Independence For Wilsher!

Independence For Wilsher

Seems the country’s fast falling apart,

And the United Kingdom’s set to rot,

With independence for the Cornishman,

For the Irishman, the Welshman and Scot.

So what about the claims for Wilsher?

The county of white horses and downs,

The shining jewel of South-West England,

The chalk hills and the market towns?

Our claims for EU recognition,

Would be composed of many factors:

We’re much more interesting than Gloucester,

And we’ve got an awful lot more tractors.

So here is my Wilsher manifesto,

To protect all we have in great bounty.

Let’s have belonging, our own identity,

A plea to be a Sovereign County.

We have our own history and landscape,

Our mythology and literature.

We’re a persecuted minority,

But the people are odd – that’s for sure.

Look at Marlborough and Avebury,

Malmesbury Abbey’s beautiful font.

Then there’s Trowbridge and Melksham,

Places that nobody else would want.

But what about Bradford and Salisbury Plain?

Lacock, Castle Combe and Devizes?

And lots of lovely little villages,

Whose names on-one ever recognises?

We’ve got the Great Western Railway,

Legacy of Isambard Kingdom Brunel,

And that corridor, of the bloody M4,

Also known as the Highway to Hell.

There’s our Wilsher Ham and our bacon,

The cheese and the bread, and cider-makers,

And there’s great myths and some weird legends,

Silbury Hill, and the tale of the Moonrakers.

Our patron saint could be - St Michael,

Our flower the burnt orchid, neatly cut,

Our bird must be - the Great Bustard!

And the Vly Be On The Turmut.

  

Our special sport could be - goat-nadgering,

And on our peculiar accents I’m banking,

To award a new protective status

To the practice of gander-flanking.

From Fosse Way, Ridgeway and Kennet & Avon,

Our great county will have its revenge,

And the roar of the lions at Longleat

Will be heard beyond the site at Stonehenge.

So let’s assert our independence -

Recognition for Wilsher’s the goal!

We should put barricades on the borders,

Impose some form of passport control.

And fair enough to old Cornwall -

What they’ve achieved is all very fine,

But I’m afraid that I’ve got to now -

I’m walking right round the Wilsher coastline!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Beige

Beige

As I get to be another year older,

I think I’m starting to change.

My taste has gone right out of the window

In a way that seems spooky and strange.

It all began with magnolia,

Other paint colours just seemed to gawp.

I could no longer stand any bright shades,

And I developed a fondness for taupe.

I believe that it’s a rite of passage,

One you reach at a certain age.

Everything else appears far too jazzy,

And you get your first craving for beige.

It used to be brown, the colour of ear-wax,

But the appeal of that tint’s started to fade.

What I was really looking for, I realised,

Was something matching my hearing-aid.

It’s the same thing with clothing -

Attractive material now makes me retch.

I find I’m shopping for easy-care fabrics,

And trousers with waistbands that stretch.

No-iron, sta-prest and things that are cosy,

And easy-clean, so long as it’s not green.

Slacks, wind-cheaters and cardigans,

In nice polyester, or in Crimpelene.

I’m becoming an old person, I think,

I’m obviously reaching that stage,

Where I don’t care any more what things look like,

But where it’s important to be beige.

I want a jacket with leather elbow patches,

And trousers with vents and with slants,

Anything that will hide the volume,

And the shape of my incontinence pants.

I’m not looking for sex, but my reading specs,

With bright colours I’m near sated,

And it’s no longer the style, but the comfort,

Which is why everything I wear’s elasticated.

I’d rather be dead, than wear anything red:

In fact that would drive me to rage,

And I wouldn’t feel mellow, dressed up in yellow,

No – the only thing that’ll do now is beige.

   

I’d put up a fight, never to wear white,

The loss of the rainbow I’m not going to rue.

I’m just same about purple or black,

And don’t even mention royal blue!

No – it’s time to accept that time has moved on,

My taste has declined, and I’ve turned over a page,

So you can keep all shades and variations –

There’s only one colour for me now – and it’s beige.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it was just a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as I spread the marmalade upon my toast

And heard him explain some more about it

I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table began to fade away

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

Then the room came sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 27th April 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 27^th April 2014

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

1.       In a rare, indeed unique, service at St Knickerless church today, not one, but two, past vicars of the church will be awarded The Freedom Of Bromham by not one, but two, current vicars, in recognition of their roles in sweeping various child-sex scandals under the ecclesiastical carpet, thus saving the Church millions of pounds in potential compensation payments.  Both past vicars will adopt the formal title of “Jolly Good Egg”.  The service is expected to be attended by tens of people.

2.       And in a shock move this week, Bromham’s High Street Bank ignored the pleadings of the Parish Council, and awarded its employees a vast 0.5% pay rise, coupled with a 0.5% bonus, stating that it was vital in today’s cut-throat financial environment to retain key talent.  Jock Scroggins, counter clerk at the bank, and reputedly one of the “key talent” said that he would likely blow his unexpected windfall in an extra pint at The Wounded Ferret next Friday 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 2014

Lamb Shrewsbury

Recipe for: LAMB SHREWSBURY

Ingredients:

• 4 lamb cutlets or rumps (inc bones if possible)
• 1 tblsp oil or dripping
• 2 tblsp redcurrant jelly
• 1 tblsp Worcestershire sauce
• 1 lemon juiced
• 120g open-cap mushrooms, thinly sliced
• 1 tblsp flour
• Salt & pepper
• Grated nutmeg
• 250ml good meat stock

Method:

1. heat the oven to 150C/ fan 130C/ 300F/ gas 2
2. season the meat and, using a roomy flame-proof casserole, brown it in the oil or dripping until well-coloured and the fat on the meat has been rendered
3. in another pan, over a very faint heat, melt the redcurrant jelly, Worcester sauce and lemon juice
4. lift out the meat & set aside, tipping away the fat except for about 1 tblsp
5. add the mushrooms to this, cooking till golden, then add the flour
6. stir until the flour has cooked out – 1 to 2 minutes
7. add the melted jelly mixture & the stock, stirring to obtain a thickened gravy-ish consistency
8. return the meat to the pot, & bring back to a gentle simmer, grating over the nutmeg
9. cover & cook very slowly for 1½ hours, checking occasionally
10. once cooked, lift out the meat & carefully slice into two or three pieces
11. place on a hot serving plate
12. skim any excess fat from the top of the mushroom gravy (using sheets of kitchen paper or a turkey-baster), check the seasoning & spoon over the meat

Inappropriate

Inappropriate

How can it come about?

How can it happen yet again?

These allegations and accusations

Made recently against you?

For are you not supposed to be a shepherd

Set in Holy Roman authority

Over the sheep within your flock?

Are you not supposed to lead them

On the paths of righteousness

Rather than into temptation

Created by the weaknesses

Of your personal failings?

Are you not a consecrated priest?

Entrusted with the sacraments

And the care of willing souls?

A reverend cardinal indeed?

Not fiddling with the altar-boys

Or inappropriate touching

But a role-model for all believers?

A ministry of care for others

Lived in unnatural celibacy

In a position of respect

Where others dare not challenge you?

And is it not bad enough

That you ask of others

What you cannot do yourself?

That you should abuse such trust

By your dubious behaviour

Without you making victims into liars?

And compound your unclean crimes

By pretending that you are pure

And hiding behind your church

Which conceals your crimes

And helps to cover up the scandal?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Casino

Casino

You can tell they’re coming in, the guide confides

By their happy, smiling faces!

They still have all their money!

We stop and watch the coaches

Filled with many Chinese men

The punters and the gamblers

Bussed in to the casinos

Brought here free of charge

To come and lose their cash

And later in the day

We wander cautiously inside

Out of prurient curiosity

Across the sticky carpets

And through the gaming rooms

To see them huddled round

The dealers and the croupiers

At the carefully spot-lit tables

Unsmiling now, grim-faced

Eyes glazed in worry

Brows folded in concentration

Wagering on the roll of the dice

The turn of a single card

Or the number on the spinning wheel

In games of blackjack, poker and roulette

And though they know the odds

Are stacked against them

They see the pile of chips before them

Their stakes slowly shrinking

And still they chase their daily dream

Trying out their latest System

For the one big win that will beat The House

And save them from their losses

And in the glitzy entrance lobby

We gaze in wonder at the floor

Where bars of solid gold

Are set in glassy blocks below our feet

A tantalising glimpse of the riches

That lie beyond the grasp

Of long- addicted losers

And then we see them on the bus again

Their faces hard and set

Being taken back to where they came

Now watch them leaving, says the guide

Not so happy now!  He laughs

Their money’s gone, gambled away

With all their hopes, poor suckers!

As they leave to find more money

To come and lose it once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014 

Underdog

Underdog

Everyone said they had no chance

That they would surely lose

Against a better team

Of superior skill and guile

And of greater strength

That their outlook could not be hopeful

That they would surely be defeated

Outclassed, overwhelmed

And all their efforts overcome

And be badly beaten

Just for their impertinence

Of even daring to take the field

And the bookies gave the poorest odds

Saying their challenge could not be rated

But every underdog may have his day

And turn the situation round

By finding those hidden reserves

That no-one knew they had

Springing the sudden surprise

And cause an unpredicted upset

Snatching worthy victory

From out the very jaws

Of expected defeat

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

White Onion Soup

Recipe for: WHITE ONION SOUP

Ingredients:

• 50g butter
• 900g white onions, peeled & very finely sliced
• Fresh thyme – 2 sprigs
• 100ml dry white wine
• 600ml chicken stock
• 100ml double cream

Method:

1. melt the butter over a gentle heat, then add the onions, thyme & a pinch of salt
2. cover the pan & sweat the onions for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onions are very soft, but not coloured
3. add the wine and turn the heat up a little.  Bubble for 5 minutes, then add the stock & simmer gently for 20 minutes
4. blitz the soup with a stick blender, then check the seasoning
5. stir in the cream & gently re-heat without boiling

What else you need to know:

1. the soup should be very velvety and have a good depth of flavour

The Sett

The Sett

Hidden by the corner of the path

On the rising ground

Where the mound runs into the bank

Are the newest excavations

The latest extensions to the scheme

The diggings being carried on at night-time

A nocturnal construction project

Creating a modern morning earth-work

Revealed by heaps of spoil

The crumbled soil deposited neatly

Outside the D-shaped hole

Which leads darkly down

By under-ground pathways

Into a dark, black home

A subterranean complex

Of tunnels and hidden chambers

Beneath the grassy surface

That provides protection from the cold

And a nesting-space for gravid mothers

Where, in future days

The curious heads of cubs

May appear blinking to the light

A small study in black and white

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 20th April 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 20^th April 2014

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

1.       Easter-time spreads its usual deadly pall of misery over the village.  As is normal this time of year, no parking spaces available in the High Street to allow normal citizens to visit the shop to pick up a pint of milk and the Sunday newspaper, owing to the traffic jam caused by the twice-a-year brigade visiting St Knickerless (Christmas and Easter double bonanza).  This is a bunch of people who don’t know where the church is for fifty weeks of the year, but who have been savagely reminded by an episode of The Archers on Radio 4 that they really ought to get down there – to see and be seen. They should re-name the church St Hypocritas.

2.       And of course, there’s no escape.  Because a minority of citizens of the UK continue to believe, contrary to all the evidence, that some bloke 2000 years ago came back from the dead, it makes it impossible (as well as, apparently, immoral) to run a bloody bus service to allow the sensible, rational, majority of citizens to get out of the village.  It’s like Christianity gone mad, innit??

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Ringers

The Ringers

Tramping one by one

Along the church-yard path

Which bends and turns

Between the weathered headstones

Of long-neglected graves

Testament to forgotten souls

That trod this path before

Around the nave and chancel

To the almost-hidden staircase

Harbouring narrow steps

Which twist and wind, well-trodden

Spiralling upward into the tower

To the musty ringing room

Concealed behind the clock

Where hang ropes and sallies

Through the wooden ceiling

And now the heavy bells

Are rung slowly down

The tenor and the treble

Prepared for ringing

That practice may begin

Of rounds and methods

Changes and hunting

The Bob and Grandsire Doubles

And the Quarter Peal

Aching arms

And brows of concentration

To get the timing right

Ready for every occasion

Of morning service every Sunday

Or joyful summer Saturday weddings

Or the simple sombre tolling

Of a single funeral bell

That may ring on any day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Shit-Shoveller's Lament

The Shit-Shoveller’s Lament

It’s all right being a gardener,

In fact it’s one of life’s pleasures,

But it takes a real lot of hard work -

You can’t afford to be a man of leisure.

Take today, just for an instance,

It turned all sort of spring-like, to be sure,

Which could mean only one thing –

It was time to go get the manure.

For a garden needs nutrients,

If it’s to grow veggies and be dynamic,

And you can’t be using chemicals,

If you want your produce to be organic.

So you’ve got to something natural

To dig in with your fork and your trowel,

Which means – and there’s no escaping this –

You need stuff that fell out of an animal’s bowel.

Now some swear by cow, and some by sheep:

It doesn’t really matter whichever you do,

But I have my personal preference,

And that happens to be horse-poo.

So I went on down to my local farm,

To inspect a steaming pile that I’d spotted,

And to dig out several hundredweight,

Of that dark-looking substance, well-rotted.

I took my fork and my shiny new spade,

And I slid that compost into many a sack.

I shovelled that shit for all I was worth,

Until it felt like I was breaking my back.

I weighed the car down, till it sat on its springs:

I couldn’t get more of it in if I’d tried,

But if I thought the stuff had an aroma of the field,

You can’t imagine how bad it stunk there inside!

That brown sticky stuff just gets everywhere:

On your gloves, and your hands, and your wellies,

On your legs, your hat and your jacket,

Till, finally, every single part of you’s smelly.

But there’s one thing I had to remember,

And I hope that it’s obvious to see:

Even though I’ve been shovelling shit,

At least I was getting all of it free.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Felafels

Recipe for: FALAFELS

Ingredients:

• 225g tin chick peas, drained
• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 onion finely chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 tblsps dark tahini
• ½ tsp ground cumin
• ½ tsp turmeric
• ½ tsp chillie flakes or powder
• 1 tblsp tomato puree
• 1 egg beaten
• 100g bread crumbs
• Sml bunch fresh herbs, finely chopped
• Pinch salt
• 1 tblsp cumin seeds
• 1 tblsp sunflower oil

Method:

1. sauté the onion in the oil for 2-3 minutes.  Add ground spices & cook for another 2 minutes
2. blend chickpeas in processor until fine.  Add garlic, tahini & cooked onion, and the rest of the ingredients, except for the cumin seeds & sunflower oil
3. once the mixture is soft, but not sticky, remove from machine &, using wet hands, mould into little balls or patties. 
4. EITHER place these onto a lined baking tray & sprinkle with cumin seeds & oil, then bake in oven 190C/ 180C fan for approx 20 minutes
5. OR shallow-fry in oil four about 4 minutes a side

What else you need to know:

1. best served hot, with warmed pitta bread, salads & dips

Hare

Hare

Tramping across the muddy field

Cropped corn-stalks crackle underfoot

Scrape and scratch the boots of many walkers

An advancing army of legs

And pounding tired feet

Which threaten a heavy trampling

Of the shallow cover where he lies hidden

Hoping still to evade detection

When, at the very last second

His nerve gives way to fear

And in a sudden scrambling and scrabbling

A scurry of noise and commotion

A blur of flashing, dashing action

And flurry of brown and grey and white

An exploding ball of energy

He darts away in unheeding panic

Springing, leaping, bounding from his hide

Escaping into the wide-open spaces

And the freedom of the field’s-length

At full speed, ears pinned back

And in seconds is a furlong far away

Where he can stop to pant

And rest his bursting lungs

And pounding tiny heart

Turning to regard us

From the safety

Of his distant vantage point

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

A Man No Longer Walking

A Man No Longer Walking

Always there, come rain or shine

Rambling in all weathers

Part of the weekly group

And known to all

Sometimes at the front

Foraging through the footpaths

Sometimes at the rear

Making heavy work

Of climbing over stiles

Or pulling up the final hill

But doing very well

For a man of advanced years

And a long list of medical problems

Appearing hale and hearty

Yet the oldest in the group

Ready to lead or to follow

Boots cleaned anew every time

Gnarled stick in hand

Water bottle in the rucksack

He has no need of maps

Having lived here all his life

And knowing all the pathways

Like the back of his veiny hand

Suddenly a change

And he’s no longer here

Missing at short notice

And a space develops

Between the conversations

Taken away at midnight

A man no longer walking

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

God Throws In The Towel

God Throws In The Towel

Come and listen to me, you sinners,

And I’ll tell you this for beginners -

Here’s a situation without any winners.

You lot never listen, so here’s a prod -

I’m getting fed-up of sitting here on me tod,

So I’ve decided to jack it all in as Lord God.

It’s a big vacancy that I’ll be freeing,

Cause it’s ever so tiring being all-seeing,

To say nothing of acting the Supreme Being.

I was a Creator once, at a previous stage,

But now I’m approaching an advanced age,

And it’s unrewarding, never receiving a wage.

For all eternity I’ve been celibate:

It’s been lonely up here with no mate,

Apart from that slip-up with Mary on our last date.

The Devil’s buggered off, now Ratzinger’s gone:

There’s no interest in what I get up to – none!

So just what’s the point of carrying on?

You might think it’s a doddle being divine,

But it’s boring, and not everything’s fine,

And that’s why I’ve decided to resign.

I’m leaving Heaven, I’m deserting that town,

So there’s no use wearing that frown:

From the end of next month I’m stepping down.

Creation all started off so well, I guess,

Then it all went badly downhill, I confess,

Now look at it all – what a bloody mess!

It’s all falling apart – the centre cannot hold:

It needs someone younger, a divinity more bold,

Or maybe I’m just getting too old?

I’m the Ancient Of Days, and I’m tired,

And, though I know I can never be fired,

I think a new guy should be interviewed and hired.

Anyway, I think it would be for the best,

Cos by now you’ve probably guessed,

Frankly – I’ve completely lost interest!

 So it’s all over, and enough is enough.

Finding a new Father might be quite rough,

But that’s your bloody problem now – tough!

I hate to be leaving you all in the lurch,

But I’m totally hacked off with the Church,

So for a successor you’ll need to get on with the search.

Just one piece of advice, I say with a great howl:

I know that I’m the one throwing in the towel,

But for My sake, please don’t get Simon Cowell!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 13th April 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 13^th April 2014

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

1.       Bromham Parish Council was thrown into turmoil this week as yet another member of that august body was forced to come to the Council Chamber and make a formal apology over an expenses issue.  Maria Piglet (Con) admitted that she had failed to pay the full amount of tax on her carrot store, and that she had over-claimed vegetable relief for parsnips.

2.       There are fears that Bromham’s schools are being infiltrated by underground Seend extremists.  Inspectors have been called in, and the recruitment of school governors has been suspended, whilst these claims are investigated.  It is thought that a deliberate campaign is under way to pack the Boards of Governors with Seend-dialect speakers, and to introduce “non-Bromham” ways by covert methods.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Pass Me The Doodah

Pass Me The Doodah

My other half’s got me under the thumb -

She told me the sink I had to go and un-gum

Even though I think DIY’s a total pain in the bum.

I tried using every one of the tools that I’d got,

And soon I was covered in debris and grot,

Not only that – I was in a very tight spot.

I was getting all bothered and hot,

My temper snapped, my patience was shot

“What I need,” I thought, “is a long whatnot”.

My brow with cold sweat became beaded,

And I’d no idea what it was that I needed,

But at last to my cries she finally heeded.

I was in the narrowest space I could fit,

But if I could just turn that doodah one little bit,

So I shouted to her,  “pass me the wotsit!”

“The thingummy, the oojah, the one with the knob,

That effort, the dingle-dongle,” I cried with a sob,

“You know, that big thingamabob!”

She passed me a gubbins that looked quite tricky,

And I said, “I don’t mean to be too picky,

But that’s not it at all, that’s not the doohickey!”

“The whatchamacallit, the one that’s quite big,

The wossit, the gizmo that looks like a pig,

Oh come on! Just gimme the thingamajig!”

“This widget’s no midget, it’s making me mad,

It’s gnarled, and it’s snarled, it’s really quite bad,

The only thing that’ll shift it is that doodad!”

Well, she got in a big huff, started passing me stuff,

But it were wrong for the job, it just weren’t enough,

And I started getting narky and all of a huff.

“If you’d just give me what I need, you great divvy,

I could stop behaving like a snivelling skivvy.

What this job needs is a deedum, or an oojah-capivvy!”

My fingers on the dingus was doing no good,

And the water were spurting, turning to mud:

My ineptitude had created a black flood.

An unknown tool, whatever handle I picks,

Just something from there in the mix,

Just a thingy, or a doozy, would get me out of this fix.

So if anyone knows the name that is right,

Pass on over here, as quick as you might,

Or else be stuck here for the rest of the night!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Transit of Venus

Transit of Venus

He waits and watches carefully

Afraid to gaze directly

At what he wishes most to see

For a time that passes in hours

But which lasts only moments

For the smallest crescent of black

To flood and resolve itself

Into the small complete spot

The dot of a whole distant planet

At the very edge of vision

Moving slowly left to right

Following a steady path

Traversing the fiercely-blazing

Massive background

Of the blinding solar orb

Pulsing light and energy

A hot star that burns persistent

At astronomic distance

From his naked eye

It is only for these few brief moments

Through a particular conjunction

Of elliptical trajectories

And particular circumstances

That she arrives where she does

At these exact co-ordinates

So that he might have the chance

To stare at her distant body

Across the cold expanse

Of dark empty sky

Although his act of observation

Means nothing to her

And is of no consequence

And as he bends towards the eyepiece

Of the solar-focused telescope

To follow the heavenly path

And marvel at the beauty

Of her namesake

His earth-bound Venus

Walks behind and slowly past him

Hidden in the darkness

Of sun-cast shadows

Making a transit of her own, unseen

Across the space that divides them

Her movement attracting no attention

And within seconds

The moment is over

And she is gone again

Her tiny body lost to sight

Pursuing an orbit of her own

Coopyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Vindaloo

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. 
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.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary

Between the clasped covers

Lie the clean, unsullied sheets of white

To be carefully written upon

In the quiet times at night

When she can sit alone, unwatched

To confide the shapeless thoughts

That float around inside her head

And translate them into the solidity of words

Until they crystallise upon the page

Yesterday there were brief anxieties

Worries to be picked over

Like the entrails of the day

And a breaking heart to be repaired

If such a thing were possible

And in deepest desperation

She trusted in the blank discretion

Of her silent companion

Never to reveal her inner pain

Nor the nagging ache of love and loss

Then today there are things that must be said

Confided to her intimate, her familiar

That she cannot tell another living soul

For the fear that secrets will escape

Whispered out into the world

And that others may untimely know

Of her guarded hopes and dreams

And tomorrow there will be anger

Resolution and determination

A brutally honest appraisal

Of her future prospects

Confessed in some enigmatic code

To her friend, her willing witness

The pen fierce upon the page

Pressed without restraint

Biting through the paper

The contents then quickly shuttered

And hidden under lock and key

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Wren

Wren

How is it possible

For such a tiny frame

To hold a beating heart

The quivering lungs

And all the body parts

Enough to survive

And endure the hard cold of winter?

And what is the source

Of the courage of this little creature

A pert and perky thing

That cannot weigh an ounce

And yet has wits enough

To defy the cruel odds

Of an enormous world?

And how quick must one be

To see the flash

Of bright and beady eyes

Aside a head so small

That twitches on alert?

Or the feathers and feet

That flit and flicker

In a sudden blur of movement

Before taking wing

To a safer place?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Fifty Sheds of Grey

Fifty Sheds Of Grey

A man has to have some hobbies in life,

Something  that’ll make him leap out of bed,

And, when he arrives at a certain age,

That something tends to be a grey shed.

It’s funny - they never appeal in anyone’s youth,

When things tend to happen all in a deluge,

But once you’ve been married a few years,

A shed can be a man’s haven, or refuge.

It doesn’t take much – a shed can be quite modest,

A roof, a window, and four wooden walls:

Just somewhere homely to escape to,

Whenever an unwelcome chore calls.

It’s a manly or masculine thing,

Just to get yourself behind a closed door,

To rummage around in the darkness,

And to spread your things out on the floor.

For in this exclusive, men-only club,

You need never ask anyone’s pardon,

Just to disappear down the primrose path,

To your shed, at the end of the garden.

Yes, a shed can be a man’s very own kingdom,

The realm where what he says is what goes:

A place to play with his bits and pieces,

And what he does inside – nobody knows.

And he can make the place quite homely,

Then spread out as much as he dare,

By getting a radio, perhaps, and some carpet,

And, if there’s room, a comfortable chair.

A bottle or two and a few glasses,

And an optic can easily form up a bar.

Then he can get all of his mates round,

And be the gardeners’ idea of a star.

You see it becomes more than a shelter -

It’s not just for keeping out of the rain -

It’s a sanctuary that’s out of the house,

A place that might keep a man sane.

So, don’t denigrate such constructions,

And pay heed to what I’ve just said,

For a man’s the king of his castle,

When he’s finally alone, in his own shed.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Le Tour De Yorkshire

Le Tour De Yorkshire (the first stages of the 2014 Tour de France are to be in God’s Own Country)

Welcome, you fine lads and lasses,

I’m sure you’ve heard the wonderful news,

Yorkshire’s to host Tour de France at t’kick-off,

For a better place’d be impossible to choose.

You see we’ve the most wonderful scenery,

Hills, dales and rivers, all in great bounty.

You’ll never find any finer spot,

As you know - this is God’s Own County.

But there’s long been an association,

Between Yorkshire and France that’s little known,

And several examples can be given,

To illustrate how this has all grown.

Leeds was where Emile Zola learned about whippets,

And Rimbaud found his taste for Fish and Chips.

Whilst they were always fans, of smoking Gitanes,

‘T’were a pint of Tetleys always came to their lips.

Bradford is the crème de la crème;

If a great night out you’re wanting to wangle;

That’s where Inspector Maigret came to terms,

With the mysteries of The Rhubarb Triangle.

And Castleford’s industrial landscape,

Should not bring to your mind any fatigue:

For it’s where Simone de Beauvoir,

Learned all she ever knew about Rugby League.

Any road, it’s on later this year yet,

So you’ve plenty of time to wet your lips,

And, just for you keen cycling types,
I’ve got the chance to give you some tips.

For this place is different from what you’d expect,

You’ll find that your team, needs a special regime,

Of training, of fitness and of diet,

If winning an early stage is part of your dream.

For a start, there’s plenty of hills,

The climbs are dotted with plenty of pubs -

Even Lance Armstrong’d need more than drugs,

To get to the top of The Buttertubs!

Then, as Le Tour, goes over The Moor,

A route that’ll make le peloton weep,

There’s nothing as far as the eye can see,

Only occasionally dotted with sheep.

They won’t be so jaunty, when they reach Bronte country,

As through the Swale they’re forced to paddle,

It won’t be sedate, riding through Harrogate,

They’ll need liniment to rub in the saddle.

When at Betty’s café they’re taking their teas,

They’ll feel themselves go weak at the knees

As the treacle tarts harden their arteries,

To say nowt of the pies with mushy peas.

And when they’re full right up,

And just want to tend to their bunions,

It’ll be time for t’second course –

A nice big plate of tripe and onions!

With their gold medals, and pairs of pedals,

Even Wiggins and Cavendish on their bikes,

Will take a beating; they won’t be cheating,

As they struggle to master the Tykes!

The stars, followed by cars, riding the handle-bars,

Won’t hear the crowds shout “Thank-you!”

But “Come on, you great bunch of jessies!”

Or it’s “bonsoir et merci beaucoup!”

For cycling can seem like a daft sport,

With blokes in the heather, riding hell for leather

Going all way up t’hills, only to come back down,

Just to enjoy Yorkshire’s famous sunny weather.

I don’t know what I’ll do, when they all whizz through,

When the flash of the riders is rapid and furzy,

I hope it entails, that a man from the Dales,

Finally pulls on that yellow jersey.

And when we have to wave good-bye to the Tour,

When we’ve knackered ‘em after the first week,

We’ll be glad that the garcons, have finally gone,

But had the sense to make a choix sympathetique.

I hope we’ll have led them a merry dance,

Those sturdy Belgian and Gallic chaps -

I’m not sure how they’re getting back over to France,

Cycling round the decks of the ferry perhaps?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Cornish Nasty

Recipe for: CORNISH NASTY (PASTY)

Ingredients:

• For the pastry:
• 125g butter, chilled & diced
• 125g lard, diced
• 500g plain flour
• 1 egg, beaten, to glaze
• For the filling:
• 350g beef skirt or chuck steak, finely chopped
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 2 medium potatoes, peeled & cut into small dice
• 175g swede, peeled & cut into small dice
• Lots of freshly ground black pepper

 Method:

1. rub the salt, butter & lard into the flour using fingertips or processor until you have fine breadcrumbs
2. blend in 6-8 tablespoons of water to make a firm dough
3. cut into four pieces, cover & chill for 20-30 minutes
4. heat oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
5. mix together the filling ingredients + pinch salt
6. roll out each piece of dough into a circle or an oval
7. spoon a quarter of the filling into the middle of the dough, leaving a pastry margin all the way around
8. brush the pastry around the open edge
9. either fold over to seal the pastry at one side (Cornish), or else gather up both sides to meet at the top (Yorkshire).  Make sure the pastry is sealed all the way round.
10. brush the pastry with beaten egg
11. pierce the pastry at the top with a fork to allow steam to escape
12. lift onto an oiled, non-stick baking sheet
13. make the other three pasties the same way
14. bake in the oven for ten minutes, then lower temperature to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas4 and cook for another 40-45 minutes until golden brown

What else you need to know:

1. can be eaten immediately, cooled & re-heated or frozen
2. serve with LOTS of gravy & a green veg