New Year, Old Year

New Year, Old Year

And so the question comes around again,

About hopes and wishes and resolution,

Determinations for another new year,

Or to simply avoid it – that’d be a solution!

Whether to create new personal targets,

To set oneself up for yet another fall,

Or be more realistic of weaknesses,

And admit that you’ll fail at them all.

As if a New Year creates a new life,

Where things will be different and strange,

Rather than some random point in time,

Invented by humans to mark out a change.

It’s just a certain mark in the calendar,

A cold counting of months and of days,

And to track the moon’s movements,

The lunar waxings and wanings of ways.

Just cast your mind back to last year -

What were all the things you promised you’d do?

No - I can’t remember them either!

All forgotten – isn’t that true?

So what’s the point of doing it all over?

You won’t get any fitter or slimmer,

You probably won’t save any more money -

There isn’t a chance – not a glimmer!

Life will continue the way it always does

The only sure things are death and tax,

So just be a little more practical -

Be at peace with yourself - and relax!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Talking At Last

Talking At Last

It’s been a long time

That we have not been speaking

To one another

But I knew what you were thinking

Understood your motives

And got the messages you were sending me

Through the things I saw you doing

And I watched the videotapes

Of you broadcasting to the world

And there was communication of sorts

And there were some weasel words

Passed through go-betweens

Because neither of us would admit

To our fiercely loyal friends

That there was ever any contact

But now at last we’re talking

It’s all out in the open

And the fighting’s nearly over

Dancing round the subject

Of our long estrangement

And being diplomatic in the desert

Delicate negotiations

Parleying peace terms

Jaw-jaw replacing war-war

So why did we wait so long

And let so many soldiers die?

Did so much time really need to pass

And so much blood have to flow

Before we could concede

And yield to the inevitable

That neither of us could ever win?

So while the warriors stand aside

And slump exhausted to the ground

Having fought themselves to a standstill

The politicians move in to smooth things over

And we are forced to ask ourselves:

Was it really worth it?

And is there any greater understanding now

Than there was so many years ago

When all this first started?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Nights Of Terror - Turkey Apocalypse

Nights Of Terror

It’s several days now since Christmas,

And the danger’s quite close at hand,

For the turkey’s carcase still lives here,

And great fear is stalking the land.

The great beast sits there in the fridge,

And has provided for several meals,

But its body continues to shed flesh -

It goes on and on – that’s how it feels!

The cold sandwiches with stuffing

Were acceptable on Christmas night,

But then the cold cuts on Boxing Day

Weren’t the most welcome sight.

And we just kept on carving and slicing,

Big slices of breast meat, and some of the leg,

But we need relief now from this poultry -

The children, poor mites, have started to beg.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have bought such a big bird,

Been more considered, in less of a hurry,

Then we wouldn’t have spent the next five days,

Eating so many portions of turkey curry.

We’ve had quite enough of it now,

The pleasure has really started to pall,

And even with bowls-full of turkey soup,

We still can’t get rid of it all!

There’s only the bones and skin that are left -

It’s a sight that makes us all queasy.

We’d really like to get rid of the thing,

But it’s a task that’s certainly not easy.

For it’s taken up residence in the fridge,

And at my conscience it worries and nips,

And now I’m starting to have nightmares -

Is this the start of a turkey apocalypse?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Battle Ahead

The Battle Ahead

Yet another day to get through:

It’s the only way they can be sure -

There’s always more equipment,

And relentless training to endure.

They look around and watch the other men,

See determination in their eyes.

They’re focused on what they’re doing,

Just a bunch of regular guys.

The trainers shout encouragement,

There’s no let-up in the toil and sweat.

They’ve got to keep on making progress,

For there’s the daily targets to be met.

Every man here has his reasons,

Knows he’s got to do what’s right,

For he’s got to be prepared,

And ready for the coming fight.

Out there, it’s going to be relentless:

No-one will have time to wait for you.

They’ll have to be fit and healthy,

If they’re to have any chance to pull through.

There’ll come a time when they are on their own,

Even though their body’s wracked with pain.

They’ll need to look out for what’s coming,

And pick themselves up, time and time again.

For the battle has moved along now:

And it’s not in foreign fields they roam,

But right back here in Britain,

In the place that will soon be home.

The enemy has changed in nature:

It’s not unseen men with explosives.

The fight’s all about understanding,

Against an apathy that’s become corrosive.

Overcoming injury and debility,

Working circuits round the floor,

The rehabilitation seems endless:

A soldier’s never-ending war.

Life will surely change for the worse -

Even getting around is far from fun.

Missing limbs and other wounds,

Means carrying a stick, no longer a gun.

Discomfort, agony and pain,

The wounds, the stitches and the cuts –

It’ll take bravery and persistence,

And more than a fair share of guts.

Medical staff are the ones giving the orders,

They’re the guys to be obeyed.

Though “Operating Theatre” means something else,

There’s still good reasons to be afraid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 27th December 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 27^th December 2015

                                             

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

1.       With torrential rain for several days, much of Bromham is now flooded.  Flights have been diverted from Bromham International Airport, as the runways have now been converted into a boating lake.  The Kennet & Avon canal is being used for speedboat trials, and the marina has become Europe’s largest outdoor swimming pool.  Dave Wentwrong, leader of the Parish Council, has sent a message of regret, dictated by him personally from the deck of his yacht which is currently moored in the Caribbean.  So that’s all right then.

2.       Christmas was celebrated in the village in the traditional way, with a sing-song in the back bar of the Wounded Ferret, followed by a running fight between two gangs in the High Street and a spate of house-burglaries.  Several people entered the competition to see who could turn wine into water,  Mrs Iva Piglet was caught kissing Santa Claus under his bush, and the pizza was deep and crisp and even.

3.       A Happy New Year to all our readers.  Same old, same old.  Enjoy turning off Jools Holland’s Hootenany.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Post-Natal Depression

Post-Natal Depression

They’ve all gone back to work,

And the kids are back at school.

Here I am in the middle of all the mess,

Clearing up like a bloody fool.

And as I look around & survey the site,

In the fireplace there’s a fall of soot,

An empty sherry glass & mince-pie crumbs,

And a mark where Santa placed his foot.

The carrots we left for his reindeer,

Have been quite nibbled away,

But the droppings on the carpet,

I think is a price too high to pay.

There’s paper wrap & discarded boxes,

Where presents were pulled out in their haste,

Played with for half an hour,

Before joining the rest of the waste.

There’s food left over in the kitchen,

And I think I’m starting to droop.

If I have to eat one more leftover sprout,

Or face another bowl of turkey soup.

The Christmas tree is looking all forlorn,

As its needles drop upon the floor,

And get blown around the house,

Every time someone opens a door.

We’ve started our own recycling skip,

With empty bottles of every sort.

It’s not just the beer & the mixers,

But the gin, the vodka and port.

We’ve watched all of the Christmas specials

They put on the box this time of the year.

Shame they can’t do it the rest of the season,

Instead of the usual rubbish so drear.

We’ve sent home the old relatives

Those aged wonderful old dears.

Now it’s time to take down the greetings cards,

From people we’ve not seen in years.

We’ll take down the lights that cover the house.

Our neighbours think that we’re soft.

Yes, we’ll pack up the baubles & lights,

And put them all back in the loft.

The sparkle’s all gone from the occasion,

All the drinking & eating & that.

They’ve stopped playing Christmas records on the radio:

At least we can be thankful for that.

Now the shops are full of bargains,

The stuff they just couldn’t shift.

Now’s a good time to stock up for next year,

With every possible gift.

I know it’s been quite enjoyable at times,

But now that it’s over for another year,

I’m seeking to get some normality.

So I’ll see you – I’m off down the pub for a beer.

Then I’m off to the dump with the recycling,

But I won’t be coming back in a hurry.

I’m not looking forward to dinner -

It’s turkey & cranberry curry.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Merry Christmas

Just like to wish all my readers a very Merry Christmas.

I'm just about to be infected with Tri-Visitor Virus which will lay me low for the next few days.  It involves a lot of cooking and drinking and changing of beds.  The house will be like a cross between a restaurant, a hotel and a Chinese laundry.

Hey-ho.

National Treasures

National Treasures

I’m fed up of being just normal,

I want people to get my measure,

So I’m thinking of applying

To become A National Treasure.

I want people to look up to me,

As if I were a great monument,

Perhaps pay me a little more respect,

And treat me like a real gent.

It seems fairly easy to do -

You just have to be ubiquitous:

Be famous for being famous,

And avoid being iniquitous.

Billy Connolly, Sir Cliff Richard,

Sean Connery or Dame Maggi Smith,

Clare Balding, Sir Bruce Forsyth

This is the company I should be seen with!

Benedict Cumberbatch is another,

Peter Capaldi – you know! Doctor Who!

Hugh Bonneville and Gary Lineker,

We’re surrounded by good guys and true.

You obviously need to live long enough,

Like Judi Dench or Cilla Black,

Or be a nice guy, like that Stephen Fry,

So they keep on inviting you back.

For these are society’s role models,

Celebrity leaders of our nation,

Liked by everybody’s sister and mother,

Examples that provide inspiration.

But notoriety and exposure,

Appearing in tabloids and all of that caper,

May not be quite the right thing after all -

There’s good reasons not to be in the paper!

I could mention that Max Clifford,

Rolf Harris, Jimmy Saville and Ken Dodd,

And Stuart Hall – each one a celebrity,

And every one turned out a real sod.

No - we’ve had to bring a few of them down,

So now we’re repenting at leisure -

I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,

I think I’ll stay as a hidden treasure!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

It's All In The Numbers

It’s All In The Numbers

We all know the old counting rhymes,

Like “one for sorrow, two for joy”,

But it carries on way beyond there:

Never mind “three for a girl and four for a boy”.

It’s a game of two halves, or even four quarters,

Sometimes it’s “a six and two threes”.

And Lotto and Housey-Housey

Can bring you down to your knees.

Some people have a lucky number,

The National Lottery can send you blotto,

With Scratchcards and the Thunderball,

And the forty-nine numbers in Lotto.

There used to be old Bingo calls -

Clickety-click and seventy-six trombones,

Two fat ladies and Kelly’s Eye,

Now everyone’s obsessed with their phones.

Heinz had Fifty-Seven Varieties ,

I admit I never understood why -

I think they just plucked out any old number,

In order to encourage us to buy.

And extremist jihadist martyrs,

Believed in virgins seventy-seven,

When they brought down the twin towers -

Yes, everyone remembers Nine Eleven.

And talking of in seventh heaven,

With ninety-nine red balloons in flight,

You’re bound to start losing the count,

Try however hard you might.

There were the Fab Four and The Guildford Six,

Joe Ninety and WD Forty,

And if you were three sheets to the wind,

Everyone would say that you were naughty.

Two and two can sometimes add up to five,

That’s when you’ve hold the wrong end of a stick,

It simply means that things don’t really add up,

So find another argument to pick.

A UB40 was for unemployment,

If a P45 had been your fate,

Then you needed to drown out your sorrows,

Until you were one over the eight.

Two’s company, and three is a crowd,

And to me that’s perfectly fine:

I’m ready to give one hundred per cent,

Because a stitch in time is said to save nine.

Do you remember 5-4-3-2-1?

That was a song sung by Manfred Mann,

But it got stolen, and they used it in Houston,

Launching their rockets in the space plan.

Now, I only know one man who called himself Dad,

But it’s of fore-fathers that people speak.

Don’t know what happened to the other three,

But does that make me into a freak?

And as each birthday becomes a bigger number,

I won’t be seeing fifty once again.

I mean – how long have we all got?

I’m told it’s only three-score years and ten.

And when I finally decide to go,

And they dress me in my wooden suit,

I’d like the appropriate send-off please,

With a twenty-one gun salute.

They say you’re as old as the woman you feel,

But as I go gentle into this good night,

Don’t say I didn’t give you the count-down,

Due to my incredible fore-sight.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Other Side Of Christmas

The Other Side Of Christmas

Well it’s come round again, and very unwelcome it is too.  Let me declare my position at the outset – I absolutely loathe Christmas. 

There is virtually nothing about it that I like, and it’s extremely difficult to find any redeeming features in it.   But this is not just another “Bah Humbug!” reaction to the obvious crass commercialism of the modern “festive season”. It’s not just me being a miserable curmudgeon (although I’d always put my hand up to that charge), and it’s not just anti-religious sentiment (but again – guilty as charged).  No it goes much deeper than that.  It’s the time of year that leaves me feeling down and depressed, as if I’m being smothered by it all, and that I’m not going to get through it.  Leaving aside the relentless, rampant consumerism of Christmas, which has become not simply a major marketing exercise for virtually every commercial enterprise, but also almost a year-long logistical exercise in shifting products and services onto an otherwise indifferent marketplace, one has to ask “what’s the point?  What’s it all really for?  Who does it benefit?  And what are we actually celebrating?”  What I see around me these days is something that has grown out of all reasonable proportion, into a Frankenstein’s monster of unattainable aspirations, unaffordable (for many) expenditure, and unwelcome disruption to everything that can be described as “normal”.  The pubs are full of works’ Christmas parties and meals (where people sit around wearing “party” hats, trying to look happy), the buses are on strange time-tables (with drunks slumped across the back seats), and places you need to visit are suddenly closed early or completely (in order to “assist our staff”).  Then there’s the sheer waste generated by millions of unwanted “gifts”, outrageous amounts of “special” packaging, piles of uneaten food, un-needed journeys, special charges etc - it makes me despair. The fact that it’s all based on a garbled 2000-year old religious story which the vast majority of people in this country don’t actually believe in, seems to defy all sense of logic.

But again, it’s deeper than that.  Like many others, I heartily resent the emotional blackmail and manipulation that goes on to persuade people to buy lots of stuff they don’t really want or need for “this special time of year”, the hijacking of the religious myth to create some magical, mystical fairy-tale Dickensian Yuletide of snow and robins that has never existed (and sell yet more stuff), and the constant raising of the bar of expectations by every form of media that people need to clear in order to deliver a “Happy Christmas” to their families (and sell even more stuff). It’s an utter Jabberwocky of confused ideas, images and idiocy.

I find it almost impossible to deal with it by just ignoring it (as perhaps I should) – I find that it grinds me down, it eats away at me constantly, it bores right into me.  The frantic attitudes that emerge as we get closer to “the day” are frightening.  The rush to get the shopping done, the presents wrapped, the cards written and posted, the tasteless turkey ordered, the food and drink stock-piled, the arrangements made for seeing friends and (perhaps unloved) relatives and so on, becomes frenetic.  The crowds in the shops and streets make me feel claustrophobic (and even Santa Claustrophobic), my chest tightens and it’s hard to breathe.  The constant TV build-up – the adverts, the celebrity specials, the multi-channel festive schedule – drills holes through my brain.  I simply can’t get away from it. It’s everywhere.  It’s never-ending.  And it’s all false. And such a total pile of bollocks.

Before anyone starts to psycho-analyse my miserable condition, I should say that (as a child) I used to enjoy Christmas, and I have many happy memories of it.  Perhaps because the whole thing was much simpler, much shorter, more straight-forward?  As a young parent I brought up my own children to enjoy Christmas.  I don’t have a problem with a Christmas tree, a few decorations, presents, cards, a special meal, getting the family together.  But when did it all become so bloated? So extreme? So out of proportion? So unaffordable? So detached from its original purpose?

And, of course, for many people Christmas is a dreadful time of year – because they are on their own, or they have no money, or no home, nowhere to go and share the “festive” spirit.  Out there on the streets of Britain, there is genuine poverty and hardship, which is only thrown into even sharper relief over the Holiday period by the excesses of others.  I count myself very fortunate that I am not among the needy, and can afford a comfortable life.

So what actually is this problem I have?  Is it some middle-class angst? Shouldn’t I just pull myself together, count my blessings and simply get on with it?  I’d love to, but I can’t. It’s like having a huge weight pressing down on top of me, squeezing out the air from my lungs.  Why can’t I just join in and stop being such a bloody misery?  I really don’t want to feel like this, so down and depressed, but I can’t help it.  I don’t enjoy it.  I feel ill.  I’ve never (fortunately) suffered from clinical depression, so I don’t know what it’s like. But I would imagine that this is how it can start – a downward spiral, an inability to cope, a feeling of helplessness, a loss of energy and the necessary resilience to fight back.  It’s horrible. It’s stifling. And every year I dread it coming round even more.  But there’s no escape from it.  We’re just being buried under an avalanche of spurious “traditions” and expectations.

So that’s why I hate Christmas – completely, utterly, deeply.  By mid-January I’ll be feeling OK again, back to my old self.  But for now, it’s a bloody endurance test.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 20th December 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 20^th December 2015

                                             

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

1.       Bromham’s Space Programme continues apace with Tuesday’s latest launch of another transport rocket from round the back of the butcher’s shop on the high street.  Local farmer Tim “Rocket Man” Piglet was the latest “Bromonaut” to join the crew on the orbiting Wiltshire Space Station, where he will be engaged in carrying out a wide range of experiments in zero gravity.  These include growing carrots upside down (to make them easier to harvest) and testing the strength of baler-twine (to investigate its properties as a building material).

2.       Dave Wentwrong, leader of the Field Land-Owners Party (FLOP), and head of the Parish Council, has been engaged in make-or-break negotiations with other Parish Council leaders in the Wiltshire Zone, ahead of next year’s village plebiscite on continued membership of that community.  Over a dinner of boiled cabbage, steamed courgettes and fried broccoli, our glorious leader claimed that, whilst he could not point to any specific thing which he had negotiated in the village’s favour, he felt sure that “momentum” had been created, that “the direction of travel” was the correct one, and that the minor civil servants he had left behind in Trowbridge to negotiate the details were bound to come up with “a major triumph”.  That’s all good then.

3.       A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all our readers.  Same old, same old.  Enjoy your barbecued reindeer steaks. 

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Latest Immigration Scandal

Latest Immigration Scandal - Baby Removed By Social Workers

Report taken from the 26^th December edition of “Bethlehem On Sunday” by their Foreign Affairs Correspondent St John Simpson.

An unmarried mother (who cannot be named for legal reasons) was last night at the centre of a huge row in the sleepy commuter town of Bethlehem, Judea, after Social Workers employed by King Herod, the head of the Local Authority Social Services, seized her new-born child, who can only be referred to under reporting restrictions as “Baby J”, within minutes of the birth in down-market budget hotel.  Local residents stated that the hotel was a by-word for over-booking and over-crowding, especially at holiday times.  The birth apparently took place, without the aid of a midwife, in an over-flow room at the back of the premises.  The mother was stated, however, to be in a stable condition.  A number of animals were found at the same address.

Asking for a Care Order on the infant, Social Workers explained that the mother had arrived in Bethlehem with no means of support, using hired transport, heavily pregnant, and had history of mental health problems. She had drawn early attention to herself by making a number of wild and delusional claims, including not previously having had sexual relations, and having seen a vision of man dressed in white sheets, claiming to be an angel of The Lord, telling her that her expected child was destined to be The Son of God. The woman was thought to want to claim Housing Benefit, Child Allowance, and a number of other State benefits.

A psychiatrist, working for Bethlehem Social Services, testified that the woman was clearly suffering from a possible bi-polar condition and was obviously unfit to be a mother.

However, the removal of the child provoked a furious response from the Shop Steward of the NUS (the National Union of Shepherds & Associated Flock-Watchers) who represent a number of workers in the local sheep-guarding business. They  claimed that they had been quietly abiding in their fields with their sheep, according to normal night-shift procedures, when they had allegedly seen “the sky full of angels, commanding them to go to Bethlehem and to see this thing that had come to pass.”  Bethlehem Police later confirmed that a number of outlying huts had been raided, and a large quantity of hallucogenic substances had been removed and confiscated.

“But when the shepherds got there,” said the Shop Steward, “the child had already been removed from the parents, and all they found were three old strangely-dressed men claiming to be kings who had travelled by following a star-line express coach from Leyton Orient.  They were carrying a number of suspicious packages, which they said were Christmas presents intended for the child that was no longer there.”

An official statement from King Herod’s Office confirmed the presence of the three “kings”, explaining that officials would be detaining them as illegal Eastern immigrants, who had sought to avoid import controls by smuggling into the country a number of illicit substances, including frankincense and myrrh, and a suspiciously large quantity of gold, in clear breach of exchange control regulations. An Official Enquiry will be launched, headed by Matthew Mark-Lucan John, in order that “lessons can be learned”.  It is expected to report its findings by Epiphany, and will be published in the new “Testament” series.  The statement called for all the witnesses to tell “the gospel truth”, although witness statements are expected to differ in many of the details.

Later the authorities also applied for a “gagging” order on the woman’s common-law partner, an unemployed carpenter from the village of Nazareth, forbidding him to speak to reporters from the Bible.  He has been denied political asylum, and is to be deported as an economic migrant.

Meanwhile, the whereabouts of “Baby J” remain unclear, but it is believed that the distressed parents are planning to appeal to the court of King Herod for the child to be returned to them, so that He can accompany them on a flight booked to Egypt.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

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 2015

A Crash In The Woods

A Crash In The Woods

Sometime late, deep in the middle of the night,

Something woke me from slumber’s deep delight:

A whoosh, a wallop, a screech and a big loud bang,

Thunder and lightning, and an almighty clang,

Then a pause, silence, almost nothing at all,

Followed by an explosion, a boom, a fireball -

It sounded like the crash of an airplane,

Crack, then all quiet, then crack all over again.

I ran to the window, and looked into the dark -

It was cold, and starlit, and all of that lark.

It was hard to make out, I couldn’t see all that good,

But it seemed as if something had come down in the wood,

Something was burning, a great tower of flame -

I needed to get out there, this wasn’t no game,

So I pulled on my clothes, and made for the scene -

It was an emergency, you know what I mean?

The site of the accident was pretty easy to find,

A scene of destruction of every possible kind.

It was hard to know where I should start,

But in the midst was what remained of a cart,

Blown to bits, scattered every which way,

What could only be described as the remains of a sleigh,

With smoking and burning bits of debris -

A helluva smash had occurred, it was easy to see.

The bloke that had been driving was stuck up a tree,

And from his red & white outfit he struggled to get free,

So I helped to get him down, along with his sack.

His face and beard were all burnt nearly black,

He smouldered and sizzled, he was in a right state

Berating his rotten luck and cursing his fate,

His looks and his temper were really not sweet,

And his language was far too foul to repeat.

There was fear and panic written all over his face,

And barbecued reindeer running all over the place,

There were parcels and packages spread all about,

And small green elves, crying, and starting to shout -

A small-scale disaster so deep in the woods,

Meant that Santa would fail to deliver his goods,

So I asked if there was anything I could possibly do,

To which Santa replied “I think I’m buggered, don’t you?”

I thought he was worried about the waiting girls and boys,

If he didn’t turn up at their houses to deliver their toys,

But he said that was the least of his worries,

It was bound to happen to a chap that always hurries.
He’d be in big trouble with the delivery firm -

They’d be sure to bring his contract to term:

To his sacking this situation was obviously leading,

And the police’d figure out he’d been speeding.

 “It’s this zero-hours contract that’s to blame:

Too many deliveries to make – it’s a loser’s game!

I’ve got to do every blessed thing, all in one day,

And all they give me is eight-reindeer-power sleigh!

It’s relentless, and there’s no breaks for meals!

It’s simply awful – you’ve no idea how it feels!

Now they’re gonna catch me all bang to rights,

I just knew it would happen one of these Christmas nights!”

I felt sorry for him – he was pitiful and very forlorn,

And I couldn’t do much to help him, but I was torn -

He was a victim of our modern capitalist culture,

Working for a firm that was an asset-stripping vulture,

So I helped him round up the reindeer and the elves,

Told them to grab what they wanted, just help themselves,

Then I took him back to my place that was close by,

And gave him a sherry and a mince pie.

Now I’m not relating all this just for some fun,

But don’t worry – my tale’s almost over and done,

There’s a happy ending to this miserable verse!

You know – things could have been much worse –

They cleared up the crash, and Santa’s out on probation.

He took it easy for a while, then had a vacation,

Got himself sorted out and jumped back on the horse,

And now he’s a delivery driver for ParcelForce!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

More "Carols"

Deck the malls with loads of money,

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Tis the season to act funny,

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Fill the cash tills, use the plastic,

Fa la la, la la la, la la la.

Stretch your money like elastic,

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Crawling through Devizes,

With a one-horse open dray,

Through the streets we go,

Delivering Wadworths for Christmas day.

Jingle bells, jingle bells,

Jingle all the way,

Oh what fun it is to ride

Down the slopes on an old tea-tray.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Some "Carols"

O come all ye unfaithful,

Playful and quite rampant,

Put your mistresses away,

And pay alimony for your infants.

In the bleak mid-winter,

Frosty wind made moan,

Ice & snow blocked roads,

Hemmed in by traffic cones.

We three kings of Orient are,

One in a bus, and one in a car,

One on a scooter,

Pipping his hooter,

Wondering where we are.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

God Rest Ye Merry....

God Rest Ye Merry.....

God rest ye merry shoppers,

Let nothing you dismay.

Remember, Sales, our saviours,

Start before the Christmas day.

To save us all from credit's power,

When we have gone astray.

O tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy,

O tidings of comfort and joy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015