Earl Grey Tea Bread

Recipe for: EARL GREY TEA-BREAD

Ingredients:

·         275g mixed fruit or sultanas

·         300ml strong black Earl Grey tea

·         60g soft brown sugar

·         Zest of one orange or lemon

·         2 large eggs

·         275g plain flour

·         2 ½ tsp baking powder

·         1 tsp ground ginger

·         ½ tsp ground cinnamon

·         ¼ tsp ground nutmeg

·         ¼ tsp salt

Method:

1.       Grease & line 2lb/ 900g loaf tin

2.       Heat oven to 170C/ 160C fan/ 335F, gas 3 ½

3.       Put dried fruit in a saucepan with the tea, bring to the boil & simmer for one minute

4.       Add sugar and zest, stirring to dissolve, and set aside to cool

5.       In a separate large bowl mix the flour & spices

6.       Beat the two eggs lightly in a separate small bowl

7.       Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones in the large bowl & mix carefully

8.       Tip/ spoon the mixture into the loaf tin & smooth the top gently

9.       Bake for 50-55 minutes, testing with s skewer that the loaf is cooked through

10.    Remove and cool in the tin for ten minutes, before lifting out onto wire rack.

What else you need to know:

1.       Slice and butter thickly & eat with a cup of tea.

Missing

Missing

You were clearly there at the start

A living, breathing boy

The Victorian green certificate

Carefully inked in clerk’s neat copperplate

Hard evidence of your entry to the world

And again, newly brothered, at home with Mum and Dad

My unknown great-grandparents

The family names grouped

Rows and columns in the census

Together at century’s turn

And again, a decade later, I can clearly see your name

Stone-mason’s apprentice, just as your father had been

Young, strong, single, patriot to the cause of conflict

Caught up in the rush to enlist, marching away with the Pals

And then you simply vanished from the face of the Earth

Somewhere in the French mud, if I were to hazard a guess

The service records destroyed, ironically lost in the later Blitz

Never married, no death recorded

No longer there when you were needed

It became a dead-end wherever I looked

As if you had never existed

A missing branch of the family tree

But I can see the gaps in the photographs

Where you should have been standing

The gatherings you ought to have attended

The children you never had, the cousins you never provided

And I can sometimes hear your voice

Filling gaps in conversations

In the folk-lore of family

I wish you’d been here to meet me when I made my own entrance

For you’d already left long before I came

So I couldn’t reach out to touch you

It’s as if you’re still missing in action

And I’m touched by your absence

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

There's A 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 children

Worrying 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 his name

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 computer games

With hand/ eye co-ordination

Second-to-none, rated excellent

For a special military job

There’s a killer in our village

Yet no-one lives in any fear

He drives over to the airbase

And he works his every shift

Then he passes through security

And descends in to his bunker

There’s a killer in our village

But no-one’s after him

He peers into his monitor

Yet he’s never in any danger

A pilot who always stays at home

And flies the drones in Afghanistan

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Chicken With Mustard & Cider

Recipe for: CHICKEN with MUSTARD & CIDER

Ingredients:

·         1 tblsp olive oil

·         750g skinless, boneless chicken (thighs/ breast) cut into chunks

·         1-2 onions, peeled & thickly sliced

·         2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

·         400ml medium dry cider

·         175g/ 6oz half-fat crème fraiche

·         2 tblsp wholegrain mustard

·         Small bunch parsley, chopped

·         Few sprigs of fresh herbs – thyme, tarragon, chives, sage

Method:

1.       Heat oil in large frying pan, and cook chicken for 4-5 minutes until browned

2.       Remove chicken from pan with slotted spoon and reserve

3.       Add sliced onions to pan, cooking for a few minutes

4.       Add sliced garlic, cooking for one minute

5.       Add cider and bring to boil

6.       Add back the reserved chicken, cover & simmer gently for 10 minutes

7.       Remove lid and add crème fraiche, mustard and herbs, simmering for a final five minutes

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve with rice and a green vegetable e.g. steamed broccoli

Wargames

Wargames     

                                                                                                            

Heads bowed forward

to concentrate upon the task

clean-shaven faces

beneath the headsets

reflect the screen-glow

amid an arcade of work-stations

computers and communications

racks and tangled cables

hands upon the joysticks

making careful corrections

to course and altitude

fingers flicking nervously

around the bomb-buttons

as the targets come into focus

An aerial view of desert landscape

criss-crossed with beaten tracks

unfolds slowly far below

small settlements of human habitation

at the correct co-ordinates

and the sought-after compounds

encompassed by perimeter walls

home to suspected fighters

insurgent enemies

in a distant combat zone

The transmission time-delay

of remote telemetry

muffles the stark reality

of sound and vision

of the over-flying drone

dealing out its deadly cargo

of silent sky-borne death

whilst the pilots sit secure

removed from any jeopardy

detached and unconnected

bunkered beneath the ground

in a rural homeland

amid cool and air-conditioned calm

within the secure perimeter

behind the blast-door

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Outrage

Outrage

The explosion comes

Always without warning

The ear-drum splitting noise

The force of the blast

And the percussive shock-wave

Of shrapnel flying in all directions

Screams of terror filling the air

And dust-clouds billowing

As if to coat the bloody bodies

And hide them from inspection

The cracking of concrete

And the crunch of shattered glass

An uneven layer of dusty debris

The smoking aftermath of bombers

Dealing out death and indiscriminate 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 wreckage

Pulling out maimed and mangled bodies

In unseen heroic acts

But who later on are more visible

Standing outside the hospitals

And before the cameras

Detailing the deceased

And estimating numbers

And yet these official figures

Take on very different meanings

Whether in Boston or Baghdad

In London or Afghanistan

Where the value of a Western life

Becomes inflated by the media

And where a Middle Eastern soul

Who was someone’s husband

Mother, father, brother

A lately-living person

Is reduced to just a cipher

Just a nameless victim

And somehow worth a little less

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 25th May 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 25^th May 2014

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

1.       Most members of the Parish Council and the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) are now safely behind bars after being convicted of a wide range of sexual assault charges against children starting back in the 1950s and going right through to the present day.  Sentencing at Bromham Crown Court was delayed when most of the judges and the legal profession were also charged with similar offences.

2.       A “minor earthquake” came to Bromham politics this week when UBLIP (the United Bromham Liberation Independence Party) won a seat on Bromham Parish Council, after running a campaign based on pulling Bromham out of Wiltshire, and protecting Bromham jobs against Seend immigrants.

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

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 2014

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

I saw her again the other day

For the first time out in sunshine

Smiling, bright and happy

Laughing with the other guests

At some 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 merest line

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 ferocity

Of these two snarling beasts

Which invaded the empty canvas of her skin

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Early Season Cricket

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 2014

Mole

Mole

Early morning garden wandering

Feeling the wetness of dew

From the lawn’s long grass

Soaking through the shoe-soles

I stumble across something

That upsets the leisurely stroll

The tell-tale signs of spoil-heaps

The unmistakeable evidence

Of the presence of mole

Mounds are scattered round

Creating an irregular landscape

Pitted by small soil-mountains

Piles of loam above ground

Tunnelled out from down below

Such vandalism is not caused by the vole

These burrowings and diggings

Are of something a size larger

That can only suggest mole

I can trace 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

A scene of rural despoilation

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 deep down in my soul

That once he’s taken up residence

He’ll stick around for some time

And I’ll be sharing my lawn with a mole

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Morning

Morning

Running down a darkened hallway

Towards an opening door

Where light floods around

And falls in upon the floor

Suddenly there is sound again

Rushing, scraping, scratching

And an end to thoughts and dreams

To schemes of reddened skies

To floating boulders slowly turning

To sweeping clouds of yellow

And the bellowing, aching roar

Of a lone walrus upon a deserted shore

To the flutter of dry and dusty leaves

Driven, wind-blown, swirling

To the clatter of hooves

Of blue-skinned ponies trotting

Through a cold and empty square

The space echoing back the sound

To 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 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 18th May 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 18^th May 2014

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

1.       Managers and some officials at the privately-owned Bromham Parsnip mines have been arrested, following the mid-week disaster when a pocket of previously undetected cabbage gas exploded, injuring a large number of root-vegetable miners.  The owners of the large drift-mine, one of the largest in Wiltshire, denied any negligence, and insisted that the highest standards of vegetable safety were maintained at the pit.

2.       The Governor of the Bank of Bromham, Mark Piglet, has voiced his concerns about the fragility of the recent recovery of the local economy.  He cited in particular the “cottage bubble”, which he feared would lead to inflation in the value of property for the impoverished and barely-human in-breds who work in the local vegetable fields.  “Only last week,” he said, “we had reports of gazumping, with previously-agreed property deals being thrown into turmoil by new increased offers of extra onions and leeks to sweeten the deals.”

No-one from the Bank of Bromham was available to comment about what on Earth he was talking about.

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

Lengths

Lengths

It occurs to me from time to time

That there must be a better way

My head emerging from the water

Grasping for the air

Lungs hurting and gasping

Breathless from the effort

Between tired strokes

Sometimes near choking

In the careless back-wash bow-wave

Of others beside me

Be-spectacled dolphins

Speeding through the swell

In their effortless freestyle

And 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 their co-ordination

And any sense of rhythm

Between the lines of lanes

And ability to remain

On the straight and narrow

And that perhaps it’s all so pointless

This 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

Amid the rising bubbles

To inspect the detail

And the regular pattern

Picked out on white and blue tiles

Whilst other bathers carry on regardless

And a lifeguard looks on in horror

At the body of a drowning man

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Breaking In

Breaking In

I parked down by the Castle last week,

A fantastic spot in a little side-street:

Very handy for the shops and the stores,

A location quite difficult to beat.

But as I returned from doing my shopping,

I was in for a terrible shock:

When I tried to get into the car,

I found my keys wouldn’t open the lock.

It looked like I’d have to break in,

An action which could only perturb,

So I got myself into a helluva panic,

As I stood there, helpless, at the side of the kerb.

Then I noticed something that might be of some help,

When I looked into my car at the back –

I’d luckily left open the rear window -

It wasn’t much – it was only a slight crack.

If I could only get my hand inside,

And reach over the top of the glass,

I’d be able to pull up the door handle,

And inside the car be able to pass.

It was a good scheme, tho’ I say so myself,

I just hoped my arm was sufficiently thin,

It would save making a pile of smashed glass:

With a bit of luck, I’d soon be within.

I huffed and I puffed to get my arm in,

Tho’ my technique was terribly poor.

Eventually I pulled on the catch,

And, finally, I opened the door!

What relief! And how happy I was,

As I flopped onto the back seat!

I just had to climb into the front now,

Then I’d have the problem totally beat.

But that was easier said than done,

And it certainly couldn’t be done quick:

I got myself tangled up in the seat-belt,

And it’s painful to sit on a gearstick!

Then at last, I was where I should be.

In triumph I sat behind the wheel,

Getting ready to drive back to my home -

You can imagine how it would feel.

 Then I noticed something untoward:

There were some gloves on the passenger seat,

And some de-icer in the door-pocket -

How they’d got there had me totally beat.

The air-freshener was different,

And there was a road atlas in the rear,

But I never carried such an old thing,

And that’s when, suddenly, I felt queer.

I should have realised that I’d cocked up,

I should have known it was all wrong,

For this wasn’t my vehicle you see –

Mine was parked three cars further along!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Pears Poached In Red 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

Fairy Chimneys

Fairy Chimneys

Within these ancient river valleys

Hewed out through the riven landscape

Strange bony fingers stretch upwards

Irregular sandstone columns pointing at the sky

Protected from erosion of wind and weather

By basalt boulders perched precariously atop

Thus they sit

Wearing dainty hats or caps

Extended mushroom shapes

Tall structures

Amid the tuff

Curved and crooked

Twisted, leaning

Top-heavy stones

Defying gravity

Balanced high

Up in the air

Waiting for that moment

When the pillar

Will at last collapse

And rain down rocks

To the ground beneath

A fairy chimney no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

That Takes The Biscuit

That Takes The Biscuit

They say a drink’s too wet without one,

And that’s not just a piece of somebody’s wit,

Cos when you settle down with a cuppa tea,

It’s no good without some sort of biscuit.

But finding the right kind can be tricky,

And there’s some myths need de-bunking,

Cos if it’s the wrong consistency,

Then it’ll be no good for dunking.

It’s got to home-baked and British,

Cos those foreigners can be a bit potty.

If you’re not careful it’ll be Amaretti,

A Florentine or a biscotti.

The Flap-jack, Cereal Bar and Blue Riband,

The Club, the Domino and all of that,

These fancy types are all very well,

But they don’t measure up to a Kit-Kat.

But you’re surely asking for trouble,

If you start off with chocolate in fingers.

You see, it melts off in the hot tea,

It covers everything, and it lingers.

Any kind of a sandwich, can be a real bitch,

And an Oatcake’s insufficiently hard,

And a Jaffa Cake’s a bit of a fake:

So’s a Garibaldi, called a Flies Graveyard.

People go to grand cities, to find a McVities,

To find Mis-Shapes, (those biscuits in bits),

To be daintily fed, on slices of Shortbread,

Or crackers with cheese, sometimes called Ritz.

You’d be knackered, with any kind of cracker:

You’d not want to suck, on one of those TUC,

Might even be safer, with some kind of wafer,

But a Bath Oliver’d give you no luck.

Of Ginger Nuts and various Cookies,

Their supporters would sing a grand tune:

Of Marie, Butter Pecans and Fig Rolls,

The Jammy Dodger, the Coconut Macaroon.

Now I don’t want to stand here and Hob-Nob,

About Oreos and Wagon Wheels:

For it would seem, that like Custard Creams,

Each of them turns into goo and congeals.

  

Crispbreads and Mini Cheddars ain’t the thing,

It’d even be neater, with a Ryvita.

Oats and nuts, just ain’t got the guts,

But a Digestive’s a world-beater.

It can be Nice to have a Rich Tea,

A Lincoln, or a Morning Coffee,

But a brown Bourbon, would be frowned upon,

And can’t match a Digestive for toffee.

So taking all into consideration,

My conclusion’s more than suggestive:

Just forget every other kind of biscuit -

You know where you are with a Digestive!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Dervish

Dervish

We sit quietly beneath the Earth, hushed in a hollowed cavern

facing an empty central circle and shiver in the dark, dimly-lit,

anticipating the mystic rite to come

Four figures enter, heads bowed, black-cloaked, hats like tombstones

dervish-devout, focused upon the drum, the pipe, the strings

improvising, building slowly to steady, hypnotic rhythm

calming the air around them

Then the semazen themselves arrive, arms criss-crossed at first, testifying the unity of God

intoning Qu’ranic eulogy to the Prophet, their delicate first movements

salaaming with care and exactitude, performing their sufic rite

describing the spiritual journey towards a new perfection,

man’s submission of ego, annihilation of self to God, and ascension towards an ecstasy

the very rapture of being

Soon the black cloaks cast aside revealing the ego-shrouds, white skirts of Mevlana

and, slowly, the turning itself begins, revolving right to left around the heart

turning ever-faster into whirling like the blood around the body

protons in the atom, their own steady orbit around the space

arms now spread widely open, one hand pointed up towards the sky

the other back down towards the Earth

connecting God with Man

Eyes closed in concentration, heads inclined upon their shoulders

in the spirit, in the moment, submerged in love

the spinning circulation frenzied for a while, then finished

before returning silently to their cells for further contemplation

and quiet meditation

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 11th May 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 11^th May 2014

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

1.       The Bromham-Vision Song Contest was won last night by a one-eyed transvestite toilet-cleaner from Seend, who swept to victory on the back of tactical voting by Wiltshire’s outer provinces, thus denying the Bromham super-group, The Piglet Sisters, what would have been a much worthier victory.

2.       A whole series of Bromham personalities from the 70s and 80s have been up in court this week, facing a range of sexual offences including goat-nadgering, floodlit horse-massage and attempted rape with a carrot.  Many of the vegetables’ families were in court to hear the charges being read out, and one parsnip was seen to leave the building in tears.  The cases continue.

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

Cappadocia

Cappadocia

A hard slog up the climbing roadway

Through the Toros mountains

Wide sedimentary formations

In bold zig-zag patterns

Gash their way along the hill-sides

Into the forbidding landscape

Yet dwarfed by volcanic cones

Whose igneous stones lie scattered

Forgotten playthings

Among the canyons and valleys

Isolated boulders amongst the scrub

Sparse trees and shrubs

Struggle in the high, dry climate

Amongst the debris and tuff-pinnacles

The ground itself crumbling and flaking

Between high rock-hewn promontories

Cheese-hole riddled

With caves and grottoes

Church-studded once

Faded frescoes and carvings

Sheltering monks and acolytes

And the very poorest people

Who eked a living from this land

And in this colour-bleached waste

The basalt and the sandstone

Engage in unequal battle

Pitted against unrelenting elements

Of driving desert-dry winds

Which sand-blast every feature

Smoothing into roundness

Revealing little of the harshness

Of this high plateau

This land-locked steppe

Where strong light casts hard shadows

Of the many pigeons

Which flutter here undisturbed

Small creatures in a vast landscape

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014