The Pre-nuptial agreement I wish I'd had

There has been a lot of talk over the last couple of years about pre-nuptial agreements and their validity (in the UK at least) when considering financial settlements in divorce cases.  It came to a head some months ago when precedent seemed to be set in one case, where the pre-nup in question was finally taken into account.  It gave me cause to consider my own position, and I scribbled this little effort.

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 2010

Doing Porridge

I think that this magical substance is very much under-rated, so I wrote this poem in praise of its amnazing properties.

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 2011

Hot News From Bromham!

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 29^th January 2012

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

·         Parish leaders were thick on the ground this week at the Wiltshire Economic Forum (WEF) being held in the exclusive skiing resort of Trowbridge.  Everywhere you looked, a member of the Parish Council or leader of one of the many major Bromham businesses, one of the many members of the Piglet family, was busy making a speech about nothing in particular, giving an interview to the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) or having meetings with one another;

·         Nominations have been announced for all the major categories in the annual Outdoor Services Carrot, Artichoke and Radish (OSCAR) awards, with the star-studded ceremony to be held next month in the plush surroundings of the Bromham Social Centre.  It is rumoured that no expense is to be spared in preparing the venue for the night of stars, including the installation of a new strip of red linoleum in the lobby, and the complete rinsing out of the bar towels.

·         A row has broken out on the High Street at Knuckle & Gristle Ltd, butchers to the gentry, where the manager John Piglet has been awarded a bonus thought to exceed a whole side of beef (jointed and vacuum-packed for the freezer).  The Field Land Owners’ Party (FLOP)-controlled parish council has said that it is powerless to intercede, since the policy of palming off leftover Christmas products to the staff was introduced during the time of the last council, at that time controlled by the Carrot Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP).

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

When All Is Said And Done

A silly poem in praise of the lesser spotted cliche.

When All Is Said And Done

When all is said and done you know,

You need to make your point in a rush.

You can’t go all around of the houses,

And you mustn’t beat about the bush.

You’ve got to think outside the box:

I can almost hear your heart sinking.

Then you’ve got to cut to the chase,

And do some blue-sky thinking.

On the other hand, and if I were you,

I’m not sure how you feel,

But if you’re going to let sleeping dogs lie,

You’re going to need nerves of steel.

The truth of the matter is, of course,

That you can have too much of a good thing,

And we know that it won’t truly be over

Until we hear that fat lady sing.

Between you and I, pound to a penny,

If you were to remain in this garret,

You wouldn’t be over the moon,

But surely as sick as a parrot. 

You’d be between a rock & a hard place,

As the words you needed to form.

The writing would be on the wall:

A case of any port in a storm.

We can’t throw out the baby with the bath-water:

The buck stops here, I think,

For you can surely lead a horse to water,

But you know you can’t force him to drink. 

Let’s run the flag up the flagpole,

To see who salutes, if they’re able.

For to be honest with you,

I’d like to lay my cards on the table.

In the good old days, this was just the tip of the iceberg,

But you know that I won’t grovel,

For when you’ve got your back to wall,

You have to call a spade a bloody shovel. 

Now I’ve opened up this whole can of worms,

The whole thing’s a bit of a drag.

For to coin an expression,

I’ve let this cat out of the bag. 

For a platitude or an obvious remark

Played such a strong role in my youth,

And now at the drop of a hat,

A cliché’s become the moment of truth.

I can’t stay in cloud cuckoo land,

And I really know that I oughter.

I should try & bury this hatchet,

For blood is thicker than water.

For these pearls of wisdom have become run of the mill:

I must bite the bullet: that’s fine,

For if I’m to bring home the bacon,

I’ve got to get to the bottom line.

And now, at the end of the day,

I hope that you’ll find my poem witty.

If that’s not the terrier’s testicles -

Well – don’t that take the McVitie!!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

We've All Been There

The morning after the night before - we've all been there.  We're never going to drink again, are we?  Then, a few days later, when the stomach and taste buds have made a full recovery, and our memory-cells have undergone that magical piece of amnesia - time to go to the pub!

All Hung Over

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 2011

Euthanasia - the case against, sort of......

This cautionary tale is one of those "thin end of the wedge" stories.

That Old Toothless Dog

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 2012

Cullen Skink

This is a much-adapted and much-used recipe for Cullen Skink, or smoked haddock chowder to you.  The original recipe is lost in the mists of my fading memory, but this is where it is right now.  It is comfort food through and through.

Recipe for: SMOKED HADDOCK CHOWDER (aka CULLEN SKINK)

Ingredients:

• 340g/ 12oz un-dyed smoked haddock, skinned, cut into small pieces
• 570ml/ 1 pint milk
• 45g butter
• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 2 sticks celery, washed, cleaned & sliced (or you can use leeks)
• 2 carrots, peeled & chopped
• 2 medium-sized potatoes, peeled, cut into 2cm/ ¾ in cubes
• 1 bay leaf
• 2 sprigs thyme
• 2 heaped tblsp flour
• ¼ tsp turmeric
• 1-2 tsps English mustard powder
• 110g frozen peas, thawed (optional)
• Dash lemon juice
• Salt, pepper, nutmeg
• 4 tblsp double cream (optional)

Method:

1. put the haddock in a dish & cover with boiling water for 5 minutes
2. strain off the water, reserving about 300ml (1/2 pint) & mix with the milk.  Set aside
3. flake the haddock & set aside
4. melt the oil & butter, add the onion, celery, carrot, potato & herbs
5. stir to coat in fat, then sweat for five minutes until the onions are becoming translucent
6. sprinkle with the flour,  turmeric & mustard powder, then stir to combine.  Cook for one minute
7. gradually stir in the water/ milk mixture, then season
8. simmer for 15 minutes until the vegetables are tender (add more milk or water if it seems too thick)
9. add the haddock & the peas (if using) & warm through for five minutes
10. stir in the cream (if using)
11. add a squeeze of lemon & a grating of nutmeg

What else you need to know:

1. the end-result should be a thick soup, with good-sized lumps of fish and veg in it - don't overcook & reduce it all to a mush
2. serve in deep bowls, sprinkled with parsley, with crusty bread

Banks For Nothing

A heartfelt appeal on behalf of our hard-pressed bankers.  Isn't it time we just got our heads round it, and moved on?  No, probably not.

Banks For Nothing

I know there’s lots of appeals on your time,

And that the outlook’s not very sunny,

But there’s a cause I’d like you to hear,

If you could just spare some of your money. 

These poor unfortunate men,

Nigel & Tristram – not their real name,

Find themselves in desperate circumstances,

Tagged with the wrong kind of fame.

They’ve been accused of being fat cats,

Just because they’ve had to pursue profit,

But now the gravy train’s been derailed,

And the feeding trough they’re having to quit.

They can’t afford a new Ferrari this year,

Which is a cause of great remorse,

And their wives aren’t very pleased either -

They’re only driving around in a Porsche.

Can you imagine conditions at their home?

Can’t you just feel some of their pain,

Only having caviar twice a week,

And drinking a lesser brand of champagne? 

A five-star life-style is hard to maintain -

You need a bonus in millions.

The banks are squeezing their pay-outs,

Even though they’ve been bailed out with billions. 

It’s not these chaps’ own fault you know,

When they put their funds out beyond our borders,

Avoiding taxes and regulation:

Yes - they were just following orders. 

With only three long holidays this year,

And only a few savings they’re stashing,

It’s time for us to “move on” & “get over it”,

And call a halt to this banker-bashing.

If we can draw a line under the past,

And stop our whinges, moanings & ravings,

These chaps will soon be helping us out -

Once they’ve got their hands on our savings. 

“Interest rates” & “lending criteria”-

Let’s all stop our incessant rambling,

For trades and swaps & investments,

Are much more complex than just gambling! 

It’s not like they treat it as a casino,

And the Treasury has lots of complex rules,

For if they didn’t always do that,

Well - we’d all be looking like fools!

All right, they’re closing our libraries,

Selling the forests & shutting the loos,

But can we blame these poor bankers,

For all of this terrible news? 

Inflation, high charges, unemployment -

Let’s get right down to the nitty-gritty.

There may be a financial crisis,

But can we blame these poor boys in the City?

This new banking levy hit these guys hard,

Their yachts are facing some heavy weather.

Shouldn’t we all be helping them out now?

After all – aren’t we “all in this together”?

So please - send us a small contribution,

By mail, by text, or you can phone us.

Send us your cheques as soon as you can,

Marking the envelope “bankers’ bonus”.

And let’s forget all the troubles we’re facing,

Let’s stop our shouting and frothing.

Won’t you join me in helping them,

So that we don’t have to say “banks for nothing”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

In The Eye Of The Beholder

A few months ago an online dating agency, BeautifulPeople.com, I think it was, decided that some of their clients were not, well, beautiful enough.  They kicked about 30,000 people off their site but, in a belated gesture of goodwill, decided to offer these people counselling.  I wasn't on the site myself, for reasons that we really shouldn't go into, but if I had been I guess I'd have been amongst those being ushered away with a blanket over my head.

In The Eye Of the Beholder

I wanted to be one of the beautiful people,

And last week that’s what I was.

Now I’ve found out I’m too ugly,

Well – I guess it’s their loss.

Did my big thighs,

Lead to my demise?

Or was it the tattoos,

That caused the “refuse”?

Or perhaps I’m somehow deformed?

Not properly “normed”?

Too short to be sought,

Too old to be sold.

Or is it because I’m too tall,

That caused me to fall?

Is it my poor looks,

My nips and my tucks,

Or just my sagging buttocks?

I know I’ve got a short neck,

And I can look a bit of a wreck,

But what the heck!

Did they have to say I looked like Shrek?

So, I’m no longer under their Radar.

Under their net I’ve not tripped.

They say they’ve tightened their criteria,

And their standards haven’t slipped.

But let’s get to the nitty-gritty:

I know I’m not that pretty,

But I don’t look that shitty –

Can’t they have some pity?

 

What is it they’re building online?

A place selective and all snooty,

Where difference is excluded,

And the only pass-book is beauty?

This ghetto of symmetrical features,

Can never reach us.

This apartheid of self-image,

What does it teach us?

This discrimination,

Against different genes,

Can only lead to elimination -

And we know what that means.

They need to take care,

Before this nightmare,

Becomes more than a game.

For dating and mating,

With too many of their own kind,

Will produce offspring that all look the same.

If they persist,

It can only assist,

The narcissist,

To bouts of further preening.

But I think you all take my meaning:

They need to alter their screening.

We need to celebrate the differences,

That make us all what we are.

The good, the bad and the ugly,

Should all get over the bar.

The long, and the short and the tall,

And tolerance of what counts as “fair”.

Some of us might be very handsome,

But others come with lots of nose-hair.

So let’s cease this paranoia,

And let’s all be bolder.

I know I’m no oil-painting,

But isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

Latest News From Bromham for Sunday 22nd January

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 22^nd January 2012

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

·         Local farmers continue to search the site of last Friday’s tractor disaster.  The huge machine lies stricken on one side, in the position where it was abandoned by its driver Paul Shitface, who is now under house arrest.  A number of trays of parsnips and cauliflower have already been recovered from the wreckage, but several boxes of carrots are still unaccounted for.  Rescue operations have twice been suspended as the tractor has shifted position in the ditch where it is stranded.  It is hoped that, later today, attempts will be made to siphon off the diesel held in the tractor’s fuel tanks, before it is stolen by local layabouts.  Rumours that Mr Shitface was seen with his arm around local beauty pageant winner Norma Stits in the snug bar of The Wounded Ferret immediately prior to the accident have not been substantiated.

·         Village newspaper, The Bromham Bugle, has paid undisclosed damages to local man Fred Piglet after admitting over-hearing a private conversation he was having in the village phone-box three years ago, and using the information to print stories about his sex life.  Speaking from the family home, from which he has since been ejected, his estranged wife Wanda Piglet said today: “if he’s come into any funds, damages or no damages, I want to know about it.  He’ll be hearing from my solicitor, the dirty pig!  Fred, not the solicitor.”

·         The year-long race for president of The Social Centre took a surprise turn yesterday, when outsider Dick Piglet scored a surprise victory over front-runner cousin Paul Piglet in voting in the Westbrook ward primary to select the nomination for the Carrot Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP).  Other candidates Rob Piglet, Simon Piglet and Roy Piglet are expected to drop out of the race before the next primaries are held in February.  The high turn-out of seven voters (nearly 60% of those eligible to vote) surprised political pundits.  Dismissing the significance of the results for the future of Bromham, one disillusioned voter said: “What difference will it make?  One way or another, a Piglet is going to win this race.”  A spokesman for the Piglet family denied charges of nepotism and in-breeding.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Lost In Cyberspace

The dangers of the online world to the unwary - another cautionary poem.

Lost In Cyberspace

There’s a world out there waiting to be found,

I’m sure you’re willing to agree,

But there’s lots more in cyber-space:

A domain that was quite new to me. 

I’d lived happily enough in the real world,

Until in front of my keyboard I was set,

To probe into the mysteries

Of this thing called the Internet. 

I started by opening my browser,

And began searching for websites.

And then they came up on the screen,

A whole new world of delights.

You just click on the links – it draws you right in.

I was looking for some “biography”,

And before I knew what I was doing,

I was staring at high-grade pornography.

I saw some things that boggled my mind:

I admit that I was almost quite tempted.

It’s amazing what you can do with your body:

Some positions I’d never attempted. 

I thought I’d better move on quickly,

And try to do something worth rating.

So I signed up to this site that I found,

For some online computer dating.

I entered all of my details:

You know - young, good-looking and free,

To see what matches it might find,

And pull up a partner for me. 

Before long I’d struck up a friendship,

With this lady who called herself Honey.

But it didn’t take too long in the chatroom,

Before she started asking for money.

She passed on my details to some people she knew,

Who ran a scheme that was a scam.

They bombarded me with emails,

And filled all my inbox with spam. 

Before this new time on the computer,

I’d thought that email was often a treat,

And my only experience of Spam

Had been pink luncheon-meat.

I couldn’t believe she’d betrayed me.

The experience had started to suck.

So I sought solace in online friends,

And put my profile up on Facebook.

It was then that I discovered,

How cruel the world could sometimes be.

I wanted to be loved, to be wanted,

But nobody ever poked me. 

All this was totally depressing.

I began to feel like some kind of frog.

So I told of my disappointments,

And I began writing a blog. 

The online community was waiting, I knew,

For someone who wasn’t a quitter.

I decided to go completely global,

And started tweeting on Twitter. 

I sent my message out to all who would listen,

In my attempt to be a great hero,

But I found that I wasn’t that popular:

Number of followers – zero.

Then my firewall appeared to crumble,

My anti-virus started to crack.

With Trojans, Worms and Malware,

It appeared I was under attack.

My cursor started jumping around,

Problems all over just erupted.

My cookies turned very soggy,

And my files came out all corrupted. 

So I think I’ve learned a good lesson:

It’s a great hint here I’m dropping.

Just be careful when you log on,

And best stick to online shopping.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

Bankers, Hackers & Politicians

It just goes on and on, doesn't it? We're in full swing for the bankers' bonus season, yet day by day we are reminded of their poor performance, failure and incompetance - and they want to reward themselves for that.  More hacking exposes are being made all the time, and to cap it all we have to listen to the top politicians pontificating about "moral decline", "fairness", "big society", "all in it together" and other irrelevant, pointless waffling. Most of these guys are millionaires, and have never had a proper job of any sort in our society.  And they wonder why, last Summer, we had a spot of bother on our streets.  I say "Off withg their heads!!!"

Off With Their Heads

Let’s talk about this “slow moral decline”,

And of the criminality there’s been.

And let’s talk about victims,

And of the robbery that we’ve seen.

There’s those doing society down,

And acting without any cares.

People stealing, and helping themselves,

To the things that aren’t really theirs.

It’s shocking that they act in this way,

It’s become worse than we thought.

They’re ruining Britain’s businesses,

And their trick is not to get caught.

They’re making fools of police tactics,

Evading detection and blame.

They think it’s their entitlement,

But it’s wrong, all the same.

Some blame their backgrounds,

Their position or life’s station,

That they can’t help what they do,

Or a lack of moral education.

But these violations bear no excuse,

And retribution can’t be put off for long,

For everyone has responsibilities,

And they all know right from wrong.

We all have to live in society,

Despite our different life chances.

It can’t be a “help-yourself” culture,

Where only personal fortune advances.

Dipping your snout in the trough,

And taking what isn’t yours, is always crime.

Excuses only go so far these days,

And now you’ll have to serve your time.

Lock ‘em up, I hear you cry.

And don’t give them any bail.

Let them think about their deeds,

Whilst sitting there in jail.

And as the politicians sadly shake their heads,

And talk about the nation’s moral fences,

Let’s hear them explain once again,

Just how they filled in their expenses.

And as the bankers pay themselves ever more,

In bonuses and “incentive pay”,

Let’s ask them how they justify

The billions in bail-outs we’ve had to pay.

Newspapers hacking peoples’ phones,

Policemen taking bribes and bungs,

Broken Britain’s got a lot to answer for,

But it’s all part of the fun.

So let’s think about who’s to blame,

And before Human Rights we trample.

Let’s face it, and after all,

Our leaders don’t set a great example.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

The Other News Of The World

The revelations about telephone hacking by News International just keep coming out.  More out-of-court settlements have been made today.  We've got to get this sorted out and cleaned up, but I can't help thinking that we need to get our priorities right - so,rather than having a rant, here's a poem.

The Other News Of The World

There’s important things we should think of,

Matters of great weight to be sought out.

But - read all about it – newspaper shock!

The News Of The Screws has been caught out. 

There’s starvation in Africa now:

The rains have failed yet again.

A humanitarian crisis -

Tell that to the newspaper men.

Parts of Japan are contaminated,

And people can no longer live out there,

But the papers are all about “Rebekah”,

Obsessed with her shock of red hair.

Out in space, Atlantis is flying her last,

Returning to earth for the last time.

It’s the end of man’s journeys in space,

Yet we’re occupied with some hacking crime. 

People are dying in hospitals,

And getting abused in their homes.

The homeless wander about the streets,

But the stories are only about phones.

There’s wars in Afghanistan and Iraq,

And conflicts that are irrational,

But all that we seem to talk of,

Is bloody News International.

In Greece, the people are running riot,

With police, pitched battles they’ve fought.

And we just get to hear about one thing –

Some coppers and hackers they’ve caught.

Europe’s in economic meltdown;

We’re all off to hell in a hand-cart.

You’d think that was quite important,

But instead we have to hear all about “Rupert”.

The Beeb and the press are having a field-day,

We can’t get away from their strident views,

But I’d just like to call for some sanity –

Wake up! – There’s other things in the news!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012