Chocolate

Chocolate

Sticky, soft, and warming, thoughts of pleasure,

Licky, smooth, brown, velvet melting treasure

Best enjoyed alone, in secret time of leisure.

Fudge, flake, finger - chocolate, by any measure.

Bar, block, biscuit, dark, milk or white,

Pure, solid, hard, shiny, jewel-bright,

Fruity, nutty, whole, each a welcome bite.

Coffee, cake or cocoa, tempter in the night.

Forbidden, stolen moments, finding favour,

Calling, like a lover, hidden joys to savour.

Aztec offering, to gilded gods high-placed:

Rarest regal substance, ritual priestly paste,

Unrefined and bitter, but not to modern taste.

Oozy, boozy liqueurs: never thinking twice,

Craving for the hit, beyond the purchase price.

Cholesterol-loaded, against all health advice,

Guilty, tempting treat, naughty but so nice.

Truffles in the box, let there be no lack.

Serotonin rush, anti-oxidant crack,

Helping neural pathways, bring good feeling back,

Seduction of the mind, daily aphrodisiac.

Anticipation of pleasure to come,

Fingers linger to catch the final crumb,

Licking every drop, senses drowsy, dumb,

Organic oral orgasm, sated, finally numb.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Dave

Dave

Collar turned up, usual style,

Clothes and hair that’s the latest,

In the best possible taste,

Fashion that’s all the rave,

That’s my modern mate Dave.

He looks a bit shifty, I guess,

A bit of a wide-boy, if I’m honest,

Thriving on ducking and diving,

But his company I always crave –

That’s my magic mate Dave.

Never sure just what he does,

Or how he makes any money,

Deceiving, bobbing and weaving.

Dismisses it all with a wave,

That’s my murky mate Dave.

He comes and he goes,

Seeing a man about a dog,

Dubious trades, not sure if they’re legal.

Fortune favours the brave:

That’s my moody mate Dave.

That’s the way he lives his life:

Trading, selling, bits of this and that,

Import, export, the usual stuff,

That’s how he’ll go to his grave -

My mysterious mate Dave.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Caravan

Caravan

Just off a track by the cross-roads,

Down the old lane, near the ash-trees,

On an autumn day dark and damp,

At the back of the verge, in the long grass,

A faded caravan parked up in its camp.

A horse tied up nearby, cropping the turf,

In its small circle of freedom,

Rangy, mangy and thin,

With its thick, matted coat,

Collection of bones and of skin.

At the door of the vehicle,

Insolently staring, unsmiling.

Stands a pinched, dirty-faced child.

Watches as we walk past her home,

With the look of a creature run wild.

Thin, tattered clothes on the wash-line,

A twist of smoke from the chimney,

At the back, one broken wheel,

Roof that’s seen better days,

And paint-work starting to peel.

No pretty picture postcard,

This scene of rough rural life,

No romantic tale to be told,

But a cramped, hard life on the road,

A struggle against damp and the cold.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 28th July 2013

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

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

1.       The girl at the chip-shop has had her baby, so the village can finally relax, in the knowledge that ownership of the fish emporium will be guaranteed for another generation.  The baby was a boy, so it will not even be required to change the name over the door, and you can’t say batter than that!  Following this “woman has baby shock” bombshell, life in the village can finally return to normal, and the Bromham Bugle can get back to filling its pages with other news.

2.       Bromham’s First XI won a cricket match this week.  Apparently this was very important, and represents a significant re-flourishing of our native game.  Regulars in The Wounded Ferret celebrated by opening a packet of pork scratchings.

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 Long Coffee

A Long Coffee

Hands clasped round her coffee mug,

She sits, but rarely drinking,

Staring into middle distance,

Detached, distracted, thinking.

In front of her the sugar sachets:

Three of white, and three of brown,

Placed in defensive formation,

Mirror of her worried frown.

Each drink maybe lasts an hour,

While she loiters and she lingers,

Waiting for the hours just to pass her by,

Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.

Alerted by the door, she glances up,

Checking the face of every stranger,

Then sinking back into her reveries,

Relieved she’s not in any danger.

She has precious little money,

Neither cakes or biscuits she can choose.

She’s read the newspapers through and through,

Waded through the gossip-column news.

It’s just something else to pass the time,

It’s the same thing every boring day,

And, with a tacit understanding,

The manager now just lets her stay.

He doesn’t want to get involved,

And, although she’s never said so,

He can see how she’s likely fixed,

That she has nowhere else to go.

She’s anonymous, a total no-one,

A cipher, a shadow, never making sound,

Avoiding any lasting eye-contact,

Blending with the faceless back-ground.

Making patterns on the table,

The same routine, killing off the dead time,

Reflecting on her empty life,

As if being friendless were a sort of crime.

She stares out through the window,

Watching the world as it wanders past.

Then buys yet another coffee,

To see how long she can make it last.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Bread - Yoghurt, Chive & Oat Bloomer

Recipe for: BREAD – Chive, Yoghurt & Oat Bloomer

Ingredients:

·         350ml warm water

·         1 tsp fast action yeast

·         1 large bunch chives, finely chopped (or use spring onions, or onion)

·         200ml yoghurt

·         400g strong white bread flour

·         100g strong wholemeal flour

·         2tsp salt

·         Handful oats

·         Oil for kneading

Method:

1.       Pour water into a large bowl

2.       Add yeast & chives & mix well

3.       Stir in yoghurt

4.       Add salt & both flours, mixing well

5.       Pull together into a single sticky ball

6.       Leave in the bowl, cover with a clean cloth & leave to stand for 10 minutes

7.       Lightly oil worktop & knead the dough gently for 10 seconds

8.       Return to bowl, cover & leave for a further 10 minutes

9.       Knead again for 10 seconds, return to bowl, cover & leave for 90 minutes, until risen by at least half

10.    Prepare two dinner plates: on one put two sheets of kitchen paper, wet with water.  On the other spread out a handful of oats

11.    Line a large oven tray with baking parchment

12.    Get the ball of dough & roll it on the wet plate to moisten the surface, then roll around in the oats until they stick all over, then place into the baking tray

13.    Cover with dry cloth & allow to rise again for about an hour

14.    Heat the oven to 220C/ fan 200C

15.    Using a serrated knife slash the top of the loaf diagonally five or six times

16.    Bake in the hot oven for 40 minutes until golden

What else you need to know:

1.       This looks complicated, but it isn’t!

2.       The loaf will be thin and flat & will develop a very firm crust

3.       It has a lovely sourdough type taste to it – delicious!

4.       Great with soft cheeses

Everything Changes

 Everything Changes - you just can't count on any of the old certainties these days

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold:

It’s all entropy, we’re told,

But you get to depend on the way things are,

And certainties that never fold.

But now everything’s changing:

It’s enough to make you feel faint.

They’ve finished the Forth Road Bridge:

They used up their last pot of paint.

And as they lock the brushes all away,

Packing in a big shed all of their kit,

I’d love to look up at the great structure,

And say: “here – you’ve missed a bit!”

They’re telling us GMT will be no more -

Greenwich is going to the dogs.

They’re running now on atomic clocks,

In Paris! – it’s a plot by the Frogs!

They say there’s a new particle:

They’ve seen a bump in the data.

It might be the missing Higgs-Bosun:

I hope they find it sooner, not later.

They call it the “God Particle” -

They’re sure that it’s there -

It’s been missing for quite a while now,

They’re looking down the back of a chair.

The Universe is expanding faster,

Faster than ever they thought.

It’s getting ever so big you know,

And the edges are still being sought.

Then they said that it’s full of dark matter –

That’s stuff that nobody can see.

So how they know that it’s there,

Well, it’s way beyond me!

Now they’ve come up with a new theory,

Which has got them all ensnared.

It’s buggering up all of the physics -

E might no longer equal MC squared.

Neutrinos are travelling faster than light,

For which there’s no reason or rhyme,

And if that’s true, which I very much doubt,

It just makes a right horlicks of time.

But it could explain some phenomena,

Like Doctor Who and Star Wars and Stargate,

Why things happen in the wrong order,

And why the buses always run late.

No, the old certainties have gone,

But there’s things you can always depend on -

Like bills and debts, and like death and taxes,

And toast always falling butter-side down.

Then there’s new promises that seem to be true:

Politicians will always keep lying,

And peeling very strong onions,

Will always leave you sobbing and crying.

The banks and corporates will make big profits,

And of tax loopholes make the very most,

But when they owe you any money,

You can be sure – “the cheque’s in the post”!

They’ll fiddle the interest rates if they can,

They’ll lie, they’ll cheat and they’ll steal,

Then they’ll lie to cover their crimes,

And live on bonuses of a level surreal.

Men will always chase women and girls,

Who never seem to heed the old warning.

For the worst of their promises will be:

“Of course I’ll still love you in the morning”.

So, you see, despite all this frightening stuff,

The Universe – we can’t do without it -

It’ll all carry on just as before,

And there’s buggar all we can do about it!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

An Idiot Abroad

An Idiot Abroad (or the dilemmas of trying to choose a holiday)

I could be gay, with a good holiday,

If there was any point choosing,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

No, not even for boozing.

I’d be keener to be in Kenya,

It’d be neat to go to Crete

No, I just can’t compete.

I could do loads, over in Rhodes,

Or be well fed, while in the Med,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So I’ll stop home instead.

It’d be bliss, on the canals of Venice,

Or have a nice piece, walking in Nice,

I can’t even afford Greece.

I’d get fresh in Marrakesh,

The streets I’d comb, when in Rome,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

I think I’d better stay home.

I wouldn’t be at a loss, if I went off to Kos,

It’d be a great day in Montego Bay,

But I guess in Wiltshire I’ll stay.

I could take her to Jamaica,

She’d be glad in Trinidad,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So she’ll only be sad.

I wouldn’t fear her in Madeira,

I’d talk to her in Majorca,

But we can’t even get to Minorca.

She said I was a wanker in Sri Lanka,

Why couldn’t we loll, on the Costa del Sol?

Cos it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

(She’s not always a doll).

I could be ruder in Bermuda,

Or be a dago in Tobago,

But I just can’t afford to go.

It might be finer in China,

I long to be in Hong Kong,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So it’s here I belong.

It wouldn’t be hell in The Seychelles,

My heart reaches for their beaches,

It’s what economics teaches.

I hear it’s grotty in Lanzarote,

I’d be a goer over in Goa,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

Morale just couldn’t be lower.

I wouldn’t be a charley in Bali,

But I’d be free in gay Paree,

And it’s the World I want to see.

 Just a breather in Ibiza,

Or we could booze on a long cruise,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

There’s just nothing to choose.

So no more of package tours,

My best friend just wouldn’t lend

So it looks like a week in Southend.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Blackcurrant Cordial

Recipe for: BLACKCURRANT CORDIAL

Ingredients:

·         Fresh blackcurrants, rinsed & picked over (but you can leave the stalks)

·         Sugar (see method below)

·         Zest and juice of one unwaxed lemon

Method:

1.       Put the blackcurrants in a pan with enough water to cover

2.       Bring to the boil until the berries split, and remove from heat

3.       Squash the berries in the pan using a potato masher

4.       Tip the mashed berries into a muslin-lined jam/ jelly bag over a bowl, and allow the juice to strain through.  Do not force the juice through – just let it drip of its own accord – or the result will be cloudy.

5.       Leave for several hours, or overnight.

6.       Discard the solids left in the jelly bag.

7.       Measure the clear liquid you have collected.  For each pint of liquid, you need 1lb sugar.

8.       Put the juice & sugar into clean pan, and heat until the sugar dissolves.

9.       Whilst it is heating add the zest and juice of the lemon.

10.    Strain the liquid through muslin again, into a clean container. It should be thick, syrupy and intensely flavoured.

11.    Cool and bottle.  Keep in the fridge.

12.    To serve – dilute with water, soda, lemonade

What else you need to know:

1.       A little goes a long way

2.       Also nice over ice-cream or in porridge

Tandoori Nights

Tandoori Nights (or why I love Indian food)

As the sun sank down in the West,

I sank pints down the pub without worry,

And I found that I’d developed a craving:

What I needed next was a bloody hot curry.

You see KFC just wouldn’t cut it:

The chicken tasted like some old flab.

Fish and chips were no good at the time,

And I couldn’t go near a doner kebab.

There’s other things I could have had if I’d wanted:

Chinese – but you have to be in the right mood,

You’re usually hungry again an hour later,

And to be honest  it’s not my favourite food.

An Indian it had to be for me then,

It was no time to act like a shrinking lily,

Something to clear my sinuses out,

A meal with a kick of some chillie!

Poppadoms I started with, and some pickles,

Bhajias, pakoras and some tikka –

So hot that it made my throat go numb,

You can tell I’m an Indian thrill-seeker.

I’d no idea what next I should choose

Picking one was something of a great drama.

Dhansak, Madras or a hot Vindaloo -

Patia, Jalfreezie, or Chillie Masala?

Chicken, vegetable or lamb for main course?

A tough question I had to decide.

Cooked in which tasty, spicy sauce?

Cos I always like a bit on the side.

There was bhindi, gobi and aloo –

Vegetable koftas, dhal and some rice.

I had to have all of these dishes:

I didn’t care so long as there was plenty of spice.

I hadn’t even started yet on the breads:

Naans, rotis and chapattis all soft,

I mopped up the delicious sauces.

And four pints of lager I quaffed.

And when it was all ordered and eaten,

When I couldn’t eat one other thing,

When my stomach was finally beaten,

And my mouth continued to sting.

I’d finished my lager and was getting the bill,

I knew that I’d be back again in a hurry.

I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be cured,

Of this addiction I’ve got for a curry.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 21st July 2013

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

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

1.       News is still eagerly awaited on the birth of new baby expected by the daughter of the bloke that owns the chip-shop in the High Street.  A reporter from the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) has been camped outside the shop for four days now, whilst awaiting for the news, sustained only by the occasional battered Saveloy.  The girl’s grandmother, a Mrs Queenie Piglet, has been heard to say that she wishes she’d get on with it, as “one is going on holiday soon”.  One was not available for comment.

2.       The brother of the man whose cousin’s best friend’s sister knows the bloke who knocked off the helmet of Bromham’s only patrolling police-man last week, has expressed his dismay at the treatment of the accused whilst held in prison. Being previously of good health, the man has now lost three front teeth, has two broken ribs, a broken arm, a ruptured spleen, two black eyes, bruising all over his body, and is unable to walk unaided.  A spokesman for the Prison Officer’s Union, speaking outside Bromham Maximum Security Prison, said that the man had obviously “stumbled slightly” and may have been injured as prison officers rushed to his aid.

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

Redcurrant Jelly

Recipe for: REDCURRANT JELLY

Ingredients:

• 900g redcurrants, rinsed (but you can leave the stalks on)
• 450g granulated sugar

Method:

1. place the currants in a preserving pan & add 150ml water
2. bring to the boil, then simmer for 5 to 10 minutes until very tender, crushing them as they cook
3. tip the whole lot into a jelly bag or clean muslin & allow to drip overnight.  Do not squeeze the bag or the jelly will be cloudy
4. next day, discard the solids in the jelly bag & measure the juice
5. in a clean pan, for every 600ml juice, add 450g sugar
6. heat gently, stirring to dissolve the sugar, then raise the heat & boil rapidly for about 15 minutes or until the setting point has been reached 
7. skim off any surface scum, and pot into dry warm sterilised small jars
8. cool, seal & label

What else you need to know:

1. exactly the same recipe can be used for BLACKCURRANTS.  Either jelly will be clear & have an intense flavour
2. great served with pork, chicken, turkey or lamb roasts
3. also good with pate or cheese, or spread on toast for breakfast

The Shopping Forecast

The Shopping Forecast 

And now for the Shopping Forecast,

Issued by the Met Office today.

They want to clear out their sales goods,

And they think this is a good way.

There are warnings of Sales in these areas:

The bargains are quite striking.

And to help with this new ploy,

The manager’s dressed up like a Viking.

Chippenham High Street and town centre -

Depressing & occasionally poor.

Increasing number of pound shops,

And charity outlets at every door.

Woolworths has long gone now,

And many shops have gone silent.

After dark it gets much worse -

Dangerous, occasionally violent.

Somerfield and The Co-op – moderate,

Though there’s not much in the aisles.

Tesco, Asda and Sainsbury

Are out of town – five miles.

But small shops on the High Street,

And others of such propensity,

Then there’s Bejam and Safeway,

Finally losing their identity.

Lidl & Netto – very depressing,

But a bargain or two in the process.

Backing up at the checkouts:

Expected to get better – I guess.

Piles of goods – poor visibility.

Bright coloured trolleys – veering.

Unclear why they don’t fix them,

And try to improve on the steering.

Although there are local variations,

Getting around there is erratic.

It takes a Force 8 to push them,

Then you get to the checkout - automatic

The general position in Devizes:

Moderate or good – price marking.

Bear, Pelican and Black Swan:

Market Place – good parking.

Corsham – fast foods & some bargains,

Kebab shops – always increasing.

Markets on Tuesday – improving.

Discounts - never ceasing.

  

Marlborough – posh shops & Waitrose;

Prosperous and very well-heeled.

Punters with more money than sense,

Though some were born in a field.

M4 motorway – veering west:

Bath & Bristol – always enticing.

Wallet - slowly emptying.

At Iceland – moderate icing.

Cribbs Causeway – intimidating.

To get in there’s a big deal.

Debenhams, and House of Fraser -

Credit card – beginning to squeal.

So here is the general Synopsis:

If you run out funds you must borrow.

Depressingly the same I’m afraid,

But improving – better tomorrow.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The Bottom-Pincher of Old Corsham Town

The Bottom-Pincher of Old Corsham Town (the latest in a line starting with Milligan/ Goons’ Dreaded Batter Pudding-Hurler of Bexhill-on-Sea, and Milligan/ Two Ronnies’ The Raspberry-Blower of Old London Town)

There’s a town in West Wiltshire,

That stands out proud on the A4.

Let me tell you a tale of old Corsham,

That you’ve not heard of before.

For in this quiet, peaceful corner,

With its old High Street & its shopping,

Things most nefarious were afoot,

Which would have your jaw dropping.

This old weaving town had its characters,

Its girls on the corner and punks,

The bag-ladies, and kebab-sellers,

And the usual winos & drunks.

The car parks and the toilets,

The back-streets and the alleys,

But surrounded by great country,

With rolling hills & some valleys.

T’was a peaceful town it’s reported:

In the Gazette there was an article,

About the town’s small Hadron collider

And the search for the Chippenham particle.

But then this peace was suddenly broken:

The ladies there broke into a sweat,

For out on the streets one day,

Emerged a terrible new threat.

An elusive figure, a pimpernel,

His crime was a clincher:

Creeping up behind ladies:

The phantom bottom-pincher.

At first they were all in an outrage,

For he didn’t seem really to choose

The attractive younger ladies:

It was the older ones he tended to goose.

But soon they felt themselves flattered:

I just have this to mention,

It may have been a bad thing to do,

But really they liked the attention.

For shopping in Corsham was boring,

Thrills could be quite hard to find,

Even if the criminal was unknown

At least someone’d touched their behinds.

So no-one ever reported the crime,

The police were powerless to act,

But the ladies’ husbands became annoyed

And vowed vengeance - that’s a fact.

The provisional wing of the Salvation Army

Were brought in to scout,

But they never spotted the crime,

They never caught the chap out.

The bum-pincher became a popular figure,

Of his habit he took fully his fill,

There was no-one to get cross with,

For the victims shared in the thrill

So you’ll find if you go into Corsham,

It’s a town of wonderful places,

But now you know the deep secret

Of so many smiling faces.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

My God, But It's Hot!

My God But It’s Hot

The flags on the flagpoles hang limp

The air’s as dry as sandpaper

The Earth’s turning back into dust

And as the mercury climbs

All my energy’s shot

I’m sweating a lot

My God, but it’s hot!

The lawn has turned brown and yellow

And patches have died quite away

The veggies are wilted and small

The Test Match goes on uninterrupted

The heatwave goes on and on

Pleasant it’s not

In fact it’s quite grot

My God, but it’s hot!

Everyone’s stripping off & perspiring

We’re getting through gallons of sunscreen

But still our skin’s burning

The Sun’s a bright disc in the sky

Almost like a red dot

I’m sure it’s a dark plot

My God, but it’s hot!

The temperature is just “Scorchio”

In French it’s “tres chaud”

In German “sehr heiss”

It could be in Fahrenheit

It might be in Centrigade

The thermometer’s shot

I don’t know what’s what

My God, but it’s hot!

The forecast holds no relief

And reservoirs are wasting away

There’ll soon be an end to sprinklers

And a ban on the use of hosepipes

Then the ground will turn to powder

And whatever we’ve got

Even fresh  food will rot

My God, but it’s hot!

The fans toil away regardless

But there’s no cooling relief

Yet this is only a Summer

It’s the thing that we wanted

The Winter will be back soon enough

I care not a jot

For that is our lot

My God, but it’s hot!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The Good (Allotment) Life

The Good (Allotment) Life

I’ll tell you all a cautionary tale,

If you’ll just give me some pardon,

Of how I dug out an allotment,

Down at the end of my garden.

The patch was all covered in weeds,

And at first I started to panic,

But you can’t let things stand in your way,

If you’re set on a life more organic.

So I rotavated and weeded and dug,

And laid the jungle all to a waste.

All this in pursuit of some veggies,

And produce superior of taste.

The effort I put in was enormous,

What with much raking & tilling.

Every day I was quite knackered,

But I found it strangely fulfilling.

And when I’d got it laid out quite flat,

There was still the marking & hoeing.

There seemed so much I’d still got to do,

And I hadn’t even started the sowing.

Then it all had to be fertilised:

Compost, manure, whatever you call it -

But the man on the farm where I went,

Just said I should call it horse-shit.

I carried it and tipped it onto the patch;

I dug it all in and then sat.

Only to discover I’d created a toilet,

Mostly for the use of our cat.

So I raked it all over once more,

And then had to do some light weeding.

Then, at last, after weeks of effort,

I finally got to the seeding.

Beetroot, pumpkins and potatoes:

I went at it quite maddish.

Courgettes & beans all in a row,

And in the corner – some radish.

I planted out carrots, potatoes & peas,

Some caulis, cabbage and kale,

And I looked out on it so proudly -

How could it possibly fail?

I soon found out there were problems:

For as soon as I’d worked off my nadgers,

The beautiful crops that were growing,

Had just become fast food for the badgers.

The crops were under attack night & day,

Although I was clean in my habits.

For as soon as the lettuces came up,

It was feeding time for the rabbits.

Pigeons, mice and slugs all attacked me:

I tried to drive out their tails,

But they all seemed to get past me,

To say nothing of squash-eating snails.

I ranted & raved in frustration,

And scared them away with my shouts.

Well – you have to do something,

If you’re going to hang on to your sprouts.

Bad weather then came down upon me,

As I struggled with every means.

It’s a lot of effort to go to,

Just so I can freshly eat beans.

But now I’ve got my freezer full,

After working and busting my gut,

For after the initial famine,

I find I’m now facing a glut.

So I’d just like to say in my summary,

It’s very well trying to live The Good Life.

But there must be easier ways to get by,

Than feeding all of the local wild-life.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013