What Did 2014 Ever Do For Us?

What Did 2014 Ever Do For Us??

It was a very quiet twelve months -

Nothing very much to speak of in twenty-fourteen.

I can’t think of very much of note:

In fact there was precious little to be seen.

There was the bloody awful weather,

There were droughts and hose-pipe bans:

At least we were all in that together!

Then downpours and deluges,

People forced into refuges,

The Somerset Levels were flooded,

Thames Valley homes that were muddied,

And insurance policies that didn’t pay out.

Princess Waity Katy became pregnant again,

Whisper the message who dare,

She’ll soon be able to put her feet up,

Having produced an heir and a spare.

We’ve had Ebola and airliners shot down,

The rise of UKIP and that Russell Brand,

The Tour de France racing round Yorkshire,

And a bacon sandwich eaten by Ed Miliband.

Lewis Hamilton became world champion,

Of Formula One in several Grand Prix,

Downton Abbey droned on relentless,

God – there was some awful dross on TV.

We lost Phil Everly and Pete Seeger,

Tom Finney, Joe Cocker and Tony Benn,

And the world will be a poorer place,

Living without so many great men.

Syria descended into chaos,

And the West pulled out of Afghanistan.

Jihadists executed their hostages,

The Taliban massacred school-kids in Pakistan.

Russian troops took a bit of a wrong turn,

Crimea was annexed and invaded.

Perhaps it’s the start of a new Cold War,

More than sanctions and insults to be traded?

And Cuba won its sixty-year stand-off,

With its neighbour, the U S of A,

But massive corporate tax avoidance

Continued – what more can I say?

England were smashed five-nil in the Ashes,

And didn’t stop long in the World Cup.

Nice watching Brazil get stuffed seven-one though,

Good to watch them suck it right up!

  

And the Scottish Referendum,

Didn’t end in a pitiful divorce,

But now they’re all having a grand stooshie,

Jockeying for the next Election of course!

We commemorated the start of the Great War,

A hundred years that our hearts have bled,

Carried along by a fine wave of memories,

Evoked by “Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red”.

We jailed Max Clifford and Rolf Harris,

Together with that scumbag Stuart Hall -

They’re locked away where the sun don’t shine:

How “celebrity” goes before a fall!

But we landed Rosetta on a comet!

And Wonga were told that they must stop!

We got through our ice-bucket challenges!

And finished with our first woman bishop!

And in the Abbey in Leicester,

They’re gonna re-bury Richard the Third,

But apart from all that……

Absolutely nothing occurred!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Greenwash-day Blues (or why you shouldn’t believe Corporate PR about the environmental benefits they claim to bring).

“Beyond Petroleum” it’s called

That’s the latest moniker for BP,

I can’t understand it personally,

It just sounds like garbage to me.

It’s slick advertising you know

Where they’re adding a new sheen

They’re covering up the reality

And making loud claims that they’re green.

They spend more on their marketing

Than they do on their “green” actions

Their practices haven’t changed all that much

The difference is measured in fractions.

They’re spouting new words & new slogans

But to me it all sounds just like tosh

They’re not really eco-friendly

It’s just a new veneer of greenwash.

For the oil companies are ripping the earth

Working in every geography

This kind of coy covering up

Can only be called eco-pornography.

The factories poison the earth,

The airlines are polluting the sky.

It’s hard to live without oil or travel

But we’re going to have to try.

For the planet is coughing & choking

The natural world sits in pollution

We’ve got to find some much better ways

And look for sustainable solutions.

We all know that there’s a problem

And it’s bad enough being the cause

Without pretending to be helping

Whilst carrying on without any pause.

So let’s have some integrity and truth

In all of the verbal exchanges

Let’s not have more of this hogwash

But spend the budget on real changes.

And let’s stop this carbon-offset nonsense

We all know that it’s playing a game

It makes no tangible difference

And leaves the air choking just the same.

We can’t stop the cows & sheep farting

It’s just what they do all of the day

We need to find a better approach

We need to find an easier way.

 It’s no good all of us doing our bit

With re-cycling our rubbish & waste

If big companies carry on just the same

Well – it sure leaves a bad taste.

The governments & the countries

Need to find a way to agree

It’s down to all of the big boys

Not just little you and me.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Rambler's Lament

The Rambler’s Lament

Now Christmas comes but once a year,

And thank the Lord for that.

The turkeys are becoming nervous,

And the geese are getting fat.

For we’ve been out in all the weathers,

Whilst walking on our rambles,

Working through the long grass & the nettles,

And, if we have to, cutting through the brambles.

We set off every Thursday morning,

No matter what the wind and rain,

To Westbrook, to Chittoe or to Rowde

Sometimes over stiles & sometimes down the lane.

There’s many routes that we’ve taken,

But you know it’s really hard to say,

Whether everywhere we’ve been this year,

Was on proper footpaths, or rights of way.

Past the sheep, the cows and pigs,

And some alpacas near the wood,

And by the time that we return to base,

Our boots are well covered up in mud.

But we’re only gone for a couple of hours:

Getting back, we’re very rarely late.

And as the last few straggle home,

You can hear the cry go up: “Shut The Gate!”

For we’ve beaten the parish boundaries,

And walked for about five miles round,

Whether turning to the left or to the right,

And now we’re all back at the Greyhound.

And Dennis is our fearless leader,

And over many a field we’ve crossed,

Trusting that he knows where he’s going,

And there’s no chance of us getting lost.

So as we sit here at our Christmas meal,

All feeling rather full,

Let’s be glad that we’re not crossing

A field that’s full of bull.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Bags

Bags

Black plastic sacks, bin-liner packs

Flapping, slapping in the bitter breeze

Stacked untidily, racked at random

Untied tops flopping open

Revealing random contents

Overflowing innards

Blowing about in the wind

A growing contribution

Spilling like guts onto the pavement

Filling up this rank rented doorway

People step around this rubbish on the ground

A nocturnal delivery secretly unloaded by darkness

No ceremony in its disposal

Dumped like a dead body for someone else to find

To pick up and pick over

To carefully sort, and store and show

Hoping to sell for trifling sums

In the charity shop

Making useful profit

From this seeming careless casual drop

Is this all there is to show?

Are these the collected works

The years-prized possessions

The sum total of a life gathered together

Then placed here by a grieving wife?

Cherished memories carefully put aside

Assembled, valued, sorted, sifted

Into different piles

With generous motivation

And charitable intention?

Or the results of a hurried clearance?

To a doorway closer than the dump

An all-night reception facility

A problem easily offloaded

Without any questions asked

Out of sight, out of mind

A rapid sweeping together

Of unwanted things that meant a lot

To someone once

Or unbearable reminders

With their odours and associations

That can no longer be endured?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

History Lesson

History Lesson

As the first oven door is opened,

Inside this small crematorium,

She has to go outside

To recover herself, to fight back the tears,

As if the enormity of the crime,

The wickedness of it, the evil itself, still lives here,

And the smell somehow lingers

Within this charnel house,

Where the bodies baked,

In those early days before the numbers grew too many.

She comes back in again, re-joins the tour,

To visit bloody Birkenau,

An industrial murder-factory

With its special branch-line right into the camp,

Its guard-house, towers, miles of wire,

Its block-houses, machine guns, dogs.

She can see the selection process, over in seconds,

Watches them shamble over to the showers,

Undressing, stripping, leaving everything behind

To be collected later, as they think,

Herded together, the door slamming shut,

The screams, the panic, the fear,

A roof-top trap-door opening,

And the casual dropping of the Zyklon,

Waiting for silence, removing the bodies,

To the massive fire-pits.

She thinks she will faint,

Standing inside the blackened walls,

Imagines where it happened.

Sees where history was made,

In pursuit of a eugenic final solution,

To wipe undesirables

From the face of the Earth

To Canada then, to bear witness,

To the residues of countless victims,

Suitcases of personal papers,

Glass cases full of shoes, of clothing, of toys,

Of teeth, of hair and of bones,

And every re-useable, recoverable substance.

Exhibitions, reconstructions, documents,

Photographs, testimonies, memories.

The deniers over-whelmingly denied.

Yet these school-children rush past her,

Shouting at each other, and into their phones,

Crisp packets rustling, coke cans drained,

Laughing and joking, cat-calling,

Oblivious to euthanasia,

Ignorant of this inhumanity,

And for whom the holocaust has little meaning.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Holly & The Ivy

The Holly & The Ivy

The turkey and the gravy
With herbs and spices crowned
With all of the most tasty food
The turkey must be found

The wrapping of the pressies,
The pouring of the beer
The playing of merry boardgames
Shall aid our Christmas cheer

The turkey bears the wishbone
As magic as can be
And Christmas has the baubles
That hang upon the tree

The specials on the telly
The relatives are here
The drinking of sherry gladly
Will make this day less clear

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Doorway

Doorway

This public passage from street to inside,

A portal into commerce,

Its shining steps, and marble facings,

Its heavy glass doors, its lobby and gaping atrium,

People in and out, coming and going,

Busy thoroughfare for business,

And those there by appointment.

Open by day, inviting, warm and welcoming,

Drawing in customers, callers and couriers,

A doorway beckoning easy entry,

Its corporate face smiling outwards into sunlight,

Beyond solid security guards standing sentry,

Later closing, and locked up for the night.

After hours it’s quiet, deserted, no longer used,

Unlit, unfrequented, darkened, but mostly dry,

The entryway blocked off at night-times,

Tall-ceilinged, an ingle in the gloom,

Reduced to a cul-de-sac,

Three sides of a room,

Sheltered from the wind, and the worst of the cold,

A personal, private dead-ended space.

Such unfashionable accommodation,

At the heart of the West End,

But welcome nevertheless:

Singles only, I’m afraid -

No mattress, no breakfast,

Bring your own bedding and towels,

Lacking any en-suite,

Early check-out on week-day mornings,

If not woken by passing feet,

Or a copper to move you along.

Regular haunt for those on the street,

A good spot if you’re in the know,

Safer than shelters or hostels,

When there’s nowhere else to go.

By first light, it’s change-over time again,

Turning back into the same old place,

Where a care-taker sweeps away the night’s rubbish,

And the building resumes its implacable face.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Chocolate

Chocolate 

Licky, soft, and warming,

Thoughts of future pleasure.

Sticky, smooth and brown,

Velvety, melting dark treasure

To be enjoyed all alone,

In secret time of leisure.

Fudge, flake, finger,

Chocolate, by any measure.

Bar, block, biscuit,

Dark, milk or white,

Pure, solid, refined,

Hard, shiny, jewel-bright,

Fruity, nutty, whole -

Each a welcome bite.

In coffee, cake or cocoa,

Tempter in the night.

Forbidden, stolen moments,

Always finding favour,

Inexorably drawing in,

Towards the flavour.

Calling, just like a lover,

Hidden pleasures to savour.

Exotic Aztec offering,

To gilded gods high-placed:

Rare regal substance,

Ritual priestly paste,

Unrefined, bitter,

Not the modern taste.

Cholesterol-building,

Against medical advice,

Guilty, tempting treat,

Naughty but nice,

Oozy, boozy liqueurs:

Never need think twice,

But go to any lengths

To get the hit, beyond price.

Truffles in the box,

Let there not be any lack.

Serotonin rush,

Anti-oxidant crack,

Helping brain remain sane,

Bringing good feeling back,

Seducing the mind

Floating on aphrodisiac.

Eager anticipation

Of pleasure to come,

The fingers lingering,

To catch the last crumb,

Licking up the final drop,

Senses drowsy and dumb,

Oral organic orgasm,

Satisfied, finally numb.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

A Long Coffee

A Long Coffee

Hands clasped round her coffee mug,

She sits, but rarely drinking,

Staring into middle distance,

Detached, distracted, thinking.

In front of her the sugar sachets:

Three of white, and three of brown,

Placed in defensive formation,

Mirror of her worried frown.

Each drink maybe lasts an hour,

While she loiters and she lingers,

Waiting for the hours just to pass her by,

Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.

Alerted by the door, she glances up,

Checking the face of every stranger,

Then sinking back into her reveries,

Relieved she’s not in any danger.

She has precious little money,

Neither cakes or biscuits she can choose.

She’s read the newspapers through and through,

Waded through the gossip-column news.

It’s just something else to pass the time,

It’s the same thing every boring day,

And, with a tacit understanding,

The manager now just lets her stay.

He doesn’t want to get involved,

And, although she’s never said so,

He can see how she’s likely fixed,

That she has nowhere else to go.

She’s anonymous, a total no-one,

A cipher, a shadow, never making sound,

Avoiding any lasting eye-contact,

Blending with the faceless back-ground.

Making patterns on the table,

The same routine, killing off the dead time,

Reflecting on her empty life,

As if being friendless were a sort of crime.

She stares out through the window,

Watching the world as it wanders past.

Then buys yet another coffee,

To see how long she can make it last.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 21st December 2014

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

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

1.       In line with the rest of the country, Bromham experienced frenzied pre-Christmas scenes yesterday on Scramble Saturday.  Sales in the village shop were up almost 3% compared with the same period last year, although this may have been accounted for by Mrs Bullimore opting for the large packet of luxury chocolate biscuits, rather than the standard size like last year.  At times there were queues of up to two or three people waiting to pay for a paper and a pint of milk.  The shop stayed open for an extra 15 minutes yesterday afternoon in order to cope with the additional demand.

2.       A row has broken out between the Parish Council and the management of the Roxy Picture House on the High Street.  The latter have refused to show the latest film which parodies the exploits of a gang of tomato-pickers, after the National Union of Tomato Services (NUTS) threatened to throw stones through the windows of the foyer, in protest at the comic portrayal of its members.  Peter “Paddy” Piglet, leader of the Parish Council said that the management of the flea-pit should have spoken to him first, before crumbling before such an outrageous demand.  He said it was his job to crumble before such demands, not theirs.

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

When I Am Sixty I Shall Wear A Hat

When I Am Sixty I Shall Wear A Hat

When I am sixty I shall wear a hat

Whether it be cold or not

I’m not sure what you think about that

The weather notwithstanding

I feel the time has come to adopt a little style

To assume a certain persona

A characteristic feature by which I am known

And seen about the town

I haven’t yet made a decision about the gloves and scarf

Although I think both are highly unlikely

For I do not want to be too encumbered

In my daily perambulations

But a modest titfer perched aloft

Covering what remains of my thin hair

May be that thing which is missing from my life

And makes a certain statement

And although it may slow me down

Owing to wind resistance

Its shape being unlikely to be streamlined

Perhaps I might appear a little taller

And people will recognise me from a distance

As I go about my daily business

And say to one another ‘there he goes –

That man who wears a hat because he’s sixty.’

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

A New Christmas Carol

A New Christmas Carol

Christmas comes but once a year,

So let’s thank the Lord for that.

The turkeys are becoming nervous,

And the geese are getting fat.

There’s fake snow everywhere,

And decorations that look tired.

Whilst down at the Job Centre

Some Santas are getting hired.

For it’s that season of good cheer,

With yuletide adverts day & night,

But with early carol-singers

It’s hard to get a Silent Night.

The season starts sooner every year:

In the shops they’re already selling holly.

But with all these xmas jingles about,

I’m finding it hard to keep things jolly.

In the gloomy shopping precinct,

They’ve put up the civic lights.

But it’s hard to start getting all yo-ho-ho,

When there’s still some weeks beforeholy night.

And in the shops they’ve got yuletide offers,

With Santa sitting in his grotto,

Selling booze at half the price,

With the promise that we’ll all get blotto.

With new ideas for Christmas gifts,

Re-packaging of every blessed thing,

And people buying presents -

Hark! - the herald cash-tills sing.

But Yule can be a lonely time,

Especially for those still single,

Serving to remind them of their state,

With every irritating jingle.

TV adverts showing happy families,

Like some cosy scene in Dickens,

Gathered round a roaring fire,

Whilst we shop online like headless chickens.

Once in Bristol’s Royal City,

You could hear a festive carol.

The prices have gone up till January:

They’ve got us over a barrel.

So deck the halls with boughs of holly,

And ding-dong merrily on high.

When you’ve spent more than you can afford,

It’s getting time to question why.

Good King Wenceslas didn’t have to go shopping,

Even on the Feast of Stephen.

So why do we have to try so hard,

When we’re fighting to break even?

  

It’s all got very mixed up these days:

I think there’s quite a danger

Of having three TV pundits

Voting to put reindeer in the manger.

You can’t make a snowman out of rain or sleet,

Nor find three wise men to employ.

There’s no good reason to be cheerful,

Nothing to bring tidings of comfort & joy.

God rest ye merry gentlemen,

But you know it’s not very funny.

It’s no longer a celebration,

It’s just about the money.

And “do they know it’s Christmas?”

Is a song you’ll probably sing.

But it’s not just about Africa

Do we really know what we’re doing?

But I suppose I should have greater cheer,

And stop with all this huffing,

So now I’ll just say “Bah humbug!”

And “could you pass the stuffing?”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Lady Gail

The Lady Gail

Walking along the footway,

A path carried over a ridge,

Looking down at the old waterway,

From high, on top of the bridge.

Spying the weathered old barge,

Tethered to stakes at the edge,

The ropes twisted and tight,

Between the reeds and the sedge.

Thin metal chimney poked through the roof,

Emitting a steady smoke plume,

From the stove near the stern,

The thin galley, a shortage of room.

With fine, faded old artwork,

The reds, the greens and the blues,

Artful, intricate pictures,

Golds, yellows, several hues.

This girl had been beautiful once,

Though her paint had turned pale.

Now low, and snug in the water,

An old vessel, “The Lady Gail”.

Well-travelled, an itinerant,

Good body, mellowed face,

Wandering the waterways,

Moving on from place to place.

For days she moored there quietly,

Majestic, as if lying in state,

Resting her bones in the water,

Waiting, down near the lock-gate.

Then one day, towpath all covered in ice,

A space by the bank newly appeared:

The Lady Gail had slipped her mooring,

Just as I’d expected and feared.

No sign of her in either direction,

Her stay with us turned into history.

The cold water sadly deserted,

Her next destination a mystery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Interview For The Job Of Santa Claus

Interview For Job Of Santa Claus

Welcome to our store, dear gentlemen,

If you could please form an orderly queue.

We’ve lots of interviews scheduled,

But we’ll get round to talk to all of you.

Please hand in your Curricu-Claus Vitae,

As you enter the room through the doors,

And we’ll get on with the process

Of picking this Christmas’s Santa Claus.

Of course there’ll be lots of questions,

We have to be careful who we employ,

For we’ve found it’s not just anyone,

That can spread tidings of comfort and joy.

The job description’s a bit wider this year,

As the recession continues to bite:

We’re expecting much more from our Santa -

We’re determined to get our choice right.

So there’ll be lots of questions to answer,

As we try to get right to the root,

Of who’s the very best candidate,

And before we hand over the fat suit.

For example: do you have experience

Of being seated for many long hours?

Are you possessed of rosy-cheekedness?

And is cheerfulness within your powers?

It’s more than just being good with children,

And dealing with all those little cuties,

For you’ll have to muck out the reindeer,

And carry out Elf liaison duties.

You’ll be working with height-challenged workers,

Cos Elf & Safety’s a modern-day fact,

And seasonal work isn’t much of a perk,

For it’s only a limited contract.

You’ll need “Toddler Expectation Management”,

Cos some of their parents can be real rough!

Do you have a current sleigh-driving licence?

Otherwise this role’s gonna be real tough.

For, dealing with demanding children,

You must be brave and not be a-feared.

Do you have enough roly-poly-ness,

And do you think you could grow your own beard?

  

We’ll need your face crinkling, and your eyes twinkling,

A constant yo-ho-ho you’ll have to do.

You can’t have a bad back, if you’re to carry that sack,

And do red-and-white colours suit you?

You’ll be part of the retail experience,

Thus extracting the parental dime,

And there’s through-put targets to be met,

So each child gets limited knee-time.

You’ve got to be endlessly cheerful,

But work-place sobriety  is our motto -

You can’t go out and get yourself beer-full -

Nobody gets blotto in our grotto!

Cos though there’s many temptations,

From all the bottles and beer barrels,

You’ll have to find another way to block out

The endless loop-tape of Christmas carols.

They say “don’t work with animals and children” -

Normally we’d endorse this as a rule,

But if one of you doesn’t take this job,

Nobody’s gonna have much of a Yule.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Man Wanted For Questioning

Man Wanted For Questioning

Police this morning took the unusual step of issuing a detailed description of a man they wish to interview in connection with a wide range of serious offences.

The suspect is described as being of below average height, and of stout build, bordering on the obese.  He bears a great deal of facial hair, white in colour, consisting of moustache, full whiskers and a long flowing beard.  This may have the effect of partially disguising his facial features, which are said to consist of:

·         Twinkling, sparkly eyes;

·         Glowing, almost red, nose and a

·         Jovial grin, showing white teeth;

He is known to dress in a very recognisable outfit, which may include:

·         A bright red, two-piece suit, trimmed with white fur;

·         A matching red hat, also white-trimmed, tapering to a point with a white pom-pom;

·         A pair of black snow-boots, with trousers tucked in;

·         Black leather belt, tightly cinched at the waist;

·         A pair of wire-framed spectacles;

·         A bulging sack, carried over the left shoulder.

He is often seen wearing a broad grin, and is reported to frequently utter such phrases as “Ho, ho, ho!”, “Have you been good this year?” and “What can I do for you little girl?”

The suspect is wanted in virtually every country in the world.  Interpol have revealed that he is a global criminal, and uses many aliases and different identities to avoid detection and capture.  These include:

·         Kris Kringle

·         Santa Claus

·         Saint Nicholas

·         Father Christmas

·         and Sinterklaas

He is thought to be of North Pole extraction, although his exact nationality is not known.  He has been reported to travel without a passport, crossing international frontiers undetected and with complete impunity.  His criminal associates include:

·         reputed “magic” elves, but also

·         pixies and

·         dwarves

He travels worldwide, using a high-speed sleigh (registration mark unknown), propelled by a number of reindeer, who go by such names as Rudolph, Donner, Blitzen, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet and Cupid, although these too are thought to be mere aliases.

Inspector Foot, of The Yard, stated:  “this is a very dangerous man, and he should not be approached by members of the general public.  Any sightings should be reported directly to the police, who will deal with the matter.  He is wanted in connection with a variety of crimes including:

·         paedophilia – he has been observed “grooming” small children, by offering them sweets and small presents, encouraging them in close, intimate contact by sitting them on his knee, inviting them to put their hands into his “sack” to pull out a goody, and by visiting them in schools, hospitals and children’s parties.  Through his so-called “charity” work, he has been given unfettered access to the bedrooms of small, sleeping children, where he has been free to carry on his sickening activities in comparative secrecy;

·         housebreaking and burglary – he has been reported entering a wide range of private houses without permission from the householder.  His specialism, and trade-mark, is in forcing an entrance by way of the chimney to the property;

·         fraud and deception – goods and services have been ordered from him, which have either never been delivered at all, or have been delivered in a different specification to that required.  When customers have attempted to contact this Mr Claus, no phone-number or business address has been discovered.  Mail sent to Mr Claus at The North Pole has been returned unopened;

·         Health & Safety and Industrial Relations violations – his workshops near the North Pole have been discovered to exploit elvic workers by paying less than the minimum wage, by denying rest-breaks to elves, and by operating these workshops under sweatshop conditions during certain seasons of the year, especially September to December, then laying workers off without pay in the January period;

·         Animal cruelty – his nine reindeer are reported to have been driven around the globe for long periods without a rest, pulling extremely heavy loads through appalling weather conditions;

Inspector Foot added:  “we would very much like to talk to this man.  He is known to go to ground for nine or ten months of the year, but usually makes a sudden rush of appearances around the Christmas period, when we are often inundated with sightings.  Our job has been made that much harder by the recent phenomenon of members of the public dressing up in imitation of the suspect.  However, I cannot stress strongly enough that this man is not a charming, quaint, folk-lore hero.  He is a vicious international criminal intent on spreading his particular blend of “tidings of great joy”.

A large reward, consisting of £500 of Comet vouchers, has been offered for any information leading directly to this man’s capture.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014