That Old Toothless Dog

That Old Toothless Dog (or the thin end of the wedge).

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead all slack.

No wonder, by the look of you,

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees.

For they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Your coat’s all matted & tangled,

And I didn’t feel that I could quibble.

For it’s quite obvious wherever we sit,

There’s going to be lots of your dribble.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

It’s hard to list all of your ailments,

It’s hard to know just where to start,

But I guess your principal problem

Is quite how often you fart.

You get in the way wherever you flop down,

You cost us a fortune in dog food.

You can’t seem to leave anything alone,

And when we get home, we find everything chewed.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

Cos you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become a useless guard-dog:

The burglars can’t believe their luck.

Your toothless jaws can no longer bite them,

Only give them a quite nasty suck.

You don’t bark in time to warn us,

They’re upon us all too soon.

And then when there’s no danger

You spend hours howling at the moon.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, cloudy but trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

That this visit’s one way can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me & the children,

You’ve always been faithful & loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

You’ve become part of the family,

As if you were related by blood.

We couldn’t take on a new puppy now:

I just don’t think that we could.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture.

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm & steady.

You don’t need to be pushed along,

You can do this when you’re good & ready

For now that it’s come right down to it,

I find that I can’t just erase yer.

We’d be doing it to people next,

And that’s the road to euthanasia!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

A Thief In The Night

A Thief In The Night

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, so I thought perhaps he’d gone,

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,

No bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me,

In fact, he didn’t even frown,

But 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 knew 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.

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 nearly 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 2017

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 2017

Bumps And 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 2017

A Case Of Mistaken Identity

The New Vicar (or how appearances can be deceptive)

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.

The bishop he had to be summoned,

And we told him how we’d been rocked,

By the antics of our latest Reverend.

Well – in the end, he was defrocked.

It was now 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 bloke 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 was staring.

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.

He was younger than I was expecting,

And dressed up all rather fey.

If he went round the parish like that,

Some folk wouldn’t know what to say.

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?

Now 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.

It’s quite a conservative village,

And the locals don’t suffer fools,

So as part of my introduction,

I thought I’d lay down a few ground rules.

  

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 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 go 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 2017

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 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 1st October 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 1^st October 2017

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

                                                  

1.      The death was announced this week of Hugh Jarse, publisher, bon viveur, entrepreneur , and porn industry king at the age of sixty-nine (or “soixante-neuf” as he liked to claim).  Variously claimed to be a liberator of pubic morals, D-Town playboy, and publisher of the hugely controversial naked centre-fold spreads in the Gazette & Herald (The Vize edition), he ended his days in relative obscurity, working as a checkout operator in Morrisons.  No barcodes were harmed in the reporting of this story.

2.      The party political conference season is now in full swing.  D-Town is under full military lock-down as it hosts the annual meeting of the Torpid, Rather Indifferent & Politically Evasive party (TRIPE) in the public bar of The Mangy Mongrel in Haemorrhoid Street.  At least two police officers have offered to “keep an eye” on the place, just in case trouble breaks out.  This is thought to be most likely when it is time for the leader, Ivor Biggun, to get his round in.  The bar-keeper’s name is Mike.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017