Forbidden

Forbidden

Life’s full of many hidden dangers

Against which there are warnings and rules,

Regulations, barriers and notices,

Talking down to us like we’re just fools.

The prohibited list is endless,

Leaving us feeling stupid and flat.

So many things are forbidden:

Don’t do this, and don’t do that.

On the roads, there are codes,

Like speed limits we can agree,

But so many minor infringements

Seem counter-productive to me.

There’s fines, if you disobey guidelines:

No Entry, No Parking, No Turning,

There’s too much to keep up with,

Easy to get wrong, but we’re learning.

It’s a pain, on buses and trains,

Though it’s fitting, they only allow sitting,

And again, I’m very supportive,

Of there being No Swearing, or Spitting.

It’d be choking, if they allowed smoking,

Some people’s behaviour’s not good,

But we’ve got to draw the line somewhere,

Common sense needs be understood.

You don’t need a sentry, to deny people entry,

Security posts make jobsworths lonely,

They don’t need to shout, to keep people out,

Just “Authorised Personnel Only”.

We’ve all tried, to get past “Access Denied”,

Cycling Prohibited, Beware Of The Dog

Non-transferable, Not Suitable For Children,

No Cameras, No Entry, Slow Down For The Fog.

Use some gumption, on “Not Fit For Human Consumption”,

Prescription drugs you shouldn’t abuse,

For you’ve got to be careful with medicines,

Especially those marked “Only For External Use”.

Do Not Drive or Operate Machinery,

Don’t get too close, or put up your nose,

Things that you shouldn’t

And Never Exceed The Maximum Dose.

Let not the State, try to over-regulate.

So, let’s have no if’s and no but’s -

We can work it out for ourselves

When it’s case of “May Contain Nuts”.

Here’s an Unexpected Item In The Bagging Area -

And here is the moral delivered to you:

Haven’t we got our own sense?

Is there anything we can be trusted to do?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Skin

Skin

This covering, this wrapper I’m within,

This infection barrier,

Protector, keeper of my guts,

Which holds my everything inside,

Stopping me from spilling out upon the floor

And from pouring myself away,

Is under attack,

Both night and day

Infected, itchy, red, rough,

Sore, dry, cracked and broken skin,

A delicate tracery of lines,

A network of flaking layers,

Pieces to be picked and peeled,

Revealing bare tissue below,

Bleeding into crevices,

Creases, valleys and folds

Between fingers and toes,

Dry hair, crumbling nails

Leaving shrinking islands

Of a barely-working epidermis

Oily ointments, greasy creams

And emollient treatments

Penetrate the dermic strata

With cellular, capillary action

Until they quite are absorbed within

Gently rubbing, scratching, stroking,

Smoothing, soothing,

Bathing, seeking brief respite

From this never-ending torment

And the tiny blisters bursting, erupting,

Spreading further poison

Throughout my failing system

Condemned to live within this atopic cell,

Torture-chamber of a thousand tiny cuts,

Prisoner of a painful pathology,

Chronic, never-ending condition

Making forever unthinkable

Any contact with another human body

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Pears Poached in (Marsala) Wine

Recipe for: PEARS POACHED IN RED/ MARSALA WINE

Ingredients:

• 4-6 firm pears
• 750ml robust red wine (or sweet marsala)
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 3 cloves
• Pinch nutmeg
• 1 pared orange zest
• 2 tblsp redcurrant jelly (or 2oz/ 50g caster sugar if using marsala)
• 200g brown sugar
• 1 vanilla pod (if using marsala wine)

 Method:

1. preheat oven to 150C/ fan 130C
2. in a flameproof casserole(preferably one of the right size to take the pears standing upright – but see below), put all the ingredients except the pears & bring to a simmer
3. meanwhile peel the pears carefully, leaving the stalks intact
4. add the peeled pears to the poaching liquid
5. cover, then put into the oven for 1½ - 2 hours, depending on size & ripeness
6. when cooked, remove the pears with a slotted spoon to a warmed serving dish
7. put the casserole with the cooking liquor back onto the hotplate & reduce the liquid until it reaches a syrupy consistency
8. strain the liquid over the pears to make them look glossy

 What else you need to know:

1. serve hot from the oven, or after chilling in the fridge
2. serve with cream, crème fraiche or yoghurt
3. you can keep the pears whole, or as halves, depending on the effect you want to achieve

Shack

Shack

Charred remains, burnt stick’d tinder from which

the shack was fashioned, hidden

within the hollow, below beech trees, deep

inside the wood, where his body was found

still cradled within his den.

His place now open to the sky, gaping, where the roof once was,

a door, a corrugated iron sheet, tattered tarpaulin, old palings

rope-shackled, and wire that formed his rural refuge.

His suburban semi only miles away, his wife

and children waiting, unable

to understand what eccentric whim

drove him to live this way, abandon

comfort and company, to bury himself

in muddy abode, freezing

in the depth of winter, half-starving

alone in the back-woods.

Alcohol and cigarettes to numb

the pain, and pass the time,

a camping stove, a naked flame to cook

and warm the fingers, to keep at bay

damp and mould, the essential tools

of staying alive, catching alight, spreading

flames or fumes, smoke or steam becoming

the agency of his unseen death.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Remaindered

Remaindered

No longer upright like soldiers,

Neatly shelved, spines straight-stacked,

Alphabetical order, fiction authors A to Z,

But tumbled, piled at random,

Stickered, scattered, reduced, remaindered,

Bargain bin, basement bucket,

Rough treatment at many hands,

Edges knocked, jackets torn,

Dirty, dusty, fingered and forgotten,

Marked and marked down,

With no dignity or ceremony at the end of life.

More space is needed

To make way for the new stuff,

The spirit of today, what’s happening now,

Celebrity authors and TV tie-ins,

Titles that sell, units that shift,

The next thing, the new wave,

Modern, fashionable, exciting,

Where it’s at, de nos jours,

Moving with the times,

The zing of the zeitgeist,

The ring of the till.

No room for the out-of-print,

Except out of the way,

Out of sight, out of mind,

Deleted from the catalogue,

The stock-code and the index,

A lingering demise,

And a delayed disposal,

Awaiting final solution,

Dumped, shredded, pulped,

The bulk commodity of paper.

A never-borrowed nor ever-bought,

Unread volume,

No reviews, no royalties, no renown,

He handles a copy, thumbing pages,

Familiar with every word,

The effort it cost him,

Regretful, bitter,

Flees from the bookshop, the door left flapping.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Mouse

Mouse

Alerted by the noise,

the unmistakeable sound of victory,

Growling, howling, crying, mewling,

his voices mixed together.

Whether pleased with himself

or ashamed of what he’s done,

The hunter stands defiant

astride the tiny bloody body.

Chased away, scolded, shouted at,

he makes a quick escape,

leaving his trophy

To renew his hunt out in the field,

driven by his nature,

a feral instinct to track and pounce

upon creatures smaller than himself,

Some warmer, living food.

Meanwhile, prey discarded,

Its eyes glittering in terror,

Its body still warm,

snout and tail intact,

mangled limb, gory gash exposed,

life-force seemingly expired,

Lies inert beneath the table.

Only left alone for seconds

while collecting kitchen paper,

rubber gloves, dust-pan, disinfectant,

paraphernalia of removal and disposal

of a corpse unwanted

Intended for a bin, not a burial.

But the deathplace now deserted,

the body gone,

disappeared elsewhere,

smears of blood and body fluids,

shining, wet, fresh,

Crawled away in agony and fear,

to hide and tremble

in place unknown

to look out, spying upon the world,

Watching and waiting,

for a slow and lingering demise.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 25th August 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 25^th August 2013

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

1.       The terrible civil war in Seend continues, with residents of Bromham looking nervously over the border.  Debates continue as to whether to arm the carrot-picking rebels, as they fight to oust the parsnip-wielding majority.  No-one is sure whether the ruling elite have yet crossed the line of baler twine in the South Field.  Debates were held in Bromham Parish Council, but they failed to produce any binding resolutions.

2.       Ted Willeybanned, Leader of the Carrot-Rooters Action Party (CRAP) has been encouraged to spell out his policies more clearly, and to “shout louder” in local politics.  Mr Willeybanned questioned the logic of doing this, but members of his party assured him that it was the only way to get served on a Friday night in the back bar of The Wounded Ferret.

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

Beast

Beast

A carcase lies splayed,

Deer dismembered,

Limbs at every angle,

Throat ripped out, entrails spilled,

Ribs exposed, gnawed and bloody,

Its mouth a rictus

Grimace of violent death.

No stoat, no stealthy weasel,

No passing fox, nor badger

Could cause such carnage,

Nor hunt, stalk,

Then haul to earth

Such heavy prey,

Nor rip and tear the flesh,

Leaving here such grisly remnants.

Nothing nearby found

No hair, no skin, no tracks,

Neither teeth-marks, nor DNA,

No photos, prints or evidence,

But then the dogs, nervous, set to barking

As if there’s something out there.

And rough men with guns

Shake their heads

And pull meaningful faces,

As if to say, knowingly,

That a killer stalks these woods and fields,

A creature unseen, sly and stealthy,

Sleuth-like, sloping, sliding,

Slipping through trees,

A reported shape, a shadow

Large, long and lean,

A cunning, catlike killer,

Fierce, feline, feral hunter,

Black, background-blending,

Glimpsed within the greenery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Tree

Tree

A deep, vicious scar, inflecting upwards to the left

Revealing creaminess beneath the brown,

The scabrous bark broken in many places,

Scratches and marks amongst dark cladding,

And a trail of evidence leading backwards

Through severed wire, now fallen, rusting,

A shattered fence, scattered firewood,

And harsh, thick grooves in the greasy mud,

The grass churned, turned aside,

Straight black tracks, a slick of rubber on the road,

Evidence of speed and skid,

That can be measured and documented,

Needed for the accident report

And the inquests on these boys.

Sharp, hard metal once embedded,

That had cut and sliced and scythed its path

To leave disfigurement,

And lasting defacement.

Now a natural grave-marker,

An arboreal cenotaph,

Supporting fading floral tributes

In shining, glinting cellophane

Marking out the death-spot,

A shrine for grieving relatives,

And a rubbernecker’s magnet

Early hours, New Year’s morning,

A shape shifting at the edge of the wood,

A flash of feral eyes reflected in main-beams,

Suddenly frightened, fleeing,

Running out across their path

In the pitch-black night.

Then the swerving, screaming, screeching,

Smashing, crashing, careering,

And a hard and heavy, bloody impact.

And the creature dashes away

Through thick undergrowth,

Escaping into open fields

And looks back, its own heart still beating.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Fatberg

Fatberg

We got the emergency call at night,

And we headed out there at first light

He’d said “there seems to be a blockage I think –

We were alerted by the terrible stink”.

Our brave men soon climbed under the ground,

And were frankly amazed at what they soon found:

The sewage had swelled up into a great ball,

Went right up to the ceiling and wall-to-wall.

It was the biggest obstruction we’d seen,

And to tackle it, nobody was keen.

It looked like the worst project from hell,

And that doesn’t even cover the smell.

We named it the fatberg – just for a joke -

But it weren’t funny when we started to poke,

To discover of what it was made,

And tried to dislodge it with a sharp spade.

It consisted of fat and congealed grease,

Then wetwipes and nappies were the next piece.

Sanitary towels was one of the thirds,

And the rest was an assortment of turds.

You see, people go to the loo in a rush,

And give not a care to whatever they flush.

It’s a general waste disposal can:

They tend to forget once it’s gone down the pan.

But I digress, for disposal was now the task.

How did we shift it? I’m hearing you ask.

Well, lend an ear and don’t be too gobby,

And I’ll tell you how we shifted that jobbie.

The thing was enormous that was for sure:

We had to get on top to effect a cure.

A man had to ascend, using crampons,

And ropes to clamber over the tampons.

We pulled and tugged it from the crown,

And even considered melting it down.

We used hammers and drills of all types,

And attacked it with axes and hosepipes.

The thing wouldn’t yield, resisted the assault.

We tried everything, but it wasn’t our fault,

And we realised the thing was stuck tight,

So then we resorted to dynamite.

  

It was only meant to be a small blast,

But once we’d started, the die it was cast.

We weren’t sure how far off we should walk,

But it was like a bottle blowing its cork.

You see the sewer’s narrow like a funnel,

So all of the debris shot down the tunnel.

We were in the way – that’s the truth of it;

Not surprising that we got covered in shit.

We were well messy, if you get my drift,

But at least it was in blocks we could shift.

As a workforce we looked sad and sorry,

But we loaded it all up on a lorry.

So next time you think you might go for a piss,

Listen closely and reflect upon this:

It’s a nice moral I think that you’ll find:

Out of sight ain’t the same as out of mind.

  

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A Modern Order of Service

A Modern Service

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together to bless the opening of this New Credit Service, that lending may be made available to The Poor at Affordable Rates of Interest.

We come to join together this Man and this Woman, and this Pay-Day Lending Company into a Contract, which union is an honourable state, instituted by Wonga itself, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt the rapacious and The Marketplace.  It is also commended by the Holy Writ of the Law to be honourable among all men, and is therefore not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly; but reverently, discreetly, soberly, and in the fear of Wonga, duly considering the causes for which Usury was first ordained.

Oh Lord, open all our Credit Lines!

And also our Multiples of Borrowing Power!

PRAYER

Let us pray –

Our Wonga, which art in Usury

Hallowed be thy Brand Name

Thy Credit come

Thy Contract be done

Online, as it is by Post

Give us this day our daily money

And forgive our defaults

As we forgive them that default against us

And lead us not into gambling

But deliver us from Scratchcards

Amen

READING

Our reading today is taken from the Gospel of St Mark Carney.

And it came to pass that a Man went up the High Street, where he found many shops selling kebabs and other take-aways.  And, lo, there were charity shops, and estate agents and a pestilence of empty units.  And among them he found many money-lenders - the banks and the building societies and the pawn-shops.  And he waxed wroth, for he found that none of them would lend unto him even one single bean.  For in his past he had been a sinner, and he did have an poor Credit Rating.  And they saith unto him “get ye lost, and do not darken unto our doors again”.  And they did cast him out onto the street.  And thereat he did tear at his clothes in his anger and frustration, and then he did wipe himself down and return to his home, wherof he had first come out. And thereafter, did he log online, and it was revealed unto him, through the mysteries of cyberspace, that there was yet An Other Way.  And that Other Way was Wonga.  And Wonga.com did offer unto him untold riches, albeit at interest rates that were an Hundredfold, nay an Thousandfold, more than he could ever have afforded.  But he saw it not, and was sore amazed, and saith unto himself “Who is this Wonga?  Surely no-one could have dreamed up such a wheeze?  And Wonga must therefore be my Salvation.”

And this is the word of the Lord King.

Thus into this Unholy Contract, we now come to be joined.  Therefore if any person here present can show any just cause why this Contract should not be signed, let them now speak, or else hereafter hold their Piece of Security.

In that case – let us pay.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Beef In Rusty Lane

My mate has started up his own brewery. One of the beers he produces is a lovely "red" ales called Rusty Lane, which is copper in colour, and has a nice rounded maltiness to its taste. It's ideal for cooking beef slowly in the oven, giving the sauce a very slight sweetness. You can, obviously, substitute another ale.

Recipe for: BEEF IN K & A’s RUSTY LANE RED ALE

Ingredients:

• 1 – 1½ kg shin of beef, in large pieces (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 red ale (Kennet & Avon’s Rusty Lane is perfect for this)
• 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 meat pieces  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 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 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

Greenwash-Day Blues

Greenwash-Day Blues (or why you shouldn't believe Corporate ecology messages.  Does fracking sound familiar?)

“Beyond Petroleum” it’s called

That’s the latest moniker for BP,

I can’t understand it personally,

It just sounds like garbage to me.

It’s slick advertising you know

Where they’re adding a new sheen

They’re covering up the reality

And making loud claims that they’re green.

They spend more on their marketing

Than they do on their “green” actions

Their practices haven’t changed all that much

The difference is measured in fractions.

They’re spouting new words & new slogans

But to me it all sounds just like tosh

They’re not really eco-friendly

It’s just a new veneer of greenwash.

For the oil companies are ripping the earth

Working in every geography

This kind of coy covering up

Can only be called eco-pornography.

The factories poison the earth,

The airlines are polluting the sky.

It’s hard to live without oil or travel

But we’re going to have to try.

For the planet is coughing & choking

The natural world sits in pollution

We’ve got to find some much better ways

And look for sustainable solutions.

We all know that there’s a problem

And it’s bad enough being the cause

Without pretending to be helping

Whilst carrying on without any pause.

So let’s have some integrity and truth

In all of the verbal exchanges

Let’s not have more of this hogwash

But spend the budget on real changes.

And let’s stop this carbon-offset nonsense

We all know that it’s playing a game

It makes no tangible difference

And leaves the air choking just the same.

We can’t stop the cows & sheep farting

It’s just what they do all of the day

We need to find a better approach

We need to find an easier way.

It’s no good all of us doing our bit

With re-cycling our rubbish & waste

If big companies carry on just the same

Well – it sure leaves a bad taste.

The governments & the countries

Need to find a way to agree

It’s down to all of the big boys

Not just little you and me.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 18th August 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 18^th August 2013

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

1.       After an almost three-month gap, football returned to the Parish yesterday. Bromham Casuals, under long-serving manager Benny Dogleash, kicked off their new season in the Premiership Germolene  League (West Wiltshire, Northern Section), hoping yet again to gain the promotion that their tens of die-hard fans have long yearned for.  Things did not go to plan, however.  After irascible striker Dwayne Mooney was yet again shown the red card for foul and abusive language, the Owls slumped to a 6-1 home defeat to Whistley Wanderers.  Another hard, long season beckons.

2.       A high-profile right-of-centre Thinktank, based in the state capital of Trowbridge, has produced a coruscating report which throws doubt upon the viability of the proposed new High-Speed Tractor Path (HSTP2).  The controversial route, which would cut a swathe through parts of Minty’s Top, and the fields to the North of the village, has drawn large amounts of criticism. If built, the route would shave almost one minute off the journey time to the edge of the North fields.

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

Waiting Room

Waiting Room 

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead lying slack,

Just one look at you, it’s no wonder

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees,

And they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

And you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And, on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

This visit is one way – it can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me and the children,

You’ve always been faithful and loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture -

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm and steady.

You don’t need to be pushed into this,

We can do it when I’m finally ready.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013