Killer In The Village

Killer In The Village

There’s a killer in our village

And he’s not been brought to justice

He’s out there right now

Walking round a free man

Because no-one knows

About his guilty secret

There’s a killer in our village

He’s just an ordinary guy

With a wife and two children

He worries about his credit card

And his hefty mortgage

Perhaps the same as you and I

There’s a killer in our village

And everybody knows him

They see him down the pub

And he plays on all the local teams

They’ve been known to pat him on the back

When he makes a winning score

There’s a killer in our village

Who knows how to hit a target

He’s top gun at video games

With hand/ eye co-ordination

Being rated excellent

For a military job

There’s a killer in our village

Yet no-one’s in any fear

He drives over to the airbase

And he never misses any shift

Then he passes through security

And walks in to his bunker

There’s a killer in our village

But no-one’s after him

He gazes at his computer screen

And he’s never in much danger

He’s a pilot who stays at home

And flies the drones in Pakistan

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Wargames

Wargames

The Afghan desert landscape unfolds slowly far below

Criss-crossed with beaten tracks

Small settlements of human habitation

And the long-sought compounds

Of suspected combatants

Encompassed by the perimeter

Of a distant theatre of war

The transmission time-delay

From the remote telemetry

Of the over-flying drone

Muffles the stark reality

Of sound and vision

As it deals out its deadly cargo

Of death and destruction

Whilst the pilot sits secure

Removed from any jeopardy

Detached and unconnected

Bunkered beneath the ground

In rural Lincolnshire

Amid an arcade of work-stations

Computers and communications

In cool and air-conditioned calm

Within the secure perimeter

Beyond the blast-door

Heads bow forward

In concentration to the task

Beneath the headsets

Clean-shaved faces

Reflect the glow from many screens

Hands upon the joysticks

Making careful corrections

To course and altitude

Fingers flickering nervously

Around the bomb-buttons

As the targets come into view

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 27th April 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 28^th April 2013

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

·       1.  Bromham Casuals’ star striker Dwayne Mooney has been banned for 10 games by the governing body of the West Wilts Germolene League for the offence of gnawing on the leg of an opponent in last Sunday’s key match against Stockley Corinthians. Although Mooney has publicly apologised to his opponent and to the club, the Casuals’ irascible manager, Benny Dogleash, said that Mooney deserved the punishment and that the club would not be appealing.  Explaining his striker’s lapse of discipline, Dogleash said that Mooney had probably just been a little hungry.  He added that it would prompt the club to look at their pre-game nutrition strategy, since the normal doner kebab and chips, with extra chilli sauce “obviously didn’t do it for the lad”.

·        2.  Voters in Bromham were faced with a bleak choice in this week’s forthcoming local elections.  The only candidates on the ballot will be Peter Piglet, Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP), Paul Piglet, Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP),  Peregrine Piglet, Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP),  and Percival Piglet, Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP).  The local UKIP candidate, who had declined to stand in this fiercely-CRAP area, described the situation as “bleak”, “a foregone conclusion”,  like “buying a pig in a poke”, and “crap”.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Things That Don't Go Bang

Things That Don’t Go Bang

We’ve all been in those situations,

When we find something that’s too good to be true,

But you’d think scientists were better than that,

When they’re up against something quite new.

There’s governments all over the world

Been taken in by a load of old flim-flam,

By buying an explosives detector,

That’s was clearly no more than a scam.

You’d think that they’d put these things to the test,

You’d expect them to conduct some sort of trial,

That they’d be looking at the documentation,

Seeking out the results that are on file.

Yet this thing with no moving parts,

Which would be clear to the dumbest detective,

Had no basis whatever in science,

And its efficacy was entirely defective!

Apart from the millions that were spent,

Thousands of lives were placed at great risk.

And all this for something quite hopeless,

And as much use as a kitchen whisk!

Which just goes to show – you need to be careful:

Don’t believe all the hype in great store –

Check out everything quite properly,

And remember – caveat emptor!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Have You Had Yours Yet?

Have You Had Yours Yet?

The news is bad, bordering on tragic,

Really awful - in fact it’s hit me for six:

The announcement went out this morning:

They’ve had to suspend making our Weetabix!

Seems they’ve run out of British wheat,

Due to last summer’s bad weather,

And they can’t make it from inferior wheat –

Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

In the mean-time the production-line’s closed,

Except for some Mini-Bites and Oatibix,

Which really ain’t the same thing at all,

And it looks as if we’re all left in a fix!

So they’ve resorted to importing some wheat,

For the first time in as long as they can remember,

Till they can some more British stuff,

But they won’t know that till September!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Lamb Shanks In Minted Gravy

Recipe for: LAMB SHANKS (with minted gravy)

Ingredients:

• 2-4 lamb shanks, trimmed (one per person)
• 2 tblsps flour for dusting/ coating
• 2 tblsps sunflower oil
• 1 carrot, peeled & very finely diced
• 1 onion, very finely diced
• 1 stick celery, washed, trimmed & very finely diced
• 2 tblsp thyme leaves
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 garlic cloves, finely chopped or crushed
• 1 tblsp tomato puree
• 500ml hot lamb stock (or veg stock with some lamb/ beef stock-cube)
• 4 tsp mint sauce from a jar or handful of fresh mint, washed & chopped finely (or redcurrant jelly – see below)

 Method:

1. in a flame-proof casserole large enough to hold the lamb shanks lying down, heat the oil
2. on a plate, roll the lamb shanks in flour to coat
3. brown the lamb shanks on all sides in the hot oil, then remove with a slotted spoon and set aside for a few minutes
4. add a little more oil to the pan, if needed, then throw in the carrot, celery, onion, garlic, thyme, bay
5. stir fry the vegetables over a medium heat for a few minutes, until coated in oil & starting to colour
6. add any flour left on the coating plate & stir this in
7. add the stock, the tomato puree and the mint sauce, stirring well to combine the ingredients
8. simmer together for a few minutes, then add the lamb shanks, nestling them down into the sauce.  They should be about two-thirds covered.
9. bring the casserole back to a very gentle simmer
10. either cook on the hob, or in a very low oven, but very gently for about 1½ hours
11. check occasionally, turning the shanks in the liquid to ensure that they cook evenly
12. the meat should be falling off the bone when you serve it

 What else you need to know:

1. check the seasoning & add more mint if you think it needs it;
2. instead of mint, you can use redcurrant jelly, which produces a delicious, but sweeter result
3. serve with mashed potatoes to mop up all the juices, and a green vegetable

Outrage

I think there's something wrong with our media reporting when three deaths in a bomb blast in Boston dominates the newspapers and TV channels for days and days on end, yet an explosion which kills 50 or more in Afghanistan, Syria, Palestine, Iraq (the list goes on a bit...) barely manages a mention.

Outrage

The explosion comes

Always without warning

The ear-drum splitting noise

The force of the blast

And the shock-wave of percussion

And as shrapnel flies in all directions

Screams of terror fill the air

And a dust-cloud billows

As if to coat the bloody bodies

And hide them from inspection

The crack of concrete

And the crunch of shattered glass

An uneven layer of debris

The smoke and fire

The aftermath of bombers

Dealing out death and injury

Damaged bodies and severed limbs

Casualties littered across the street

The wail of urgent sirens

Heralds the arrival

Of police and paramedics

Who crawl across the debris

Pulling out the maimed

And mangled bodies

In unseen heroic acts

Then later stand outside the hospitals

And before the cameras

Naming individual victims

And talking about the numbers

And yet these official figures

Take on very different meanings

Depending on the country’s context

Whether in Boston or Baghdad

In England or Afghanistan

Where the value of a Western life

Becomes inflated by the media

And yet a Middle Eastern soul

Who was someone’s husband

Mother, father, brother

A lately-living person

Reduced to just a cipher

Somehow just a nameless victim

And worth something less

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

St. George's Day

Saint George

Oh To Be In England, now that April’s here,

Let’s speak about this country’s hero,

Say welcome to the Feast of St George,

And celebrate a great fat zero.

Now’s the time to dust off the school books,

And delve a little into ancient history,

To find the tenuous connection,

Of why St George - now that’s a mystery.

He fought mostly in the Roman Army,

And that is where he won his glory.

It wasn’t about slaying any dragons -

You’ll find that was just a fairy story.

And let’s look to our geography too,

If it’s authenticity we wish to seek:

He’s nothing to do with Olde England,

For this knight was but a Greek.

And there’s other facts that you should know,

Even though it might seem like a drag:

The white’s his shroud, the red’s his blood,

And it’s bugger all to do with England’s flag.

So let’s not get carried too far away,

Let’s all stick closer to the text.

He may be England’s Patron Saint,

But let’s not get him out of context!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The Iron Ladle

The Iron Ladle

Have you been personally devastated since the demise of The Leaderene? Are you at a loss now that the real back-bone has been taken away from the Conservative Party?  Do the antics of David Cameron and George Osborne make you weep in frustration?  Would you like a way in which you can remember the greatest Prime Minister that Grantham has ever produced?

Wait no more - we have the perfect answer for you: The Iron Ladle.

Yes, the City Guild of Senior Conservative Crusties has great pleasure in announcing the release of a strictly limited edition of this highly-desirable and collectable “Baroness Thatcher Commemorative Iron Ladle”.

This delightful and valuable piece has been designed by a specialist committee of Thatcher experts, including Sir Geoffrey Howe, Sir Michael Heseltine, Sir Cecil Parkinson and, of course, Lord Arthur Scargill.

It will be available in a range of colours, including Steely Grey, True Blue and Coal Black (oh, sorry, this last one is no longer available).

This is a rare opportunity to own a beautiful utensil-cum-momento-mori, and is expected to be of considerable investment value over the long-term.

This item is not only attractive in its own right, but is practical too.  It will remind you of This Country’s Greatest Post-War Leader every time that you engage in any type of stirring activity.  In terms of decoration, no expense has been spared.  The handle has been lovingly hand-tooled with images of Handbags Rampant, and of the Sinking Of The Belgrano, in a fascinating inter-twined pattern. It will arrive encased in a specially-designed box in the shape of The Falkland Islands, and will be accompanied by a numbered Certificate Of Authenticity, under-written by a facsimile of the signature of Margaret Hilda Roberts.

Whether you are a lonely Trades Union Member, or still work in one of Britain’s remaining manufacturing industries, or are currently unemployed, or whether you simply live in your own ex-Council House, you are bound to find that this ladle will move you to tears.  In fact, we anticipate an extremely strong reaction, once the date for this opportunity-to-own has been released.

Whatever your feelings, however, we think that you will find this item so attractive to look at, that you will not wish to use it in the kitchen at all – in fact, you could say that “This Ladle’s Not For Turning".


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 21st April 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 21^st April 2013

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

·         1. The world-famous annual Bromham Marathon passed off without incident today, after police presence was stepped by 50% from two policemen to three.  The twelve competitors and nearly twenty spectators were blessed with warm sunshine.  One runner stood out from the rest of the field when he appeared clad only in vest, shorts and running shoes.  But that’s the sort of wild behaviour among the fun-runners that really makes this event so special.

·       2.   The village is still recovering after being placed in total lock-down for two days this week, following an incident at the village sweet-shop.  Two men, later revealed to be brothers from over the border in Seend, committed the theft, before making their escape into the Bromham suburbs.  Residents were warned to stay indoors and off the streets whilst police conducted house-to-house searches. One brother was chased away over the allotments, and the other is thought to have made his escape on the Number 37 bus, possibly the 12.45 service to Devizes on Tuesday.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A New Folk Song For Modern England

A New Folk Song For Modern England (based on an old Wiltshire goat-nadgering ballad). It shows that country pursuits may leave a lot to be desired.

As I walked out one May morning,

My fortune for to seek,

My way was suddenly blocked,

By a Tesco trolley blocking the creek.

I started to push on with my quest,

And tried to cross over using a log,

But the wood was all slippery,

And quickly I fell into the bog.

I came out smelling of diesel & worse,

My clothes all muddy & rank.

I was all soaking & smelly,

As I slowly crawled up the bank.

I carried on with my walk, ever bold,

Hoping a young maiden to sight,

But I’d got twigs in my hair:

And I must have looked quite a fright.

I then came out of those sylvan woods,

Leaving behind my rural bower,

But soon the day turned out nasty,

With gentle rain, later turning to showers.

I pushed on through the country,

And down to the meadow that day,

For I fancied myself dancing,

All among the new-mown hay.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived:

I suppose it was my bad fate.

Instead of the green meadow,

I found a new-built housing estate.

I looked to the woods where I used to wander.

Fences and barbed wire now blocked the way,

And the foot-path was well diverted,

Away from where we used to go play.

I determined not to give in so easy,

And across the valley I attempted to gaze,

But I couldn’t see nothing out there,

Due to all the pollution and haze.

But finally I spied a pretty fair maid,

A-wandering alone on the moor,

And bounding right up to her,

I said I’d walk her back to her door.

“Nay, lad” the maid said unto me.

“It’s not going home that I’m wanting to go.

I’m running away, and I’m starving.

But you can buy me a MacDonalds, though.”

 I said I hoped we could lie down in the meadow,

For it was a great day to go courtin’.

She told me to get lost and scram,

And with me she wouldn’t be sportin’.

She said she was allergic to rape-seed,

And other farm pesticides:

It was sprayed all over the place,

And I looked such a mess, besides.

We couldn’t walk no farther that way,

We’d have to take different directions.

The fields were all fenced off now,

Due to Health & Safety restrictions.

In the end I gave up on my conquest,

For the day had turned out to be crap

It may be the early bird catches the worm

But the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap!

This folk-song lark’s not all it’s cracked up to be;

My nerves are all knotted & frayed.

Whatever the merits of Olde England,

There must be easier ways to get laid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Anything Croquettes

Recipe for: (ANY KIND OF) CROQUETTES

Ingredients:

• 350ml milk
• 50g butter
• 50g plain flour
• 1 small onion, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, peeled & chopped or crushed
• 2 tblsp olive oil
• 250g leftovers e.g. chicken, turkey, other meat and/ or veggies, chopped small
• 1-2 tblsp fresh herbs, finely chopped
• Nutmeg
• Salt & freshly-ground black pepper
• 1 egg, beaten
• 75g white breadcrumbs
• Sunflower oil for frying

 Method:

1. first make a béchamel (white) sauce by melting the butter in a saucepan, then adding the flour to make a roux
2. stir constantly for 1-2 minutes to cook out the flour, then add the milk, still stirring & bring to a simmer (but do not boil).  The sauce should be thick by now.  Turn off the heat & set aside
3. in another pan heat the olive oil and sweat the onions & garlic until soft
4. add whatever leftovers you are using & stir to incorporate evenly
5. take off the heat and add the mixture to the white sauce
6. add the herbs, some grated nutmeg & seasoning, then mix everything together well
7. put the bowl in the fridge to chill for at least an hour, longer if possible
8. when cold, use your hands to roll the mixture into balls, patties or sausage shapes
9. dip each into the beaten egg, then into breadcrumbs until well coated
10. pour enough oil into a deep saucepan to come 10cm up the side and heat to 180C, or hot enough to turn a cube of bread brown in 40-50 seconds
11. deep-fry the croquettes, in batches, until golden on all sides – about 4-5 minutes

What else you need to know:

1. you can adapt this recipe to use up just about anything left-over, although probably not too good with Christmas pudding

Reflections On The Iron Lady - Rust In Peace

In the seventies, when Thatcher was in full flow, I was just trying to make my way in the world, having just left University. I got married in 1980, so the first ten years of that, including my first three children, came during Thatcher's reign.  I remember it vividly as a very difficult time, of divisive political decisions, union confrontation, the decline of British industry and the Falklands War.

I thought Thatcher was pretty bad.  I accept it was a time when some difficult decisions had to be made, but I think the style of government, the means of implementation were all wrong.  Personally, I think she was dominating and patronising in the way she ran things, and the way she treated people.  Consensus was a dirty word to her, and she simply did not try hard enough to take people with her.

I'm sorry that she contracted dementia. It meant that she was able (unwillingly I'm sure) to forget a lot of what had made her so divisive in this country, and to be largely unaware of what her legacy would mean to politics & to the social fabric of Britain.  To many people it seems "cruel" when a loved one contracts dementia, because they lose themselves & their identity, and they forget the people & things they knew. To me it seems equally cruel that Thatcher has managed to largely escape the consequences of her own actions, and to end her years in a lavish retirement, with her acolytes gathered around her.

It's hard to forgive and to forget what she did, and difficult to stomach who her friends were (both nationally & internationally).

Therefore I do not mourn her passing, but I'm not going to celebrate her death either.  I won't watch her funeral on TV, and I strongly resent the fact that this has turned into a state occasion, involving an A-list guest list, the armed forces, and a tax-payer-funded £10m cost. She's an old lady who's died, and she deserves a quiet funeral with family and friends, but no more than that.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

This One's in G

This One’s in G

I wanted to write something down,

            A wonderful melody or song.

An air that you could all join in with

            Or, if you feel like it, play along.

However, I have to admit that there is a problem,

            One that is quite easy to see:

You can’t join in with this ditty,

            Unless I tell you the key.

So to give you the knowledge you’ll need,

            I’ll tell you what it’s going to be.

It may not be obvious to you at once,

            But this poem is clearly in “G”.

Great is the struggle I’ve had for some time:

            I don’t play guitar or the banjo.

I can’t play anything you’d know:

            No instrument or drum – sadly, no.

Chords are of the greatest mystery to me,

            To say nothing of strings or of frets.

Not being able to make what passes for music

            Is one of my greatest regrets.

When I look around and see all the skill in the world,

            Well it makes me feel rather sad.

So many great players & singers,

            And I sit here not playing – that’s bad.

I’ve tried hard to learn in the past,

            But I’m afraid I didn’t gain any wings.

I could see my teacher’s face wincing,

            As I gradually mangled the strings.

Recorders and drums and a violin

            Have all been subject to my hand,

But as I couldn’t hold any tune together

            There was no chance of joining a band.

The guitar is an instrument for good tunes

            Until I got hold of one, one day.

The resulting noise, despite the practise,

            Kept my friends far away.

Even the drum, you’d think would be easy to do,

            But not for a musical fool like me.

I couldn’t keep time, not to save my life,

            So I was a failure – that’s so easy to see.

So sit there and think yourselves lucky!

            And try and take some pity on me.

I know that it’s spoken, not sung

            Just trust me – this one’s in “G”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Safari, So Good

Safari, So Good – a poem un-inspired by a visit to Longleat in the rain

It might be a strange thing to want to do,

But I had a craving to go to the park,

Not to that flat thing at the end of the road,

But to see the creatures saved from the Ark.

I wanted to see animals all exotic,

From Asia and Africa and such.

(I know that I’m living in Wiltshire,

But surely, it’s not asking too much?)

So we drove off down to Longleat,

And followed the signs right up the path,

Where they’ve got all sorts of creatures,

Including the latest Marquess of Bath.

Now I know it probably costs a few bob,

To build a few enclosures and cages,

But I didn’t think it’d cost me so much:

To get in was at least a week’s wages!

And we should have picked better weather,

Cause the day was all cloudy and wet,

And I think it were on a cold Monday,

The most miserable day you could get.

The animals were getting over their week-end,

Sunday must have been better, I’ve no doubt,

So they were all sleeping it off,

And none of them wanted to come out.

We couldn’t choose, to go on a Jungle Cruise,

For the boats were all moored up that day.

We had a short phase, lost in the Monkey Maze,

But even the meerkats slept – what can I say?

We repaired to the Capybara Café,

But they didn’t have anything we’d want,

Nor did we stay, in the Hippo Hideaway,

And ended up in the Rhino Restaurant.

My Safari Burger had made me feel bad,

So I had no wish to go on the Funfair,

What I needed were the great open spaces,

The Africa Drive-Thru and get some fresh air.

This’ll be good, we thought as we drove,

We’ll see the wide open Savannah at least,

With buffaloes, giraffes and some zebra,

And great herds of wildebeest.

  

Alas the experience was somewhat different,

Past warning notices and thence,

Two sets of gates and piles of barbed wire,

Warders in Jeeps, and a security fence.

Security cameras watched our every move

To ensure that we weren’t in any danger,

You weren’t allowed out of the car,

And we were watched every few yards by a ranger.

It was a bit like being in Parkhurst,

Not that I’ve been there, you know,

Except there was nothing for the captives to do,

Not even some mail-bags to sew.

The lions were bored and sat under the trees,

Like listless teen-agers kicking their heels;

Eyeing all the tasty-looking people in cars:

To them we must’ve looked like Meals on Wheels.

Then out of the final enclosure,

The short line of cars and vans waggled,

A quick trip to the Tiger Toilets,

And then homeward, weary and bedraggled.

So if you’re looking for a wildlife experience,

Whilst you’re dreaming, or lying in bed,

Take a word of advice from someone who knows,

Save up, and go to Africa instead.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 14th April 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 14^th April 2013

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

·         

     1. Tensions continue to mount in Bromham as North Seend continues to make threatening diplomatic and military moves on its borders with South Seend.  Citizens have been warned to leave the area as North Seend continues to insist that it cannot guarantee their safety in the event of an escalation in hostilities.  The situation has been exacerbated by Trowbridge sending one its County Councillors into the area for talks with both sides.  Holiday bookings for the Bromham Nuclear Bunker have been suspended for the duration.

·         2. Traffic in the High Street will come to a halt on Wednesday at noon, in tribute to the memory of Margaret “Snatcher” Piglet, who died last week.  The funeral is being held with no military honours whatsoever, and at no public expense, at the nearby crematorium (no flowers please, friends and family only).  Piglet was a former hard-right leader of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP), known as The Iron Battleaxe, and her political legacy has sharply divided opinion in the snug bar of The Wounded Ferret, where the landlord is offering free pints of his special celebration brew, “Rust In Peace”.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Tattoos Can Be Very Off-putting...

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

I saw her again the other day

But for the first time in sunshine

Smiling, bright and happy

Laughing with the other guests

At a dreary garden party

And I admired her whitened skin

Clear and pearlescent

Smooth, unblemished

Her long elegant arms

And perfect figure

Exquisitely displayed

In her low-cut summer dress

And as she turned away

To talk to someone else

Revealing her perfect back

I could see the sharpest lines

Of a long extended tongue

Curling from out the mouth

Of the dragon hidden there

Emerging from beneath

The taut and silken edge

Of the light material

Where it entwined

And inter-mingled

With the crouching tiger

Peeking out from just below

And I thought of the fullness

Of these snarling beasts

Which invaded the empty canvas of her skin

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

As If The Badgers Weren't Enough.....

Mole

Early wandering around in the garden

Feeling the wetness of dew

From the lawn’s long grass

Soaking through the toes of my shoes

I stumble across something

That’s upsetting my leisurely stroll

The tell-tale signs of spoil-heaps

The unmistakeable evidence

Of the presence of mole

The mounds are scattered around

Creating an irregular landscape

Of small mountains of soil

Piles of earth above ground

Tunnelled out from down below

Such vandalism is not from any vole

But the burrowings and diggings

Of something a size larger

That can only suggest mole

I can see the track of his wanderings

The lines that betray channels below

As he blindly pursues his lone destiny

And I wonder if he ever pokes his head up

To see where he’s got to today?

The underneath’s now riddled with holes

And it’s a scene of rural destruction

Where the worms have scattered in panic

In their heedless flight from the mole

And I’ll whack the piles with a spade

Trying to flatten them down once again

In a quite futile gesture of anger

That will do little good in the end

For my little invader won’t be deterred

And I know it deep in my soul

That once he’s taken up residence

He’ll stick around for some time

And I’ll be sharing the lawn with a mole

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Chicken Dhansak

Recipe for: CURRY – CHICKEN DHANSAK

Ingredients:

• For the paste:
• 6 large cloves of garlic, peeled
• 10g fresh ginger, peeled
• 2 tsp cumin seeds
• 1 tblsp coriander seeds
• 2.5cm cinnamon stick
• ¼ tsp fenugreek
• ½ tsp black mustard seeds
• ¼ tsp black peppercorns
• 1 tsp fennel seeds
• ½ tsp red chilli powder
• 6 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 medium onin, very finely sliced
• Salt, to taste
• 2 medium-large tomatoes, pureed
• 800g chicken, skinned & jointed
• 200g red lentils, rinsed & soaked in water whilst you cook
• 1 tsp tamarind paste
• 1 tsp garam masala
• 1 tsp sugar
• Handful fresh coriander, chopped

 Method:

1. using a blender, make a paste of the paste ingredients with a splash of water
2. heat the oil in a heavy pan and fry the onion until well browned – about 8 minutes
3. add the paste & salt, cooking till the moisture has gone, then for another 2 minutes, stirring constantly
4. add tomatoes & a good splash of water.  Cover & cook for 10 minutes over a medium heat, until the oil starts to separate from the mixture
5. add the chicken & toss to coat & brown
6. drain the lentils from their soaking water, add to the pan, then add 800ml fresh water
7. bring to the boil, then simmer for 5 minutes
8. cover & cook until chicken & lentils are tender, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking
9. add tamarind paste, garam masala & sugar
10. check the seasoning, then bind the sauce by crushing some of the lentils in the pan with the back of a large spoon
11. sprinkle with coriander & server

 What else you need to know:

1. the sauce should be thick & creamy, mostly composed of lentils

It's The Start Of The Cricket Season!

Early Season Cricket

Oh! To be in England now that April’s here,

Dust off the bats, clean up the wicket:

Time to get back to our great Summer game -

Forget about football – it’s time for some cricket!

It’s the start of another great season,

Which we always do at this time in April,

But the Sun’s not shining high in the sky,

And out in the County, the air remains chill.

As tens of fans huddle in the grand-stands,

And light braziers to keep themselves warm,

The players don extra layers of clothing,

Which is considered terribly bad form.

They’re all dressed in layers of thick jumpers,

With thermals and long-johns beneath,

And you can’t hear the whack of the bat on the ball,

For the sound of their chattering teeth.

The pads and the gloves aren’t helping much,

And the fielders gather together in huddles,

You can’t hit the ball straight through the covers,

Cos it just gets stuck there in the puddles.

There’s icicles hanging on the sight-screen,

The grounds-man’s not even managed to mow,

But there wouldn’t really be much of a point,

As the outfield’s still covered in snow.

The ground’s all lumpy out there in the middle,

There’s big worm-holes quite close to the stumps,

And the ball is bouncing all over the shop,

As it sticks in the mud, or skids off the bumps.

The new batsman can’t stop shivering,

His County cap’s all covered in mould,

He can’t be at peace, standing there at the crease,

When he’s shaking and trembling with cold.

There’s no incentive to make a big score,

Stuck in the middle, out there in the field.

It’s more perishing than brass monkeys,

Stand still too long, and your blood has congealed.

Everyone’s running around like a mad-man,

It’s just the same with the fast bowler.

They’re all doing their best to keep warm,

But it’s hard when the weather is polar.

  

The wind is howling, it’s likely to rain,

At the moment it’s always bad light,

And the only thing you’re likely to catch

Is a bad case of terminal frost-bite!

They’re turning vermillion in the pavilion,

Despite wearing a great-coat and scarf,

And the very idea of having a cold beer -

It’s freezing – are you having a laugh?

The boundary-line looks like a ditch,

The green sward is like a paddock of mud,

The line of the pitch plays like a bitch,

Playing today surely can’t do any good?

Whatever happened to Summer’s warmth?

Now large hailstones is about all you can see,

And you can’t wait to be back in the Club-house,

With a cup of hot Bovril for tea.

So if this ain’t the right time for cricket,

Then I’d like to ask the question – when is?

Never mind – soon time for strawberries & cream:

It’s never like this for the tennis!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Morning

Morning

Running along the darkened hallway

Towards the far-end open door

Where the light floods in

And suddenly there is sound again

Rushing, scraping, scratching

An end to thoughts and dreams

To schemes of reddened skies

To floating boulders slowly turning

To sweeping clouds of yellow

And the bellowing roar

Of a lone walrus upon a deserted shoreline

To the flutter of dry and dusty leaves

Driven, wind-blown, swirling

And the clatter of hooves

Of blue-skinned ponies trotting

Through a cold and empty square

The space echoing back the sound

And the voids of blackened eye-holes

Of grotesque, trembling skulls

And which, after an endless time

Slowly dissolve and desiccate

Into the crystals of the waking world

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Fifty Today

No, not me,  but my other half.  She appears to be in denial about this - can't think why.

Fifty

Just when you thought things could get no worse,

When everything at last looked kind of nifty,

Comes some bad news riding over the hill -

You turn round, and suddenly you’re fifty.

So you must wave good-bye to forty-nine,

This ongoing fiction aside must be laid:

It’s time to face up to the starkest truth -

You’re about to embark on your sixth decade!

Or half a century, if you prefer,

And that doesn’t include any inflation,

That’s two score years and ten passed by already:

At least half of your life’s expectation.

Soon it’ll be Sanatogen and Cocoa,

Looking for housing benefits and grants,

Slippers, hot-water bottles and blankets,

Stair-lifts, walking-sticks and incontinence pants.

Not long after that till your bus-pass,

A fact I hardly like to mention,

Although I’m afraid it’ll take much longer,

Til you finally pick up your pension.

It’s a sad truth, but you’re no longer a youth,

I can see you’re a bit down in the mouth,

And you’ll spend days, caught up in a haze,

Trying to stop everything that’s heading South.

No point at this stage, getting into a rage,

I’d have thought that the message is clear:

Whatever else happens in life from now on,

Remember – it’s all downhill from here!

But try not to curse, for things could be worse,

And I really don’t want to sound shifty,

Just realise that, for more than one of us,

It’s been a while since we last saw fifty!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 7th April 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 7^th April 2013

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

·       1.  There were massed protests, involving up to four people, in Bromham High Street this week as the impact of the Parish Council’s swingeing farm benefits cuts began to bite.  Families receiving less than three bunches of carrots per week, and who have a spare shelf in their vegetable rack, will lose up to 25% in the amount of credit they are allowed at the village shop.  Meanwhile, farmers who have a whole barn-full of vegetables in storage, will find themselves better off over the year as a whole.  The Clerk of the Parish Council defended the changes saying “we want to end the culture of vegetable-dependency in Bromham”.

·         2. Bromham Casuals have surprised football-lovers everywhere, and especially those in the Wiltshire Germolene League, by replacing their long-serving, but largely unsuccessful, manager Benny Dogleash, with a right-wing self-confessed fascist named Paula Dick-Annio.   Defending the Club Board’s decision, a statement was issued to the press, stating that the football performance on the field was far more important than the manager’s gender.  “We wanted to shake things up a little in the dressing-room, and the introduction of a woman will probably achieve that”.  Star striker Dwayne Mooney was unavailable for comment last night.

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

        Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Cough

Cough

There’s something that I need to get off my chest

I’m feeling queasy

And terribly wheezy

I reckon I’m scoring about a seven

On the International Cough Index of Looseness

There’s no question

I’ve got bronchial congestion

And so I want to make a contribution

To the UK Phlegm and Mucus Depository

This menthol mixture

This special syrup

Has made me expectorant of a cure

And it’s the thing that Linctus together

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The Lengths I Go To...

Lengths

It occurs to me from time to time,

As my head emerges from the water

Lungs hurting and gasping

Grasping at the air

Breathless from the effort

Between tired strokes

Sometimes near choking

In the wave-wash

The careless backlash of others

As they speed through the swell

In elegant freestyle

Like spectacled dolphins,

That there must be a better way

That there are easier means

Than this daily immersion,

In stinging chlorine spray

To drag along an ungainly body

Through the crash and splash

Beyond the pain barrier

Of an aching, heaving chest

And exhausted arms and legs

Which soon lose co-ordination

And their sense of rhythm

Between the lines of lanes

And ability to continue

On the straight and narrow

And that perhaps it’s all pointless

Swimming end to end

The relentless back and forth

Of many measured lengths

To ignore the overwhelming urge

To simply stop and float awhile

Then sink slowly to the bottom

To inspect the detail

And the regular pattern

Of white and blue tiles

Whilst the other bathers carry on

And the lifeguard looks on in horror

At the body of a drowning man

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013