, heavy turning wheels, slow shimmering spokes

Across glittering rails of steel

Its pipes and pistons, rods and linkages

Crank and turn the shining driving gear

Valves and pumps forcing shafts to motion

Via vacuums and vapours, an elemental driving-force

An intricate inter-play of metal, gas and liquid

Fluid dynamics, perfectly synchronised

Harnessed in the creation

Of this dark demonic beast

 

And when at rest, at journey’s end, the engine

A leviathan hoarsely wheezing, breathing hard

From its great exertions stands hot, glowering

Every aspect of its bulk, its massive motive power

Its kinetic promise and potential, its working force

And energy yet held back, latent

Waiting patiently under the driver’s steady hand

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Cheesy Vegetable Pasta Bake

Recipe for: PASTA – CHEESY BROCCOLI/ CAULIFLOWER BAKE 

Ingredients:

 

·        1 litre milk

·        2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed

·        2 bay leaves

·        500g/ 1ld 2 oz dried pasta (penne, macaroni etc)

·        350g broccoli and/ or cauli florets

·        75g/ 2 ½ oz butter

·        75g 2 ½ oz plain flour

·        Pinch white pepper and/ or freshly grated nutmeg

·        1 tsp mustard powder

·        Small bunch parsley, roughly chopped

·        200g grated cheese (cheddar, gruyere, parmesan or a mix)

 

Method: 

1.      Cook the pasta in salted water according to pack instructions, adding the veg florets for the last couple of minutes

2.      Drain and reserve

3.      Meanwhile heat the milk with the bay leaves and garlic until hot, and leave to infuse

4.      In a large clean pan heat the butter until foaming, then add the flour and stir well

5.      Cook for one minute then gradually add the infused milk through a sieve

6.      Whisk/ stir constantly to make a smooth white sauce

7.      Remove from the heat and stir in the white pepper/ nutmeg, mustard powder, parsley and three quarters of the cheese.  Season.

8.      Stir in the reserved pasta and vegetable florets, mixing thoroughly

9.      Decant the mixture into a large (or several small) oven-proof dish

10.   Allow to cool slightly before scattering on the remaining cheese

11.   Meanwhile heat the grill to very high

12.   When hot grill the dish for 2-3 minutes until golden and bubbling

 

What else you need to know: 

1.      You can make a large batch, then decant some into foil containers and freeze

2.      If frozen, defrost in fridge overnight before re-heating in a hot oven for 30-40 minutes

3.      You can make the topping even better by including some fresh breadcrumbs, extra parmesan and herbs to make a crunchy texture

Scarecrow

Scarecrow

He has no memory of his making

Or how he came to be here

Staked to his fixed position

In the middle of this muddy field

His face set North towards the trees

 

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do

Or the purpose of his existence

Except to watch and wait

Through the clearest starry nights

The cold and frost biting at his fingers

And the long and lonely days

The Sun burning into his staring eyes

And bleaching pale his tattered clothes

 

He cannot move, nor look around

But must stand here, arms outstretched

Alone and forever crucified

His ragged hat and jacket

Flapping in the breeze

Silhouetted against the sky

Stark, dark, and solitary

 

His few unbid companions

Contemptuous of his looming figure

Casting a slowly-moving shadow

Across the fertile furrows

Boldly walk quite close

Huge black birds that croak and squawk

As they gorge themselves

Upon the seeds and shoots

 

Perhaps, if he had any feelings

He would pity them

In their fight to feed themselves

Scratching out their existence

From upon the earth beneath his feet

 

The weather slowly wears him down

Rotting the stuffing of his guts

Which slowly falls away

Vermin-nibbled

And is picked and pecked

To form good nesting material

So that other creatures may be warm

And live another day

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Windy Day

Windy Day

Driven inside, the cats hunker down

And sleep their peaceful dreams

In baskets by the stove

Unconcerned by noises in the chimney

And gentle soot-falls gathered in the grate

 

Every door blow-battered

Gust-clattered windows

Buffeted and blown by the gale outside

Blasting the hedges sideways in its fury

 

Tattoo-beating spurts of rain

Like gravel against the panes

Heavy water droplets driven every which way

Casements banging in the frames

And, above all else

The moaning and groaning

Howling and whistling

Of the storm venting its fury

Against the brick-work of the house

 

I think I feel the chimneys shaking

Their prominent stacks exposed

At the highest levels of the air

And then the roof-tiles singing

In nailed and slated resistance

To this unwarranted onslaught

Upon their serried ranks

By clinging fast to hold the line

And keep the house together

 

Unsheltered, the flowers forced flat

Leaning down against the soaking ground

Bushes and trees bending backwards

Revealing the paler underside of leaves

Pressed hard against the creaking fences

 

And down the lane, new rivers run their courses

Silt and sand driven from out the fields

Beneath the air-borne fusillade

Of twigs and leaves, and scraps of paper

Swept far into the distance

Beneath the blackened skies

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Swallows

Swallows

A hot day among cold, hard stones

Of crumbled Abbey remnants

Whose fallen arches and tumbled walls

Tell monastic tales of a distant past

And stand stark against a dark blue sky

Which threatens later thunder

 

Yet, still, there are strong shadows

Providing pools of cooler air

Where one may sit a while

And gaze across the finely-razored grass

To watch in frank amazement

The antics of daring aerial acrobats

 

Swooping down at break-neck speed

Soaring, then wheeling round

Before diving sharply

To skim low above the ground

Twisting and turning

Seeming to stop dead in mid-air

To change direction in a blink

Then banking away again between the ruins

 

Seconds later re-emerging, jet-like

Black-and-white arrows

Fanning out in formation

Spitfire-winged stuntmen

Trailing sleek, long-forked tails

Chittering, chattering amongst themselves

In high-pitched communication

Co-ordinating their attacks

Upon the lazy insects

 

And one is left to wonder

If those medieval monkish men

Who once worked and walked here

So many centuries ago

Saw this same dazzling display

And applauded the power of their Creator

To fashion these clever little creatures

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 16th January 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 16^th January 2022 

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

1.      In a sad week for local politics, the deputy Mayor-designate has been stripped of all titles, privileges and honorifics.  Following his decision to defend himself in court against goat-nadgering and weasel-trafficking charges, the Council decided that it was no longer appropriate for him to act as Colonel-In-Chief of The Vize’s Special Boat Services, chaplain to The Underprivileged Knobheads Association, and Lord High Influencer of The Feckless Society. 

2.      And a forty-fifth scandal has hit the inner workings of the Council’s Ways And Means Committee (WAM).  In further revelations, on top of the BYOB party scandals, a whistle-blower has revealed that WAM members have frequently been seen on brewery tours, pub crawls, wine-tasting events and lock-ins at the Bend-Me, Shape-Me Club on the High Street.  Despite frequent denials that anything untoward took place, and copious apologies for the things that didn’t take place taking place, or at least being found out to have taken place, rumours continue to circulate.  One member of WAM claimed that a recent after-hours lock-in at a local hostelry and knocking-shop was actually a “work-place event” and that he hadn’t realised that anyone there was enjoying themselves in any way. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

We're All Drinking For George

We’re All Drinking For George

We chat in measured mumbles

In our twos and in our threes

Balancing thin cups upon their saucers

Sure it was a hard way to go, and everybody knows it

Very hard on his family we’re all thinking

But no-one talks about the real problem

No-one mentions George and his drinking

 

Everyone thinks about the good times

He was a good sort, and great company

With a quick joke on his lips, or telling a tall tale

Holding court in his favourite corner

Lewd laughter, green eyes twinkling

Ever-ready for another, if we’d set them up,

Another long night of George and his drinking

 

No mention of the damage he was doing

Destroying his guts from the inside

His liver wet-rotting, blood-pressure bubbling

His florid face and trembling hands

Everyone here knew that he was sinking

But he took a long time over his dying

And that’s what George got for his drinking

 

Where were these old drinking companions

When he started losing his way?

Down and damaged, calling the odds

Worse for wear, falling down drunk?

In his cups first thing in the morning

Unsavoury, unwashed and stinking

Unable to get served anywhere?

We daren’t join in with George and his drinking

 

A murmur goes round the black-coated room

This tea and coffee’s meagre stuff for mourning

There’s a move to push off down to the pub

No-one’s looking his family in the eye

Everyone trying not to cause any offence

It’s what he would’ve wanted, did someone say?

A sliding off for something stronger

And admit we’re all drinking for George today

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Lifeline

Lifeline

He knows the effort it costs him

Feels the ache of muscles

The back-breaking work

Naked and exhausted

Rock-cracking and sifting

Lifting loads in the heat, the filth and mud

To find the tiny grains

Small speckles of value

Sparkling precious pieces

That mean so much to him

Just enough to exist, to eat, to carry on

 

Hunting, scavenging, rat-like

In a diabolic hell-hole

Deep inside the Earth

A dark world of danger

Among the drills and dust

Crawling through flooded shafts

To reach a promising seam

Of grit that holds the glitter of gold

And the faintest gleam of hope

 

But he cannot trace it any further

Transported, transformed

Refined and purified into heavy ingots

Which sit, unused, in high-security rooms

Reserves of national treasure

To guarantee the currency

And maintain suitable short supply

To keep the prices high enough

Within the global market

 

Nor see it spun into delicate filaments

Its decorative strands

Worked by artistic hands

To adorn elegant, well-heeled figures

Among the wealthy and well-to-do

Who, in a languid moment

May reach out for their electronica

Slim-line models in brushed-leather cases

To access the latest features

And communicate across the world

By a finger’s touch

Perhaps even to the darkest heart of Africa

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022