Old-Age Non-Pensioner

Old-Age Non-Pensioner (or Growing Old Disgracefully)

I’ve just reached a certain age now,

But I have to tell you the truth:

As you can all plainly see before you,

I’m still in the first flush of my youth.

For age affects us all in different ways,

There’s no use in trying to hide:

It’s time to get out & declare it:

I’ve become a member of Grey Pride!

I may have to go for a medical,

And lay on the doctor’s bed all prostrate.

I’ll hear the snap of the marigolds,

When he’s about to inspect my prostate.

There’ll blood & urine samples to give:

It’s really not very nice.

I’ll be told “Stop smoking, and drink less,

And take more exercise”.

For I’ve got to keep healthy,

To avoid increasing debility.

Keep my mind & body active,

And ward off approaching senility.

I’ll get increasingly forgetful,

As I become a bit of a part-timer.

I’ll try to keep mentally agile,

And avoid contracting Alzheimers.

There’ll be hardened arteries to cope with,

As I approach age fifty seven,

But to help me at home these days,

I’ve got a Stannah stairlift to heaven.

I can look forward deafness,

And eye-sight that grows ever dimmer,

But at least I won’t need a road test

To go for a spin with my Zimmer.

With spreading waist, dodgy knees & joints,

The outlook’s increasingly “grey”,

And every day I’ve noticed,

That my toe-nails seem further away.

I’ve become follically challenged:

At least that’s what they say that it’s called,

But when I was that much younger,

They just used to say you were bald.

As more of my body parts stop working,

And my memory I’m starting to doubt,

I’m falling prey to more illnesses:

The wheezing, the coughing – and, of course, gout.

  

But I’m told that I’m a silver surfer.

My computer has got lots of ROM,

And now I can get a subscription

On a site called Confused.com.

And there are some compensations,

Which come as quite a relief,

For whatever else I might be losing,

You know I’ve still got my own teeth.

So I’m going to grow older disgracefully,

And go out without my glasses.

I’ll probably get lost in the High Street,

And start chasing the older lasses.

But now I guess it’s off to Help The Aged,

To seek some help & dedication.

So I’ll see you all sometime later:

It’s time to take my medication.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Red Onion Marmalade

Recipe for: RED ONION MARMALADE

Ingredients:

• 3 tblsp light olive oil
• 700g red onions, very finely sliced
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
• 150g golden caster sugar
• 150ml sherry vinegar
• 250ml full-bodied red wine
• 2 tblsp fresh raw beetroot juice or grenadine

 Method:

1. heat the oil in a heavy pan, adding onions, salt, pepper & sugar.  Stir to mix
2. cover & cook on low heat, until mixture has produced some liquid
3. uncover & cook on gentle heat, stirring occasionally for about 30 minutes, until the onions are completely soft (but don’t allow to brown)
4. add the vinegar, wine & beetroot juice & cook on higher heat for 30 minutes until thickened a little
5. remove from heat & pot into warm sterilised jars.  Cool completely before sealing & labelling.

 What else you need to know:

1. the key to this is long, slow, gentle cooking.  The onions should have a completely soft, silky texture
2. improves with age as it matures
3. great with cheese, pates & terrines, cold meats & roasts

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 28th September 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 28^th September  2014

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

1.       Party conference season is under way in Bromham.  Last week in the Weetabix Memorial Hall, the Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP) were addressed by their leader Ted Willybanned, who forgot to mention the Parish Council’s overdraft at the Bromham Capital Bank.  Over the weekend it was the turn of the Swivel-Eyed Loon Federation (SELF), whose conference at the Mr Kipling Exhibition Centre was boosted by the unexpected defection of Eric “Completely” Reckless to them from Field Land-Owners Party (FLOP).  FLOP themselves begin their own conference at the Anusol Centre today, where the Squeaky-Bum Faction are expected to bring a motion of censure against their own leader, Dave Wentwrong, in what will be the last major gathering before the General Bunfight in May next year.

2.       A pair of Rural Agricultural Force (RAF) tractors were reported to have carried out an armed reconnaissance mission deep into Seend territory overnight, but without actually delivering their payload due to a lack of specific targets.  The mission was the first after the specially-recalled Parish Council voted by a large majority on Friday to authorise limited action against the self-styled IS (Independent Seend).

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

Saint Peter Has A Bad Day

Saint Peter Has A Bad Day

Hi there, everyone, the name is St Peter -

My role just couldn’t be neater -

I’m God’s old “meeter-and-greeter”

Outside Heaven’s multi-billion-seater.

I’m at the front desk receiving the hopeful,

Watching the queue where everyone waits,

For I’m the celestial sentinel

In front of those famous pearly gates.

Beyond them are clouds, and angels with harps,

Where nothing could be much cosier.

There’s heavenly music and haloes,

And for every meal there’s ambrosia.

Everyone would like to get in,

To enjoy rest in their eternal home,

But there are some tough criteria to meet

Before you get in to the pleasure-dome.

And that’s where I think the trouble starts,

With people justifying what they’ve been doing:

It leads to delays and congestion,

And we’ve no system of priority queuing.

Everybody comes here with an equal chance,

No matter how things might at first look:

All the good deeds and the bad deeds,

Recorded carefully in my master’s big book.

And they’re always in a bad mood,

Bearing in mind they’ve probably just died,

It can make them tired and tetchy,

Just like they’ve had their brains fried.

So you can imagine the abuse,

And what’s the reason for this? The cause?

When I ask them if they’ve been bad or good?

Even Lucifer calls me Santa Claus.

And if they get the unwelcome thumbs down,

And they’re condemned to fall from God’s grace,

They start shouting and arguing,

As they’re escorted off to The Other Place.

See, at the end of the day, I’m not Management,

I’m just an employee, which can irk -

I’ve got to be here twenty-four seven,

To carry out the Lord God’s dirty work.

  

Dealing with people day in, day out,

The negative procedure soon sours:

I mean, you never see God out here,

During any of these unsocial hours.

The queues and the disappointments

Are very upsetting, for Goodness’ sakes,

And I don’t get any paid holidays,

Nor any time out for toilet breaks.

I mean, don’t go getting me wrong,

It’s a very responsible position,

Holding on to the Keys of the Kingdom,

Fulfilling His Lordship’s great mission.

But I think I’m being taken for granted,

If you want my confession.

There’s no future in this organisation -

I can’t see any career progression.

So I’m looking around at what else I could do,

Something appropriate to my level.

There’s a strong rumour going around,

That Beelzebub’s seeking a new devil.

The pay’s only a little bit better,

But there’s fringe benefits as well.

Think I might give a try one day -

Can’t be worse than this – so what the hell?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

My famous Christmas Cake Recipe

Recipe for: CHRISTMAS CAKE

Ingredients:

• 1 lb currants
• 8 oz raisins
• 1 lb sultanas
• 6 oz mixed peel
• 4 oz glace cherries
• 4 oz shelled almonds (optional)
• 10 oz butter, warm or softened
• 10 oz caster sugar
• 6-8 eggs
• 12 oz self-raising flour (or plain + 1 tsp baking powder)
• Pinch salt
• 2 tsps mixed spice
• Grated rind of one lemon
• Juice of one lemon
• Splash of milk or buttermilk

 Method:

1. get two big bowls out.  In the first assemble all the dried fruits, nuts & peel.  Put aside.
2. in the second bowl, put the butter & caster sugar.  Cream them together until light & fluffy.  Be prepared for your arms to hurt a lot while doing this.  While you’re having frequent rests, line & butter a large cake tin with grease-proof paper & set it on a baking tray.
3. when the creamed mixture is ready, add the eggs one at a time.  It’s easiest to do this by lightly beating each egg in a small bowl first, then adding it.  Make sure each egg is properly incorporated before adding the next.
4. when all the eggs have been added, gradually sift in the flour, salt & mixed spice
5. when that’s done add in the lemon & the milk
6. when that’s done, gradually mix in the pile of dried fruit & nuts from the first bowl
7. the mixture should now be a solid mass of ingredients held together by the sponge mix.  It should be of a stiff dropping consistency
8. pile the mixture into the prepared lined cake tin & pat down gently to avoid any major air bubbles.  Smooth the top with a spatula.
9. bake in a low to medium oven (160C/ 150C fan) for about 3 hours.  It’s hard to be precise, depending on heaviness of mixture.  Test from 2 hours onward with a skewer – if it comes out clean, it’s cooked.  The cake should be browned on the top and the sides just starting to come away from the sides of the tin.  If in doubt, give it another 20 minutes, then test again.
10. remove to a wire rack to cool completely, then store & begin feeding.

 What else you need to know:

1. the cake should be made in August/ Sept if possible because it needs time to mature & to be fed before Christmas.  Store in an air-tight container;
2. feed the cake weekly.  You can use rum, brandy or sherry or any combination you like.  Prick the cake all over the top with a fork or a skewer.  Use a tea-spoon to gently pour your alcohol of choice into the holes, then re-seal in the cake container;
3. this cake is wonderful on its own, but is improved when accompanied by a wedge of a white crumbly cheese such as Wensleydale, Lancashire or Cheshire, and a good slug of sloe gin.

Entente Militaire

Entente Militaire (news that the French & British are to join forces & share military command in future operations)

There’s been a bit of a down-turn,

And there’s a new hand on the helm.

For now it’s getting expensive

To pay for the defence of the realm.

We’re told we’re all in this together,

And that we’ll have to take a new course.

We can’t afford the Army or Navy,

To say nothing of a proper Air Force.

So they’ve put their heads all together

To dig us right out of this trench.

We can’t go it alone anymore,

And we’ll have to get into bed with the French.

Now this could be easier said than is done:

I don’t think that they’ve thought this quite through.

The misunderstandings could be awful,

Without a bi-lingual crew.

This entente militaire is worrying,

It’s all too easy to see,

For we might have our brave Tommies,

Fighting alongside chaps who eat brie.

Imagine the atmosphere in the mess-rooms,

With Gaulois & garlic creating a fug.

When asked to stand to attention,

To be met by a simple Gallic shrug.

For the French have their own way of living

I just mention this en passant.

Our guys like their full English breakfast,

But for them it’s just café et croissant.

But now we’re just going to have to share things,

Which I can see is quite a barrier.

You can just hear it, can’t you?

Apres vous avec that aircraft carrier.

Can I borrow your helicopters?

I think it’s our turn, sacre bleu!

You really can’t hang on to the air-craft

Come on – give us a go, Mon Dieu.

For the war on terror must continue apace,

And we must fight in every region.

We’ll contribute our SAS,

If you’ll throw in your Foreign Legion.

We’re not fighting in Europe any more:

We don’t have to face Russkies & Huns.

But we sure can’t work on the basis

Of asking “ou sont les machine-guns”!

  

You may think that it can’t get that bad,

But it’s not too early to gloat,

That one day our Trident nuclear deterrent,

Could be replaced by two blokes in a boat.

So I think that all of our armed forces

Need to keep our new allies en garde.

Because if we don’t keep our eye on the ball

We could all end up in the merde.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Oh my dearest Caledonia,

Between us there’s still a strong link -

I’m glad you’ve come to your senses at last,

And stepped right back from the brink.

I know that you’ve long been unhappy,

That you’ve often shed a few tears,

But it happens in many a Union,

Even after three hundred years.

I guess that you wanted your freedom,

To make some decisions all by yourself,

But I’m going to stick by you, my love,

Not leave you alone on the shelf.

And there’ll be some changes round here, my dear,

So lay off your keening and weeping,

I promise to listen to what you’re now saying,

And there’ll be a bit more in the house-keeping.

You can keep all those things you’ve collected:

The plaid, the tartan and shortbread,

Billy Connolly and Andy Murray,

If that’s what it takes for us to stay wed.

I suppose your eye had started to wander,

As you dallied with Jocks and with Jacks,

And your strange friend Alex Salmond,

To say nothing of that chap Devo Max.

I won’t whinge about the Loch Ness Monster

Even if he tends to bark in the night.

I’ll put up with the skirl of the bagpipes -

Anything to make sure that you’re all right.

A Scotch mist must have clouded your judgement,

And confused you, so you could’nae see far,

You were seduced by the lure of the haggis,

And the joy of a deep-fried Mars bar.

I know that you’re keen on Gretna Green,

To its pleasures you’re closely attuned.

You love your Highlands, and hundreds of islands

And you can hang on to your own Poond.

The border needs crossing, to see caber-tossing,

And Balmoral’s certainly your fave.

We’ll gae tae Glasgae and to Clydeside,

And sing choruses of Scotland The Brave.

  

I can see you were built for sporting a kilt,

To show your support for Saint Andrew,

And drinking the whiskey keeps you well frisky,

See you Jimmie, and Och Aye Tha Noo!

I must’ve underestimated you, girl,

You were a Brave-Heart that was on fire.

AS you carried on with your Highland Games,

And wrapped yourself up in a Saltire.

Bonnie Prince Charlie became a distraction,

And Rabbie Burns once long hold your heart,

But let’s get modern, forget about Culloden

And see if we can’t make a new start.

We’ll say no more of the use of the claymore,

And Flodden Field can pass into history.

We’ll stand tall, beside Hadrian’s Wall,

And eating porridge oats won’t be a mystery.

No passport control at the old border,

We’ll support both Celtic and Rangers,

The land of the Forth, up there in the North,

Will no longer hold any dangers.

It may have been a question of YES or NO,

For you to decide what you wanted to be,

But finally you’ve decided -

And it’s not D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

So let’s be friends again, dear Scotia,

As we trip the Gay Gordons through the heather.

It’s got to be cited, forever united,

Cos we were always “Better Together”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Quinces - Braised & Cordial

Recipe for: QUINCES – BRAISED & CORDIAL

Ingredients:

• 8 -12 whole quinces
• 900ml water
• 350g sugar
• Strips of lemon zest

 Method:

1. heat oven to 160C/ fan 150C
2. wash & pat dry the quinces, halving any large fruits
3. place in a baking tray, pouring the water on the top
4. sprinkle over the sugar & lemon zest
5. cover the tray tightly with aluminium foil & roast for 3 hours
6. it’s ready when the quinces are completely soft & the cooking syrup is a deep ruby pink
7. remove the tray from the oven, remove the cooked fruit & strain the juices into a jug
8. allow to cool completely before using – both will keep for 2 weeks in the fridge

 What else you need to know:

1. to eat the quinces, simply scoop out the flesh from the papery skin, and eat with yoghurt or ice-cream
2. to drink the cordial, dilute to taste with water, sparkling water, prosecco etc

A Thief In The Night

A Thief In The Night

Awoken by a bump in the night,

A noise I wish could have resisted.

I didn’t want to investigate,

But the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand,

I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs,

To discover who might be there.

There was a light on in the kitchen -

So - there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him:

“Hey! I’m armed with a big poker!”

I heard a noise, so I thought perhaps he’d gone,

And dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes,

Was one I could hardly believe.

The youth, he was just sitting there,

In the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes,

With cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening,

Slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look,

Of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

He wasn’t armed and dangerous,

And there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t wear a long stripey jumper,

No bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me,

In fact, he didn’t even frown,

But said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! -

And put those curling-tongs down!”

I said: “A man’s home is his castle –

About that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes,

In fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that as I was here now,

He knew how I must feel.

He didn’t have the heart to burgle,

And from me he’d better not steal.

House-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be,

The risks hardly make it worth-while,

Biting dogs and alarm systems

Were really cramping his style.

By the time I’d heard his story,

I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him,

Well, I very nearly cried.

  

I saw him out through the door,

Once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future,

And then I wished him all the best.

I locked the door behind him,

Reflecting on what we’d both said,

And knowing that crime doesn’t pay,

Made my way, happily, back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered,

My wallet and keys he’d lifted,

He’d been back again in the night,

And all my valuables shifted.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 21st September 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 21^st September  2014

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

1.       Violence broke out at The Wounded Ferret on Friday morning when three rival drinking parties clashed.  The Seend Nationalist Party (SNP) were drowning their sorrows after losing the Seend Independence vote on Thursday night, the Bromham Reunites Itself Together (BRIT) party were celebrating their success (and wondering how the hell to wriggle out of all the promises made during the late stages of the campaign), and the vast majority of drinkers were celebrating the end of all the bloody campaigning.  Chaos erupted when someone at the bar very gently suggested that, as the voting had been quite close, it might be worth doing it all again in five years’ time.

2.       Meanwhile, in a less well-reported vote, Bromham Golf Club decided on Thursday, in a ballot among its members to allow tractors into their car park, players to wear baler twine as belts, and dogs into the club-house (if on a lead).  A proposal to allow ladies into the club at any time was, as usual, rejected by a huge majority.

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

Bumps & Bruises

Bumps And Bruises

Be careful, darling, as you crawl along,

Beware the dangers on the ground.

I’ll try my best to protect you,

Because your Daddy’s no longer around.

There’s things out here that could harm you,

My precious, listen hard to me.

It would be so easy to hurt yourself,

With perils that you might never see.

You can’t know yet, but it’s a bad world out there,

In ways you cannot even conceive,

And there’s a struggle that’s going on,

With men fighting for what they believe.

They’re at it now in lands far away,

Armed forces pitched in terrible fight -

I can’t expect you to understand it,

But they’re just doing what they know to be right.

It’s why your Daddy went off last year:

He felt that he just had to go.

He was doing his job and playing his part:

He never meant to be a hero.

He wasn’t especially brave or tough -

Just a regular guy doing his bit,

Dressed up in his uniform,

And carrying the usual kit.

He was a soldier, trained and true,

Posted on patrol near foreign borders.

He didn’t question what he had to do,

But carried on, and followed orders.

We missed him during every tour,

Time without him always seemed to drag.

But we understood the job he did,

For Queen, and Country and the flag.

He expected to come back home to us,

Just like all the other men,

But too many bumps and bruises,

Means that we’ll not see him again.

We’re alone now, there’s just you and me;

You’re my precious, you’re my beauty,

You’ll grow to admire that soldier, your father:

A man protecting your freedom, and doing his duty.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Medlar Honey

Recipe for: MEDLAR HONEY

Ingredients:

• 1.5 to 2 kg firm, unbletted, medlars, straight from the tree
• 1 kg preserving sugar

 Method:

1. wash, then chop all the medlars roughly (skin, seeds & all)
2. place in a heavy pan & cover with water
3. bring to the boil, then simmer till completely mushy
4. tip everything into a jelly bag & leave everything to drip into a bowl overnight
5. next day, measure the (cloudy) juice & return to the (clean) pan
6. add an equal amount of sugar, stirring until it dissolves, then boil rapidly until setting point  – is reached, which should take about 35-40 minutes
7. pot up into clean, warm, sterilised jars
8. cool, seal & label

 What else you need to know:

1. medlars are generally low in pectin, so it’s quite hard to get a proper set
2. if it sets, it’s jelly (spread on toast)
3. if it doesn’t set, it’s honey (serve with ice cream or yoghurt)
4. either way it’s delicious, so don’t worry about it

The New Vicar

The New Vicar (or how appearances can be deceptive)

Our village is small but quite pretty,

With a shop, a pub and a church.

Then our vicar broke some commandments,

And left his flock in the lurch.

The bishop he had to be summoned,

And we told him how we’d been rocked,

By the antics of our latest Reverend.

Well – in the end, he was defrocked.

It was now several months later,

And I heard it only by chance:

A removal truck had been spotted -

Our new vicar had moved in to the Manse.

So, being of a neighbourly demean,

I thought I’d meet him as soon as I could,

And welcome him to his new parish,

And nip any problems right there in the bud.

I wandered along up to his front door.

Well - you can imagine my shock,

When the door was soon answered,

By a tall young bloke in a smock.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

He stood there with a mop of long hair.

He had tattoos and an earring,

And before I knew it, I was staring.

His beard was short and quite wispy,

But the greatest of all of my cares,

Was what he was sporting below:

My God – a pair of pink flares.

He was younger than I was expecting,

And dressed up all rather fey.

If he went round the parish like that,

Some folk wouldn’t know what to say.

I’m not an expert on the latest fashion,

Nor am I up with the latest trend,

But, what had possessed our good bishop

Such an odd character to send?

Now I’m as broad-minded as anyone,

But, to me, it was as plain as the light.

I could see that we were headed for trouble,

And that I’d have to put the chap right.

It’s quite a conservative village,

And the locals don’t suffer fools,

So as part of my introduction,

I thought I’d lay down a few ground rules.

  

I told him that we liked our services

Traditional, not happy-clappy.

So if he’d like to keep things the same,

We’d be grateful, there’s a good chappie.

Singing Onward Christian Soldiers

Was just what we expected to sing.

No trendy, modern stuff would be needed,

And very short sermons – that was the thing.

Our church organist is in his eighties.

He’s deaf, and so isn’t sure when

The choir has finished already,

So the rest of us just sing the last verse again.

And after all of this advice,

I saw that his eyes had gone sort of glazed.

He looked at me in some surprise.

In fact, he was totally amazed.

Up to this point, the poor chap hadn’t spoken.

But the door he now opened wide.

He gestured for me to enter,

So I thought I’d better go inside.

“Wait there” he said all at once.

“Before you get into more of a lather,

I’ll go and get the man that you really need –

He’s the new vicar here – my father!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Is There Anybody There?

Is There Anybody There?  (or what the dead may have to tell us from the other side)

Now I had an old maiden aunt,

Who on her death-bed was lying.

I stroked her cheek, and held her hand,

But inside I knew she was dying.

As her time slipped slowly away,

She rallied briefly and muttered.

I strained to catch what she was saying,

But just couldn’t make out what she’d uttered.

She’d obviously had something to tell,

But the mystery remained unresolved,

And I knew that I wouldn’t rest,

Until the puzzle I’d solved.

So when she’d been laid to rest in the ground,

I went to seek what I lacked.

I contacted a spirit medium,

To see if I could make some contact.

The lady in question was a gloomy old girl,

With a crystal ball and an old ouija board,

But she seemed to know what she was doing,

So my hopes had presently soared.

She first noted the particulars,

In order to narrow the search down.

We didn’t want any old maiden aunt,

But, specifically, my own.

She pulled across the dark curtains,

And then she started the séance.

I wondered what was she was up to,

But then she went into a trance.

She started moaning & groaning,

And rolling around on her chair.

And then she suddenly shouted:

“Is there anybody there?”

The answer was quite spontaneous,

And the table started to rock.

I felt there was a ghostly presence,

And then was some sort of knock.

“Is there a message for someone here present?”

Asked the lady spiritual guide.

“Do you want to say something,

From across on the other side?”

Now, I have to say that I heard no-one answer,

But the clairvoyant was still swaying.

She seemed to be listening intently,

To what some ghostly voice was saying.

I’ll admit I’m a bit of a sceptic,

And of the occult I’m not really fond.

And I didn’t fancy ectoplasm,

Nor voices from the beyond.

   

Then suddenly it was all over:

We’d come to the end of the session.

What, I wondered, was the result

Of this bizarre intercession?

My spiritual lady became now composed,

But what on earth could this presage?

She put her ringed hand on my arm,

And then she delivered this message.

“I’m sorry I passed away before I was ready.

But I was in no fit state to shout.

Just don’t forget next Monday -

You need to put the rubbish bins out.”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

It's The End Of The World On Saturday

It’s The End Of The World On Saturday

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

Can I stay up late the night before?

If we’re all getting fried on the week-end,

There’s no point being a bore.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

The pastor says there’ll be a Great Flood.

There’ll be fires, and earthquakes,

And boils & locusts & rivers of mud.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

I want to be one of the saved.

It’s what we’ve all waited for,

The ending that we’ve all craved.

There’ll be no time for quips,

We’ll squeak like pips.

It trips off the lips,

As our confidence dips,

When we meet our…apocalypse.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

The cataclysm is here.

Judgement Day is coming.

No time for trembling in fear.

For we’ve been groomed,

Our future has loomed.

We’ll all be entombed,

The ending zoomed,

As we prepare to be….doomed.

Mam, it’s the end of the world I’m sure.

I don’t want to be one of the sinners -

I want to be lifted to heaven,

I want to be one of the winners.

It said in Ezekiel,

There’ll be no equal,

To the terrors,

And the meek’ll

Inherit the earth.

* * * * * * *

Mam, the earth didn’t end after all;

It’s all been a terrible let-down.

I thought I’d be sitting next to Jesus,

And be one of the stars in His crown.

Mam, it seems it just wasn’t to be:

There wasn’t any of God’s wrath -

It’s all just the same old same old,

There was something wrong with the math.

I think I can tell,

All is still well.

There wasn’t a death knell,

No ringing of bells,

No fires of hell.

Mam, it seems the signs & portents were wrong.

The reasons aren’t simple to capture:

The End of Times didn’t come,

And I wasn’t lifted up in the Rapture.

If there’s no Second Coming,

If we’ve all mis-read the code,

I’ll have to take that library book back,

And pay back that fiver I owed.

Mam, the end of the world didn’t come in the end.

There’s no point living in fear.

It’s all so – disappointing,

So Armageddon out of here.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Plum Jam

Recipe for: PLUM JAM

Ingredients:

• 1.5 kg plums, or damsons
• 1.25 kg granulated sugar

 Method:

1. halve & stone the plums.  Keep about a dozen stones
2. using nutcrackers, break the stones & extract the kernels
3. put the kernels in small bowl & cover with boiling water for a few minutes
4. drain the water & slip ff the brown skins, leaving the creamy-white kernels
5. put the plums, skinned kernels & 400ml water into a preserving pan
6. bring to a simmer & cook gently until the fruit s tender & the skins soft (about 20 minutes, but depends on size & ripeness of fruits)
7. add the sugar, stirring until dissolved
8. turn up the heat & boil rapidly until setting –point is reached (see TESTING FOR A SET), usually about 10-12 minutes.  The fruit should not still be bobbing to the surface – it’s probably not sufficiently cooked
9. pot the jam into warm, sterilised jars
10. cool, seal & label

 What else you need to know:

1. the kernels add an almond-like tang to the jam, and are a good source of pectin
2. this recipe also works with damsons, bullaces, greengages

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 14th September 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 14^th September  2014

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

1.       With only a few days to go before the referendum voting on Seend independence gets under way, pundits are already saying that the result is just too close to call.  Campaigners for the “Yes”, “No” and “Couldn’t Give A Toss” parties have been lobbying hard in the High Street all week, and a media frenzy has developed outside the village shop as the press watches whether people are buying the Seend or Bromham edition of the Bromham Bugle.  Said Mrs. Hermione Piglet of Rose Cottage just near the shop: “I just wish they’d all bugger off and leave us alone”.  It seems impossible to put it fairer than that.

2.       A man has been arrested in connection with a fire which was believed to have been started deliberately at the village’s main rescue home for unwanted pigs.  Several animals were killed in the fire, and roads nearby have been choked in grease as people attempted to get near to snag some fresh crackling for themselves.  Apple sauce and stuffing vendors did a roaring trade as fire-men half-heartedly attempted to douse down the porcine disaster site.  Police commented that it was “a real pig of a situation”.

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

Call Girl

Call Girl (or how telephone sex is not as good as it’s cracked up to be)

I’m a great fan of online banking,

And I use it to manage accounts.

But last week I ran into a problem -

On the screen were the wrong amounts.

So seeking to sort this problem at once,

To the bank’s Call Centre I rang.

I listened to music for minutes,

As on the phone I was forced to hang.

Then a recorded voice quite sharply said:

“Press 1 for this, and press 2 for that”.

So I worked my way through the options,

Trying not to feel like a prat.

My digits blazed over the keypad,

Pressing this, pressing that, and then you

Think you’ve finished at last,

But there’s always one more menu.

At last I got to where I wanted,

After this long game of hide and seek

For it was just with a human being,

That I desperately wanted to speak.

At last came a female voice quite confident -

I wasn’t trying to be choosy.

She asked if she could help me,

And told me her name was Susie.

I stumbled through with my problem,

But really I hadn’t much of a choice.

I’d become all kind of nervous, you see,

Seduced by the sound of her voice.

So began my fantasies & questions:

I went right through the book.

Was she young, and was she pretty?

In fact, how good did she look?

I started to imagine for myself:

What was the colour of her hair?

For her voice was so gentle,

I decided she had to be fair.

Could I ever get to know this girl?

I could feel my cheek starting to heat.

Could we take this relationship further,

And arrange somewhere cosy to meet?

I wanted to take this thing off-line:

I felt that she was waiting to be whirled,

Away from her Call Centre employment,

To something more solid in the real world.

  

She carried on talking, working her script.

She was a mistress of her profession.

She was confident & well-drilled.

Would she listen to my confession?

She worked her way through my problem,

But the solution had started to vex.

Did a one-sided fantasy like this,

Count as telephone sex?

I wanted to keep her talking, you see,

And try to keep her involved.

I felt we needed to build up some rapport,

So I brought up new things to be solved.

Her voice was so delightful & sexy,

But always in command, never a fall-girl.

I wanted this to go on and on,

To take things further, with my dear call-girl.

Her accent betrayed nothing at all,

But she seemed like an English rose.

I’d no idea where she was,

But she certainly felt very close.

Eventually, I screwed up my courage,

And asked her if there could ever be more.

That’s when she said it was against the rules,

And besides, she was talking from Bangalore.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014