Gigolo

I must stress that this poem is NOT based on personal experience!

Gigolo

Your back arches slightly

Settling into my 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 movement

My good looks

My service

And my attentiveness 

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 confident

For tonight you may have anything

Whatever you desire

My time is completely yours

To do with as you please

I work nightly

Professional and paid-for

Personal and discreet

Tailored to your requirements

And whatever you can afford

I whisper what you wish to hear 

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 2012

There's Still A Small Boy Inside All Of Us

Except for the girls of course.....but you know what I mean.

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 2012

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 29th July 2012

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 29^th July 2012

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

·         Members of BLAG (Bromham Local Action Group) will today begin investigating the reason for obvious gaps in the seating of the Number 33 Bus.  The vehicle is normally expected to be full to overflowing (35 seated, 6 standing) on its trip between Bromham and Chippenham (nearest point of civilisation), but certain seats have been observed to be un-taken this week.  Mrs Clarrie Grimes, who normally sits three rows back on the left-hand side, was not there yesterday.  It is suspected that she, like some others, have been going to Chippenham and not bothering to come back on the 16.20 service as normal.

·         In a flying visit to Bromham this week, Dick Head, Wiltshire Fascists’ Organisation’s candidate to become President of Wiltshire Council later this year, managed to offend many with his out-of-touch remarks on Bromham’s state of readiness to host the annual Carnival.  He spoke of security concerns on the High Street, whether the number of bacon baps at The Wounded Ferret would be enough to feed the expected crowds, and a potential strike by litter-pickers in the Borough.  When informed that the Carnival had already successfully taken place over a month ago, without incident, Mr Head was quickly bundled away into a waiting limousine by his handlers.

·         Sport - Bromham Casuals begin their ignominious return to the Germolene West Wiltshire Super League in the lowest division, following their liquidation and reformation for vegetable payment irregularities.  They will play a team of pub regulars from The Wiltshire Whippet on a pitch at the back of the Recycling Centre, if they can get enough players together.  Manager Benny Dogleash hopes to field an unchanged full-strength side, including star striker Dwayne Mooney, who has failed in his bid to obtain a lucrative £50 transfer to another club.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Lonesome Tonight

I was saddened to hear of the sudden death of "Lonesome George", the last of the tortoise sub-species Chelonoidis Nigra Abingdoni, in the Galapagos.  It seems that there was lots done to try and help him to breed, but George wasn't having any of it.  Another piece of bio-diversity lost.


Lonesome Tonight

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 2012

It's Time To Renew That Gym Membership Again

The O-word

My medical was a total disaster: the doctor’s face turned rather grim.

It was a big fail, when I got on the scale, and he said: “you’re not very slim!”

“There’s no good way I can tell you this, although you might get yourself in a sulk,

It seems it’s your fate, to be hugely overweight: you’re the size of The Incredible Hulk.”

“I’ve tried being subtle, I’ve tried being coy, there seems no way I can get through.

Perhaps invective can be more effective?  I don’t know what else I can do!” 

Then he let me have it with both barrels:  “You’re big, you’re burly, you’re chubby,

With more avoir-dupois than average, you’re chunky, not hunky, definitely tubby.”

“You’re full-faced, fat, floppy and fleshy, a big lard-arse, and as large as a barge,

You’re not finely honed, not merely big-boned, you’re a roly-poly, a great tub of marge.”

“Your size is….. amplitudinous, a chump with a bump, plus a huge rump,

A chubster, a big rounded tubster, like a partridge, My God but you’re plump!” 

Sadly I looked down at my vanishing waist, and said “why do you use words such as these?

Just what is it you’re trying to tell me?  Are you saying that I may be obese?”

The doctor was completely taken aback, so he scowled, and he looked at me hard.

Then he said “you’re not listening, are you?  You king-sized great tub of lard!”

“I’m obviously not making myself clear.  Let’s say that you’re of voluminous size,

Falstaffian, Brobdignagian, it’s quite clear who ate all the pies!” 

“Your expansive capaciousness goes beyond any known bound.

You’re beefy and burly, fudgy and pudgy, and it’s years since you last saw the ground!”

“Gargantuan, elephantine and mammoth are three words that may easily vex,

But they hold no candle, to your love handles, or the scale of your Body Mass Index.”

“You must eat less, and exercise more, it’s time to take a clinical stand,

Time to realise that a balanced diet does not mean a burger in each hand!” 

“Your massive, mountainous diet must cease: no more chocolate or cream or fruit jellies,

Nor guacamole dips, nor fish and chips, until you’ve got rid of those bellies!”

“It’s calorie-counting from here onwards: you must drain yourself to the dregs.

You can’t make a much thinner omelette, without breaking low-cholesterol eggs!”

At last the light was beginning to dawn: I could see what he was trying to state,

So I just asked him to clarify: “Here - are you saying that I’m over-weight?”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Pork with Paprika & Olives

Recipe for: PORK with PAPRIKA & OLIVES

Ingredients: 

·         500g diced pork (leg or shoulder)

·         Red onion – cut into thin wedges

·         2 garlic cloves, crushed

·         100g chorizo, cut into chunks

·         1 tsp smoked paprika

·         400g tin chopped tomatoes

·         300ml/ ½ pt chicken stock

·         400g can chickpeas, rinsed

·         100g green olives

·         Zest & juice of a lemon

·         Small bunch of parsley, chopped 

Method: 

1.       Heat oven to 150c/ fan 130C/ gas 2

2.       In oven-proof casserole with lid, season pork, then brown (in batches) in a little oil over a high heat. Set aside.

3.       Add onion & garlic to oil, cooking till softened

4.       Add chorizo & paprika, cooking for another 2 minutes

5.       Add tomatoes, stock and the cubes of browned pork

      6.       Stir well, bring up to a simmer, then cover with lid & place in oven

7.       Cook for 1 hour

8.       Stir in chick peas & olives.

9.       Cook for another 1 hour.

10.    Stir in lemon zest, juice & parsley just before serving. 

What else you need to know: 

1.       The sauce in this is REALLY tasty

2.       Goes really well with crusty bread & a glass of cider

We're All Drinking For George

We’re All Drinking For George

We chat in measured-out mumbles

In our twos and in our threes

Balancing thin cups in their saucers

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

Very hard on his family is what 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 began to lose 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 dare not 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 the pub

Trying not to cause any offence

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

A sliding off for something much stronger

Yes, we’ll all have a drink for George today

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Waiting To Get Served At The Bar

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 2012

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 2012

The Threads Don't Always Make A Picture

Loose Ends

I followed where you led me

And read through many chapters

Towards the intended ending

Which you had prepared so carefully for me

All those significant hints

And deliberately-dropped clues

Pointing towards an obvious conclusion 

But there was no proper resolution

Nor any final denouement

And when the central character

Who had held my attention

For hundreds of pages

Suddenly disappeared

Without warning or any explanation

And the circumstances of the story petered out

It meant leaving many words unspoken

Things un-done, un-finished

And what had been built so far

An un-completed folly 

You left the plot-lines unresolved

And the warmest trails to cool

And a door not quite closed, but left ajar

Where someone went out

But never came back again 

You raised my expectations

But did not meet them

You let my hopes come to nothing

For there was to be no neat ending

And what had seemed important once

Became a mess of un-connected details

Which made no sense at all 

The ship did not come in

The wrong people won

There were no just desserts

Just an empty feeling

Open, vague, unclear

Of waiting, wondering

What might have happened

To tie up all those loose ends

If only the last few pages of our story

Had not been missing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

You Have To Follow Your Dream

No-one has to stay where they are, if they really don't want to.  Be bold and follow your dream.

Running Away From The Circus

I ran away from the Circus last year -

I couldn’t stand the excitement you see.

I’d had enough of unpredictability -

From the ring-master I had to be free. 

The lions and tigers kept roaring -

At night their noises kept me awake,

And the smell of droppings in the saw-dust

Was more than my nostrils could take. 

The painted clowns brought me right down:

Enthusiasm I just couldn’t muster.

I started to freeze beneath the trapeze,

And sword-swallowing lost all of its lustre. 

I craved a career as an accountant,

Using computers, with pinging and beeping.

It’s a real treat to work with a spread-sheet,

And rows of double-entry book-keeping. 

Pencils, staplers and clean stationery

Now bring a great smile to my lips,

But better still is the enormous thrill

I get from my big pile of paper-clips. 

The danger’s all gone now – that’s certainly true:

No horses or elephants to get in my way.

Now I’m frequently seen, near the coffee-machine,

Or photo-copying documents all day. 

The big top now seems but a vague dream,

And to the fire-eater I owe a great debt,

But running car-hire is hardly high-wire,

And there’s no need for a safety-net.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Beef In Guinness

Recipe for: BEEF IN BEER/ GUINNESS 

Ingredients: 

• 1 – 1½ kg shin of beef, cubed (or use chuck or stewing beef)
• 2 medium onions, roughly chopped
• 2 tblsp sunflower oil and/ or butter
• 50g seasoned flour
• 500-700ml good strong dark ale or Guinness (NEVER use lager)
• Sprigs of thyme, rosemary, parsley, chives, tied together in muslin to form a bouquet garni
• 1 tblsp tomato puree (optional)
• Salt & pepper
• 2 bay leaves

Method: 

1. heat the oven to 140C/ fan 120C
2. toss the cubed meat in the seasoned flour, shaking off any excess
3. in a large flame-proof casserole put the oil and/ or butter, then brown the meat all over in batches – do not over-crowd the pan, or it will steam rather than fry.  Set the beef aside.
4. add more butter and/ or oil to the pan, then fry the onions until lightly browned – about ten minutes
5. add any leftover flour from coating the meat, stirring around frequently
6. add the beer or Guinness to the pan , stirring to incorporate all the leftover scrapings from frying the meat.  The onions & flour should thicken the liquid slightly.
7. add the tomato puree, if using, and the bouquet garni, bay leaves & salt & pepper
8. return the meat to the casserole & stir to incorporate, then bring back to a low simmer
9. cover tightly & transfer to the oven, to cook for 2-3 hours
10. check occasionally to make sure it’s not drying out or cooking too quickly
11. when it’s ready, fish out the bouquet garni & discard

What else you need to know: 

1. serve with mashed potatoes or (herb) dumplings (see separate recipe) to mop up all the juices
2. dumplings need to go into the casserole about 40 minutes before you want to eat
3. variations include adding carrot and/ or celery with the onions to bulk out the dish, but I think it’s fine as it is

It's Not All Fun In The Country

Especially when you are plagued with pigeons.  This was the sad result of my attempt to fight back.

The War In The Air

I’m admitting a total defeat,

And it’s the pigeons that’s winning -

It was me that started this war,

But I’m more sinned against than sinning. 

These flying rats invaded my garden,

And scared off the delicate birds.

I’ll admit I’ve never liked pigeons,

Nor treading in their copious turds. 

They’re big buggers, and stupid -

I state these as obvious facts,

As I got overwhelmed by the results

Of their active digestive tracts. 

It got everywhere you could think of:

So you had to pity the tiny blue-tit -

It dropped in for a dip at the bird-bath,

And ended up bathing in inches of s—t. 

The greenhouse was quite covered -

It turned a strange shade of grey.

Soon the cats were wearing tin helmets,

To avoid the flak that was coming their way. 

When I brought out my big air-rifle,

Behind the fence for cover they dived.

I netted, I wired, I tried to deter them,

And on the poison they simply thrived. 

There was no stopping them I found:

They’ve got me trapped here in the shed,

But if I can get out of here alive,

I’ll pick a fight with the sparrows instead.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

If You Peek Back Into The Past.......

.....you may find things that you weren't expecting!

View Of A Stranger

It seems indiscreet to peer inside

This blue-bound diary

And read the youthful scribblings

The secret scriptures

Of a young soul seeking

What he thinks is love

Intimate and vulnerable

His tormented, tortured yearnings

Spelled out day by day

In his tight, neat handwriting

In his black and blue biros

Using the cryptic code

That is not difficult to decipher 

Snooping through the writing

Prying among the pages

Of this joyless journal

I am struck by his outlook

The black and white world

Of the early Seventies

So short on subtlety

Lacking nuance

The direct and raw emotion

The hurt and the anger

The brutal honesty

Of this callow youth

Only recently a child 

I marvel at his motivations

His immature ideas

And his carnal calculations

This rough, strange juvenile

Living in his different world

Thinking ugly thoughts

I could never entertain 

I wonder at this person from the past

A ghost from forty years ago

And find it almost impossible

To admit the surprising truth

That I cannot recognise myself

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

The Price We Pay For Gold

Lifeline

He knows the effort it costs him

The back-breaking work

Rock-cracking and sifting

In the heat, the filth and the mud

Naked and exhausted

To find the tiny lumps

The speckles of value

Precious pieces, the grains that mean so much

Just enough to exist, to eat, to carry on 

Hunting, scavenging rat-like

In a diabolic hole inside the Earth

A dark world of danger

Among the drills and the dust

Driven to daily desperation

Crawling through flooded shafts

To reach a promising seam

Of grit that holds the glitter of gold

And a faint glimmer of hope 

Yet he never sees it

Transported, transformed

Refined and purified

Into to heavy brick-like blocks

Which sit, unused, in high-security rooms

National gold reserves

To guarantee the currency

And maintain an appropriate short supply

To keep the price high enough

Within the global market 

Or 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

With all the latest features

To access and communicate

Across the world at the touch of a button

Perhaps even to the dark heart of Africa

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012