Vive La Difference

Vive La Difference!

I could never learn a foreign language:

I’m far too proud of the English for that,

And, as for French, in particular,

My attempts at it always fall flat.

I’m too laissez-faire, I don’t really care,

But I think I should mention, en passant,

That I’m happy to enjoy their French food,

In a café with coffee and a croissant.

Some hors d’oeuvres would go down quite a treat,

Or the tastiest plate of Coq au Vin,

Moules mariniere and a bowl of frites:

I could eat them all, with chic and élan.

The grand fromages of France I simply adore:

Camembert, Brie and Roquefort for a start.

The fierce Maitre D’ holds no fears for me,

Working my way through the a la carte.

And the great wines of Burgundy and Loire,

From the Cotes Du Rhone, Provence and Bordeaux.

No sommelier’s gonna put me down,

Though far off-piste I’m willing to go.

Entre nous, I’m probably just lazy.

I’m blasé you can easily see,

For I just won’t put in the effort:

I want it all as a fait accompli.

Mon Dieu! I’d love to be a linguist,

But I find it tricky and hard:

So many Gallic twists and turns:

One has to be constantly en garde!

There’s the masculine and the feminine:

From these genders I’d need to be spared.

Sacre bleu! If you don’t watch what you say,

It’s easy to end up in the merde!

I could cause a major brouhaha,

My feckless faux pas considered crass.

The entente cordiale might be at risk,

Before I deliver the coup de grace.

There’s no obeisance in my renaissance,

I think I would lack the je ne sais quoi;

I just wouldn’t look right in a beret,

Casually smoking a Gaulois.

  

My daily entrée to every new day,

Is too lazy for many to ignore:

I just can’t get myself ensemble -

I think I lack the esprit de corps.

You see - I can’t speak a word of the French.

It’s obvious and easily seen,

So I sit and fume, with my nom de plume,

And on the debate bring down the guillotine.

Yes - I’d best stick to ‘Allo ‘Allo,

And try and do the best that I can.

I’ll hang on to my plain old English,

And sadly say “non – je ne regrette rien”!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Coming Second

Coming Second

It’s the position to be avoided

Silver-medal placed

Coming in as the runner-up

Speaks of being but second best

Almost a champion

But there is little consolation to be derived

Standing one step down upon the podium

Holding the rictus smile of pleasure

Hiding the bitter tears of disappointment

And pent-up frustration

Whilst congratulating the winner

Who, on this occasion

Has clearly been the better man

And perhaps remembered

To be so for ever

And in the eyes of the world

He is the best of men

The joyful victor

True focus of attention

And he who gives the interviews

To the waiting press

Allowing the beaten loser

To quietly slope away

And reflect upon

What might have been

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Hadrian's Wall

Hadrian’s Wall

At last I could make it out

A narrow walkway

Rising from the grasping earth

Loose and crumbled stones

Tumbled from once-good order

And straight alignment

Random fallen

Among coarsest tussocks

Of grass and mossy ground

Out here on the stormswept moor

Leagues from civilisation

Amongst ice and bitter cold

Lie lichen-covered blocks

In faint traceable patterns

Which snake and wind their way

Across the louring landscape

Here sits long-abandoned evidence

Of mouldering ramparts, towers, turrets

Interrupting the regular line

And there a garrison fortress

Perhaps provided simple shelter

And some rough respite

Haven against adverse weather

And painted barbarians

Invading from the North

But is this all that’s left?

So little sign these days

Of the forbidding Roman structure

Only the merest thin grey line

Of no great height

Threading through the frozen land

To be defended at all costs

By shivering Legionnaires

At the very end of Empire

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

More Than Enough

More Than Enough

You heard more than enough

When you listened in the night

To me talking in my sleep

Whispering a name that was not yours

And sweet endearments that were not meant for you

You felt more than enough

When you stood and shivered

Cold and fearful, as I tried to touch you

And make it right again

To fix what could not be mended

You said more than enough

When you walked away from me

In a trail of burning anger

That would not settle

Which hung around you, dog-like, snarling

You did more than enough

When you disappeared

Without any final words

Leaving no explaining note

For me to dwell upon, or find any consolation

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 26th April

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 26^th April 2015

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

1.       With less than two weeks to go before the Parish Council elections, excitement in Bromham is building to almost fever pitch.  Fears have been spread that a Hung Council might be the result, and that the balance of power may be in the hands of the Seend Separatists and their ruralistic agenda, or a coalition propped up by members of the Fruitcake Stall.

2.       Emergency meetings and negotiations are under way amongst many Wiltshire villages in an attempt to address the crisis of the “boat people” of the Kennet & Avon canal.  Many of these poor people, “silverhead tourists” have taken to the water without any form of knowledge, training or common sense, using holiday boats supplied by unscrupulous charter companies, and have ended up getting lost, sinking, or getting stuck in the locks of the Caen Hill flight.  The cost of rescuing these individuals is causing major problems.  One solution that has been proposed involves finding ways of stopping these desperate individuals from getting into boats in the first place.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Sunflower

Sunflower

A slate-grey cloudy sky

Glowers from above

Hangs heavy on the morning

Low ceiling’d over daytime

Shading each dew-damped surface

With sombre tints of black and grey

A palette washed of any colour

Provides no point of focus for the eye

But among the general wash

Of drab and dripping greenery

Rises one tall defiant stick

Huge leaves drooping sadly

Towards the sodden earth

And almost proudly

Bears its over-loaded head

Faces up towards the light

And spreads one sudden smile

In a gash of vivid colour

A burst of golden yellow

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Gluten-free Sausages in Stout

Recipe for: SAVERNAKE SAUSAGES (Gluten-free)

Ingredients:

·         6 good quality GF sausages (e.g. Black Farmer)

·         Large red onion, peeled & thickly sliced

·         Large leek, trimmed & thinly sliced in rounds

·         Knob of butter

·         1 tblsp GF flour

·         1 tblsp tomato puree

·         1 tblsp honey

·         1 bottle GF K&A Savernake Stout

Method:

1.       Set the oven to 170C (fan 160C) to warm up.

2.       Quickly fry or grill the sausages, just to colour them all over. Remove from heat & place in a medium-sized casserole dish.

3.       Meanwhile gently saute the onions & leeks with the butter until they are soft & just starting to colour, stirring occasionally.

4.       Stir in the flour & cook for one minute, stirring constantly.

5.       Gradually add the Savernake stout, stirring constantly.  The sauce should thicken.

6.       Stir in the tomato puree, honey & season with salt & pepper.

7.       Once everything is combined, pour over the sausages in the casserole dish.

8.       Cover the dish with a lid or some foil & cook for 30 minutes in the oven.

9.       Remove the lid or foil & cook uncovered for another 5-10 minutes.

10.    Serve with mustard mashed potatoes & buttered cabbage.

Gigolo

Gigolo

Your back arches slightly

Settling into my confident embrace

As we take our turn around the floor

Dancing late into the night

Under the sparkling necklace

Of deck-lights

Flickering in the breeze

Reflected across the silent sea

Your hand squeezes mine tightly

To tell me that you are happy

With my commanding movement

My manicured appearance

My attentive service

And my obvious devotion

You murmur quietly

That we make a lovely couple

Despite the difference in our ages

Dressed to impress

Our smiling faces

Turned to the world

The envy of others

You tread lightly

Calm and collected

For tonight you may have anything

Whatever you desire

My time is completely yours

To do with as you please

I whisper what you wish to hear

My nightly work

Professional and paid-for

Personal and discreet

Tailored to your requirements

And whatever you can afford

You have your life

And I have mine

We are both content

With the nature of our transaction

But there can only be this evening

And we do not ask each other

Too many questions

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Empty House

Empty House

I may have been mistaken

When I heard another door

At the far side of this room quietly closing

At the very second I entered

Leaving someone else’s breath

A feeling of their presence

Within the empty space

Yet there is nothing here

Except this puzzling void

Pregnant with the possibility

That the designer of these rooms

Is inside this labyrinth

And may still be here walking somewhere

Just beyond where I can see

The next door is locked

The handle rattling in my hand

And I must retrace my weary steps

Back from an unexpected cul-de-sac

Only to think that he is now behind me

Yet when I turn to face him

There is no-one there

His elusive presence troubles me

As I seek him out without success

For whilst it may appear

That our paths must have crossed

At some time upon my search

I cannot find any clear sign

That he was ever really here

At times I believe that I am quite alone

Inside this deserted edifice

Yet then I hear faint sounds

Just beyond where I am standing

Which defy all definition

I worry at this illusion in my mind

The elaborate trickery

Or circularity of perception

Turning round upon itself

Allowing me to almost see

Myself disappearing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Unanchored

Unanchored      

                                                                                                        

Her leg hangs languidly

Over the side of the lounger

Above long- forgotten drinks

Their ice melted in the heat

On the light-bright surface

Of the blinding polished deck

Amid a tangle of abandoned magazines

Crumpled pages colour-bleached

Lost beneath the relentless, blazing sun

The yacht wallows gently

Shallowed near the shore

Warm water cradled

Swinging slowly round

Shifting position, drifting with the tide

In the heat-baked afternoon

Where nothing stirs

And there is not a breath of air

Nor any breeze to cool the burning day

Suddenly aroused, the girl looks intently

Towards the shimmering island

Alert to its spice-infused aromas

Believes she hears it calling

Feels the bow pull against the chain

Dragging the light anchor

Through the soft white sand

Beneath the gin-clear water

Where acid-blue fish dart

Between shafts of flickering sunlight

She aches to step ashore

To feel the firm-ness of the Earth

Beneath her naked feet

A home to hold on to

A fixed point within her orbit

Un-shifting, unchanging

A steady, stable foundation

Where she could remain

Upon which she might build a life

And feel that she had finally arrived

At some long hoped-for destination

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Waiting

Waiting

I pushed my way through the throng to the bar,

My ears assailed by drink-induced sound.

I’d put off it off as long as I could –

It was my turn to get in the next round.

Two lagers, two beers and a Guinness:

I knew that this wouldn’t be cheap.

But when I’d found my way to the target,

I saw that they were standing three deep.

I waited, I wheedled and I pushed,

I wormed my way through with a grunt.

Finally I crawled under their legs,

And eventually came up at the front.

They were all shouting and yelling:

Everyone was giving it a try,

Waving their fivers and their tenners,

Trying to catch the barmaid’s lazy eye.

She moved with the speed of a retarded sloth

On Mogadon, or a backward old tortoise.

Unimpressed by the frenzy of punters,

As if life itself held little purpose.

She took several passes, to find the right glasses,

To serve out pale ale or strong cider.

She poured gin-and-tonic, in a state catatonic,

And for beer, needed an old dog to guide her.

Some ice and a slice were beyond her:

Optics, mixers and bottles bemused her.

She couldn’t add up for toffee,

And the till completely confused her.

All around me were desperate people,

Yet from serving them quickly she shrunk.

With service at this glacial speed,

There wasn’t a chance of getting near drunk.

Empires rose and fell, and Hell froze over

In the time it took to serve out one cocktail,

And the period to complete one round

Was measured on the geological scale.

Nothing seemed to sir this girl up:

She was the world’s slowest barmaid.

By the time she served the guy next to me,

He’d lately died and his body decayed.

But I hung on in there, pinned up at the front,

Trying to catch her with a nod and a wink.

I might be several years older now,

But I was determined to get me a drink.

Galaxies formed, and faded away,

And the Universe fell in disorder.

Till she, at last, asked me what I wanted

And, finally, it was my turn to order.

But time had moved on, my memory gone,

I must have looked like a proper chump -

I’d forgotten the drinks that I’d come for,

And on the bar, my head I started to thump.

I racked my brains for some answers,

But there were only “ifs” and “ands” and “buts”,

And that’s why we’re all drinking crème de menthe,

To wash down our pork scratchings and nuts.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 19th April 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 19^th April 2015

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

1.       Villagers in Bromham have been faced to wait for hours on end to see their GP or to get treatment at Bromham Cottage Hospital’s A&E department, following an outbreak of pollitis.  Residents report breaking out in headaches and cold sweats as they are constantly & repeatedly approached by researchers for the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), asking them how they might cast their vote on 7^th May, following every single tedious radio or TV broadcast by a party political leader. “To be honest,” commented Bill “Fucknose” Piglet, “I’ve not only lost track of which party is promising what on a totally unfunded basis, I’ve also lost the will to live”.

2.       And in other news: the Director of Bromham Prosecutions (DBP) came under fire today after she ruled that former Bromham Councillor Delboy “Shagger” Piglet will not face prosecution on ten charges of historical vegetable abuse.  Defending the decision, the DBP, said that Piglet now suffered from an aggravated case of forgetfulness, and that therefore the Bromham public interest would not be served by prosecuting someone who was not only a legume pervert, but a bloody liar also.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Steam

Steam

A heavy grinding, churning sound assaults the senses

Blacks out everything around, a skull-shaking

Teeth-rattling, deafening intensity of shuddering

The platform vibrating, juddering asunder

Then, dirty grey, clanking, slowly rumbling past

Spitting waste into a slate-grey sky

Hot, black, sooty smoke blown from chimney-stack

Hissing, wheezing steam escaping valves and joints, orifices

Leaking clouds of white, dripping water dribbling

Down onto cold wet, coal-black tracks beneath

Hot iron’s sound and smell, coal and fire and oil

And the whispering pressure of the boiler

Hard, heavy turning wheels, slow shimmering spokes

Across glittering rails of steel

Its pipes and pistons, rods and linkages

Crank and turn the shining driving gear

Valves and pumps forcing shafts to motion

Via vacuums and vapours, an elemental driving-force

An intricate inter-play of metal, gas and liquid

Fluid dynamics, perfectly synchronised

Harnessed in the creation

Of this dark demonic beast

And when at rest, at journey’s end, the engine

A leviathan hoarsely wheezing, breathing hard

From its great exertions stands hot, glowering

Every aspect of its bulk, its massive motive power

Its kinetic promise and potential, its working force

And energy yet held back, latent

Waiting patiently under the driver’s steady hand

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Scarecrow

Scarecrow

He has no memory of his making

Or how he came to be here

Staked to his fixed position

In the middle of this muddy field

His face set North towards the trees

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do

Or the purpose of his existence

Except to watch and wait

Through the clearest starry nights

The cold and frost biting at his fingers

And the long and lonely days

The Sun burning into his staring eyes

And bleaching pale his tattered clothes

He cannot move, nor look around

But must stand here, arms outstretched

Alone and forever crucified

His ragged hat and jacket

Flapping in the breeze

Silhouetted against the sky

Stark, dark, and solitary

His few unbid companions

Contemptuous of his looming figure

Casting a slowly-moving shadow

Across the fertile furrows

Boldly walk quite close

Huge black birds that croak and squawk

As they gorge themselves

Upon the seeds and shoots

Perhaps, if he had any feelings

He would pity them

In their fight to feed themselves

Scratching out their existence

From upon the earth beneath his feet

The weather slowly wears him down

Rotting the stuffing of his guts

Which slowly falls away

Vermin-nibbled

And is picked and pecked

To form good nesting material

So that other creatures may be warm

And live another day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Windy Day

Windy Day

Driven inside, the cats hunker down

And sleep their peaceful dreams

In baskets by the stove

Unconcerned by noises in the chimney

And gentle soot-falls gathered in the grate

Every door blow-battered

Gust-clattered windows

Buffeted and blown by the gale outside

Blasting the hedges sideways in its fury

Tattoo-beating spurts of rain

Like gravel against the panes

Heavy water droplets driven every which way

Casements banging in the frames

And, above all else

The moaning and groaning

Howling and whistling

Of the storm venting its fury

Against the brick-work of the house

I think I feel the chimneys shaking

Their prominent stacks exposed

At the highest levels of the air

And then the roof-tiles singing

In nailed and slated resistance

To this unwarranted onslaught

Upon their serried ranks

By clinging fast to hold the line

And keep the house together

Unsheltered, the flowers forced flat

Leaning down against the soaking ground

Bushes and trees bending backwards

Revealing the paler underside of leaves

Pressed hard against the creaking fences

And down the lane, new rivers run their courses

Silt and sand driven from out the fields

Beneath the air-borne fusillade

Of twigs and leaves, and scraps of paper

Swept far into the distance

Beneath the blackened skies

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Swallows

Swallows

A hot day among cold, hard stones

Of crumbled Abbey remnants

Whose fallen arches and tumbled walls

Tell monastic tales of a distant past

And stand stark against a dark blue sky

Which threatens later thunder

Yet, still, there are strong shadows

Providing pools of cooler air

Where one may sit a while

And gaze across the finely-razored grass

To watch in frank amazement

The antics of daring aerial acrobats

Swooping down at break-neck speed

Soaring, then wheeling round

Before diving sharply

To skim low above the ground

Twisting and turning

Seeming to stop dead in mid-air

To change direction in a blink

Then banking away again between the ruins

Seconds later re-emerging, jet-like

Black-and-white arrows

Fanning out in formation

Spitfire-winged stuntmen

Trailing sleek, long-forked tails

Chittering, chattering amongst themselves

In high-pitched communication

Co-ordinating their attacks

Upon the lazy insects

And one is left to wonder

If those medieval monkish men

Who once worked and walked here

So many centuries ago

Saw this same dazzling display

And applauded the power of their Creator

To fashion these clever little creatures

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Beer & Cheese Bread

Recipe for: BEER & CHEESE BREAD

Ingredients:

• 4 tsp sugar
• 2 tsp dried yeast
• 450ml/ 16fl oz brown ale, at room temperature
• 520g/ 1lb 2½ oz strong white bread flour
• 320g/ 11oz wholemeal flour
• 200g/ 7 oz cheddar cheese, grated
• 75g/ 2½ oz parmesan, grated
• 50g/ 2 oz powdered milk
• 1½ tsp salt
• 1½ tsp mustard powder
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 2 tsp fennel seeds
• 1 egg, white only, for glazing

 Method:

1. in a large bowl, dissolve the sugar & yeast in the brown ale & set aside for 5-6 minutes
2. in another large bowl, mix the two flours, cheeses, powdered milk, salt, mustard powder, eggs & fennel seeds
3. add in the beer/ yeast mixture & mix well with your hands until if forms a soft dough
4. using floured hands, knead the dough on a clean, floured work surface for 20-25 minutes until smooth & elastic (if the dough becomes too dry, add a little warm water)
5. divide the dough into two loaves & place them on baking tray(s)
6. using a sharp knife, score the tops of the loaves with a criss-cross pattern
7. cover with a clean damp tea-towel & leave for two hours in a warm, draught-free place until the dough has risen & doubled in size
8. preheat oven to 200C/ fan 180C
9. when the loaves are ready to cook, brush each with the egg white
10. bake for 25-30 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. great served with a hearty soup

We're All Drinking For George

We’re All Drinking For George

We chat in measured mumbles

In our twos and in our threes

Balancing thin cups upon their saucers

Sure it was a hard way to go, and everybody knows it

Very hard on his family we’re all thinking

But no-one talks about the real problem

No-one mentions George and his drinking

Everyone thinks about the good times

He was a good sort, and great company

With a quick joke on his lips, or telling a tall tale

Holding court in his favourite corner

Lewd laughter, green eyes twinkling

Ever-ready for another, if we’d set them up,

Another long night of George and his drinking

No mention of the damage he was doing

Destroying his guts from the inside

His liver wet-rotting, blood-pressure bubbling

His florid face and trembling hands

Everyone here knew that he was sinking

But he took a long time over his dying

And that’s what George got for his drinking

Where were these old drinking companions

When he started losing his way?

Down and damaged, calling the odds

Worse for wear, falling down drunk?

In his cups first thing in the morning

Unsavoury, unwashed and stinking

Unable to get served anywhere?

We daren’t join in with George and his drinking

A murmur goes round the black-coated room

This tea and coffee’s meagre stuff for mourning

There’s a move to push off down to the pub

No-one’s looking his family in the eye

Everyone trying not to cause any offence

It’s what he would’ve wanted, did someone say?

A sliding off for something stronger

And admit we’re all drinking for George today

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015