Trousers

Trousers

What a wonderful invention are pants!

Or, as the upper classes say, “trizers” -

For the lower male garment comes in many forms,

It all depends on what the wife buys us. 

You’d think the designer’s not got that much to go on,

When he thinks about gentlemen’s kegs,

But - you must have a large hole for the body,

And, I suppose, at least one for the legs. 

Of course trousers come in so many forms:

Cords, pantaloons, slacks, whatever you wilt:

Plus-fours, culottes, or even trackie-bottoms,

Or, if you’re North o’ the border – the kilt. 

But there’s more to it than first meets the eye,

And the permutations can be legion,

You’d be surprised at the considerations,

When clothing a man’s nether region. 

For a start, there’s the aspect of comfort,

Which demands a great deal of care,

But, of course, some of the problems,

Can depend upon your underwear. 

For chaps are sometimes known to go Commando,

Which can lead to a great deal of slipment,

To say nothing of plenty of movement,

Amongst the various bits of equipment. 

But, if they’ve got any sense, they’ll wear undies,

To keep everything tidy and neat,

Shorts, slips, jock-strap, or a nice pair of boxers,

But a good pair of knickers is hardest to beat. 

They keep the meat and two veggies warm,

And I don’t want to hear any drivel,

If things below are allowed to get cold,

There’s a serious danger of shrivel. 

Then the trousers can get on with their main job:

Just like the role, for the ladies, of your skirts,

Which, apart from providing some modesty,

Is there mostly for the tucking of shirts. 

That’s to say nothing of extra functions,

And you can’t really begin to mock it,

When we enter the very strange kingdom,

Of the many uses of the male pocket. 

For there you can keep your change, or some keys,

About the contents you can get cocky,

Not to mention that pursuit of little boys -

A quick furtive game of pocket-hockey. 

Openings and fastenings are many,

A subject that can cause some men to worry:

Buttons are slow, but zips can be dangerous,

Especially if they’re in a great hurry.

But you need a belt and braces approach,

And you must be aware of what you’re about:

On leaving, “Gentlemen - Adjust Your Dress”

You mustn’t leave anything still sticking out. 

So let’s pause and celebrate men’s trousers,

A serious subject that everyone mocks,

I hope I’ve explained it all clearly –

But just don’t get me started on socks.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 14th October 2012

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 14^th October 2012

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

·       A year after his death, police are to launch an enquiry into the conduct of Bromham fund-raiser Jimmy Piglet.  It has been alleged by several women in the village that Mr Piglet was in the habit of making obscene gestures with a wide range of root vegetables.

·       Outrage has been expressed in Bromham circles about the decision to award the Knobbly Piece prize to Wiltshire Council for their work in promoting the display of modern art sculptures in Trowbridge shopping precinct.  Most shoppers, in a random poll, were unable to identify the subject-matter of many pieces, or to explain how or why the Council deserved such an award.  In what is thought to be a related incident, police were called to case of vandalism when red paint was sprayed on a sculpture entitled “Kohlrabi In Repose”.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Now, Voyager

I couldn't help but be struck by the poignancy of the space-probe Voyager 1, launched 35 years ago, still travelling through space, now reported to be leaving our Solar System.  It is (probably) the first man-made item to ever leave our bit of our Galaxy.  Who knows how long it will last, or where it will end up, perhaps condemned to continue travelling for all eternity.

Now, Voyager

Farewell then, Voyager, mind how you go,

As you head off into inter-stellar space.

Launched in better times, so many years ago,

In the heat of the technology race. 

You’ve been past Jupiter and Saturn,

Which was all we expected you to do,

‘Cause Uranus and Neptune were away,

When near their orbits you travelled through. 

Thanks for all of the data you sent back,

With lots of stuff we didn’t then know,

It was all terrifically useful,

And it helped our cosmic knowledge to grow. 

You’ve been a really brave little probe,

With electronics from Seventy-Seven,

We didn’t expect you to last this long,

As we fired you up into the heavens. 

But your batteries just kept on charging,

Giving new life to you, year after year,

Now you’re leaving our solar system,

And losing all contact with us, I fear. 

Your journey’s beyond all previous limits,

And on you, our hopes for deep space are pinned.

You’ve left our Sun millions of miles behind,

No longer assisted by its strong solar wind. 

We’ve detected a change in the particles,

That surround you in your travelling,

We’re losing communication with you,

The mission’s slowly unravelling. 

As far as anyone knows, you’re unique:

Nothing else man-made has ever made it this far.

Your journey into the next solar system,

Makes you into what we’d call a real star. 

Have a good time out there in the Galaxy:

Be careful of the cosmic dust, or worse,

Whatever you encounter in the darkness,

Of that vast and infinite Universe. 

We cannot know how long might be your journey,

Or if there’s a destination out yonder,

But you’ll not be forgotten back on Earth,

However long you might finally wander.

If there’s other life out there to be found,

In the emptiness of many light-years,

Remember – you’re not lost, just travelling,

Carrying humanity’s hopes and its fears.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Virgin On The Ridiculous

Perhaps this ought to be titled "The 07.50 to Cock-Up Junction".

Virgin On The Ridiculous 

Once upon a time there was a railway,

That went, by the West Coast, up to Glasgow.

Your bought yourself a ticket with British Rail,

And that’s all you really needed to know. 

Then, in their great wisdom, the Government

Decided to privatise it one day.

The market forces of competition,

Were to be used to carve out a new way. 

Passengers were suddenly “customers”,

Although the service went down the pan,

And the whole network was run for profit,

At least - that was meant to be the plan. 

So new companies bid for the honour,

Scrambling over each other’s backs,

With Civil Servants running a competition,

To see who’d run trains over the tracks. 

They went right at it, fighting like vultures,

With first one ahead, then another surgin’,

And when the dust had finally settled,

The last one left standing was Virgin. 

So they gave them a contract for years,

And let them see what they were able to do,

But then they thought no more about it,

Until the time came round for review. 

Four companies went back into battle,

Like four drunken men out on a bender,

Offering millions and billions,

In their bids to win in the tender. 

The one that offered the most was the winner:

First Group decided to take a chance on

Growing passenger traffic the most.

“Not bloody likely!” cried Richard Branson. 

For the wily, bearded entrepreneur,

Who left school when he was only sixteen,

And liked to poke at the Establishment,

Had spotted a flaw in the figures he’d seen. 

Well, the Government stuck to their guns,

And defended it all as a fair contest.

They said Branson was just being a spoil-sport,

And that First Group looked like the best. 

Lawyers were immediately consulted,

For, in arguments, that is their function.

There was a hullaballoo all over the press,

And the High Court granted an injunction. 

The men with the pencils looked at it again,

And on great investigations they went.

“Here!” some-one at last was heard to mutter,

“There’s been a cock-up, of at least ten per cent!” 

So there was a grinding and gnashing of teeth,

As those responsible sank to their knees.

Then the Minister signalled a U-turn,

And The Fat Controller cried “All Change Please!” 

The game wasn’t fair, for someone had cheated,

So they’re going to run the race once more,

Which is the mother of all cock-ups,

And enough to make anyone feel sore. 

The whole thing’s insane and a fiasco,

And here you can call me a nay-sayer,

But who picks up the bill for this SNAFU?

As usual, it’s us the poor tax-payer. 

Two hundred million they reckon,

Which is an awful lot of money I’d say,

But one question springs up in my mind –

Is this any way to run a railway??

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Frankenfurter

The monster that is processed food.

Franken-furter

What end is there to man’s ingenuity?

His ability, when he’s in the mood,

To engineer our daily intake,

And bugger about with our food. 

You’ve just got to read a few labels,

Although the print’s incredibly small,

To discover what it is they’re up to,

And find out how they’re conning us all. 

Don’t get me started on sausages:

They use lots of the skin, sinew and some bristle,

Rusk, knuckle, a blizzard of gizzard,

And then add in plenty of gristle. 

From slurry, and factory-floor sweepings,

And bits left over I’ve discovered,

“Chopped and shaped”, and certain “selected cuts”,

And also “mechanically-recovered”. 

Then to make it frozen, or microwaveable,

You’d be surprised at what they have to do:

Colourings, flavourings and texturings,

With modified starch and other bits of goo. 

Then they add extra sugar and some salt,

Followed by several e-numbers,

Preservatives and acidity agents,

And God knows what they’ve done to cucumbers. 

There’s modifiers and regulators,

Emulsifiers and some thickeners,

Stabilisers and other weird stuff -

It’s a wonder it don’t sicken us! 

They hide the grams of saturated fat -

They don’t like their product to look flaccid,

So they pump in fructose and glucose syrup,

Topped up by di-glycerides of fatty acid. 

Glazing agents and flavour enhancers,

All the things that we’re supposed to hate:

Add a dash of something not natural,

Plus monosodium glutamate. 

It all goes in to our processed foods,

Not just Cheesy Wotsits and Turkey Twizzlers,

But chicken nuggets, and ready dinners,

Pizzas, pies and those meaty sizzlers.

But they make it sound so attractive:

Branding family members sounds less messy:

John West, Mother’s Pride and Daddie’s Sauce,

Then there’s Uncle Ben and Auntie Bessie! 

These packagers have a lot to answer for:

Food scientists mucking about with our cheese,

Selling heart-attacks on a plate,

Hiding the grease and making us highly obese. 

Never mind the Scots loving fried Mars Bars,

Or cream teas, chocolate or late-night kebab,

They’re pumping too much gunk into our food,

And slowly turning us all into flab. 

So we’ve all got to wise up a bit,

About calories and carbs – it’s not too late -

Just look out for their “serving suggestions”,

And avoid anything “made from concentrate”. 

Avoid chicken masala-type pizza,

Don’t eat Dogburgers, unless you’re bent,

And look out for the magic words on labels:

“Beware: May Contain Nourishment”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Spicy Squash & Chickpea Soup

Recipe for: SPICY SQUASH & CHICKPEA SOUP 

Ingredients: 

• 1 tsp cumin seeds
• 2 tblsp olive oil (or chilli oil if you like it really spicy)
• 1 large leek, washed & roughly chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
• 1 chillie finely chopped
• 5 sprigs fresh thyme or oregano
• 1 butternut squash, pumpkin or other squash peeled, seeded & chopped into small chunks
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 bay leaf
• 400ml chicken stock
• 220g cooked chickpeas
• Sea salt & black pepper

Method: 

1. warm cumin seeds in a dry frying pan for a few minutes, then grind in a pestle & mortar
2. in large pan , heat olive oil.  Cook leeks over a low heat for a few minutes until softened
3. add garlic, chillie, oregano/ thyme & cumin.  Cook for 3 minutes
4. add squash, cinnamon stick, bay leaf
5. add stock.  Bring to the boil, then reduce heat to a simmer.
6. cook for about 15 minutes, or until squash is tender, but not mushy.
7. add chickpeas & seasoning.  Warm through & serve.

What else you need to know: 

1. serve in deep bowls, with a little chilli oil & grated cheese on the top + some crusty bread.

 

The Drought

Drought

Dust rises from the tramping feet

Of skinny cattle moving down the track

Between brown and empty fields

Which bear no living crops

Where the earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Solid in its crustiness

Lies parched beneath a burning sun 

The land cries out for moisture

Waiting for anything to drink

Any drops to slake and quench its thirst

Its loamy texture long since desiccated

Crumbling in the empty air

Turning into shifting sand

Which slowly drifts and piles

Driven by an arid wind

Whispering as it blows 

The crops lie burned and beaten

Defeated by the dryness

Roots withered and lifeless

Straw-like stretchings

Down between the cracks

Of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted

In the cratered furrows 

No dew or rain has fallen

From out the cloudless sky

As if some curse or punishment

Withholds the water

From the needy

Any liquid long receded

Deep beneath the surface

Where none can reach it

Leaving not a thing alive

A gasping, choking death

Of this sterile landscape

In the over-heated breeze

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Fancy A Hot One?

Actually, despite its reputation, this one is not screamingly hot, just very intensely spicy.  It needs a bit of messing around, but it's really worth it in terms of flavour.

Recipe for: CURRY – (PORK) VINDALOO 

Ingredients: 

• Spices (1)
• 2 tsps whole cumin seeds
• 3-5 hot dried chillies
• 1 tsp black peppercorns
• 1 tsp cardamom seeds (take out of cases)
• 3”/ 2cm stick cinnamon
• 1 ½ tsps mustard seeds
• Spices (2)
• 1 tsp fenugreek
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tsp light brown sugar
• 5 tblsp white wine vinegar
• 10 tblsp vegetable oil
• 6-7 oz/ 200g onions, peeled & sliced into fine half-rings
• 225ml water
• 2lb/ 900g boneless pork shoulder, cut into cubes (or use chicken/ lamb)
• 1” cube fresh ginger, peeled & coarsely chopped
• 8-10 cloves garlic, peeled, roughly chopped
• Spices (3)
• 1 tblsp ground coriander
• ½ tsp turmeric

Method: 

1. grind all spices (1) in a grinder.  Place powder in a bowl
2. into the bowl, add spices (2).  Mix & set aside.
3. put the garlic & fresh ginger into a liquidiser & make a paste with a small amount of water.  Set aside.
4. heat the oil in a large casserole.  Add the onions and cook until the onions are well browned.  It’s important to get the brown caramelisation, which can take twenty minutes or so.
5. remove with a slotted spoon to a clean liquidiser.  Add a little water & process to a brown sludge.  Add this to the vinegar/ spices paste – this creates the vindaloo paste.
6. heat a little more oil in a large casserole and brown the cubed meat in batches, using a slotted spoon to remove the meat into a dish whilst you cook the rest.
7. turn down the heat a little, adding more oil if needed, to build the dish
8. first add the garlic/ ginger paste & fry for a few moments
9. add spices (3), mix well & stir for a few more minutes
10. add the vindaloo paste and cook for a few more minutes
11. when well blended, return the browned meat & any accumulated juices to the casserole.
12. add a little water to create the gravy, then bring to a gentle simmer.
13. cover & simmer for about an hour, stirring occasionally.

What else you need to know: 

1. the gravy/ sauce will be thin, but should be very intensely flavoured
2. the dish need not be too hot – just adjust the chillies in the first lot of spices.  The idea is to get a dish which is very spicy, rather than very hot.

 

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 7th October 2012

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 7^th October 2012

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

·      The tendering process for the next ten years carrot-picking on the North West side of the village is to be run again, following a complete U-turn announcement by the Parish Council, which described its own procedures as “unfit for carrots”.  Bearded entrepreneur Richard Piglet, leader of the Verging Ridiculous consortium, welcomed the opportunity to bid again.

·      A row has broken out between leading members of the Field Land Owners’ Party (FLOP) regarding the minimum number of weeks before parsnips can be pulled.  The previous limit was 24 weeks, but with recent advances in harvesting technology, there are now calls for the limit to be reduced to just 20 weeks.  A spokesperson for the Pro-Parsnip Alliance has commented that parsnip-pulling should be banned in all cases, and the crops allowed to grow to full maturity.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Nobody Expects The Spanish Inquistion!!

This is based on a recent true story.  There may be a tiny bit of exaggeration involved. Don't let an Archbishop visit your village.

When Rowan Came To Call

Our village is a quiet sort of place;

You can hear the autumn leaves as they fall,

But strange things started to happen,

Last Sunday, when Rowan came round to call. 

St Nicholas is the name of our church,

Where suddenly everything came to a stop,

Expecting the top man from the C of E,

You know – Rowan – for he’s the Archbishop!

It was all meant to be very informal,

To give thanks for our Bishop’s loyalty,

But that’s not how it all turned out on the day -

You’d think they were expecting some royalty! 

Now normally there’s not many goes there,

The congregation’s usually measured in tens,

But soon as word started to go round,

The vicar was cleaning his Mercedes-Benz. 

The parishioners went into overdrive,

So that His Reverence would be very well-met.

They polished up the Church’s silverware,

And got set to roll out the red carpet. 

The Erics, and Dereks, and all of the clerics,

Got themselves into a great fluster,

They pulled out all their best vestments,

And flicked round the vestry with a new duster. 

The pulpit was given a make-over,

They made it into such a big deal -

Up in the bell-tower things were afoot,

They arranged to ring a grand quarter-peal. 

They practised the bells for two days and nights,

The place was full of crumbly old ringers,

You couldn’t move for them pulling the ropes,

And they made a real set of swingers.

Come the day itself, things started to happen:

The last thing you’d feel would be lonely.

It was like “Songs Of Praise” had come to town:

In the church it was standing-room only. 

There was a danger of over-crowding:

It was close to a riot – that’s a fact.

Inside people sat on one another’s knees,

Into the pews they were forcibly packed. 

There was no outbreak of religious fervour,

Such was the opinion of the Dean,

But more of a social occasion,

As they all struggled to see, and be seen. 

Now I’m not of a Christian persuasion,

I’m an atheist I have to confess,

So I don’t get what the fuss was about,

Just to see a bloke turn up in a dress. 

Instead I decided I’d go down to the pub,

I just fancied to have a few jars,

But I couldn’t get into the village,

For the two-mile tailback of cars. 

Thousands wanted to get to communion,

There was a queue for road-side conversions,

There was chaos for miles all around,

The police set up road-blocks and diversions. 

A helicopter droned low overhead,

Crack teams of snipers were up on the roofs,

And a ring of steel surrounded the pub,

Leaving me wondering just what this proves. 

I hope that the moral of this story is clear,

Though some of my tale might be quite tall:

Don’t try to do anything near normal,

When an archbishop comes by to call.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Virgin On The Ridiculous

I'd like to say that the complete horlicks that has been made over the re-franchising of the West Coast Main Line leaves me absolutely speechless. However, the poetic muse will not be so easily silenced....

Virgin On The Ridiculous

Once upon a time there was a railway,

That went, by the West Coast, up to Glasgow.

Your bought yourself a ticket with British Rail,

And that’s all you really needed to know. 

Then, in their great wisdom, the Government

Decided to privatise it one day.

The market forces of competition,

Were to be used to carve out a new way. 

Passengers were suddenly “customers”,

Although the service went down the pan,

And the whole network was run for profit,

At least - that was meant to be the plan. 

So new companies bid for the honour,

Scrambling over each other’s backs,

With Civil Servants running a competition,

To see who’d run trains over the tracks. 

They went right at it, fighting like vultures,

With first one ahead, then another surgin’,

And when the dust had finally settled,

The last one left standing was Virgin. 

So they gave them a contract for years,

And let them see what they were able to do,

But then they thought no more about it,

Until the time came round for review. 

Four companies went back into battle,

Like four drunken men out on a bender,

Offering millions and billions,

In their bids to win in the tender. 

The one that offered the most was the winner:

First Group decided to take a chance on

Growing passenger traffic the most.

“Not bloody likely!” cried Richard Branson. 

For the wily, bearded entrepreneur,

Who left school when he was only sixteen,

And liked to poke at the Establishment,

Had spotted a flaw in the figures he’d seen. 

Well, the Government stuck to their guns,

And defended it all as a fair contest.

They said Branson was just being a spoil-sport,

And that First Group looked like the best. 

Lawyers were immediately consulted,

For, in arguments, that is their function.

There was a hullaballoo all over the press,

And the High Court granted an injunction. 

The men with the pencils looked at it again,

And on great investigations they went.

“Here!” some-one at last was heard to mutter,

“There’s been a cock-up, of at least ten per cent!” 

So there was a grinding and gnashing of teeth,

As those responsible sank to their knees.

Then the Minister signalled a U-turn,

And The Fat Controller cried “All Change Please!” 

The game wasn’t fair, for someone had cheated,

So they’re going to run the race once more,

Which is the mother of all cock-ups,

And enough to make anyone feel sore. 

The whole thing’s insane and a fiasco,

And here you can call me a nay-sayer,

But who picks up the bill for this SNAFU?

As usual, it’s us the poor tax-payer. 

Two hundred million they reckon,

Which is an awful lot of money I’d say,

But one question springs up in my mind –

Is this any way to run a railway??

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012