News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 31st May 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 31^st May 2015

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

1.       Scandal has rocked the North West Wiltshire Football Combination (Germolene League) this week as several officials involved in administering the game were found to have attended matches, some of them in rival South Wiltshire, and to have therefore developed their own opinions on the offside rule.  Despite wide-scale accusations of nepotism and intrigue, the embattled president of NWWFC (GL), Sepp Piglet, denied that he had had anything to do with the appointment of his brother, his brother-in-law, two of his sons, and two nephews to the governing board of the Federation of Independent Football Associations (FIFA).

2.       The leader of the Parish Council, and of the ruling Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP), Dave Wentwrong, has been engaged in an intensive round of shuttle diplomacy across the whole of Wiltshire this week in an attempt to negotiate concessions for Bromham.  So far this week he has criss-crossed the county, meeting leaders of the other Wiltshire towns, eaten several free dinners, attended several photo opportunities, and clocking up several hundred chauffeur-driven miles.  Some people, however, have pointed out that he might be just lost.

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

Now Voyager

Now, Voyager

Farewell then, Voyager, mind how you go,

As you head off into inter-stellar space.

Launched in better times, so many years ago,

In the heat of the technology race.

You’ve been past Jupiter and Saturn,

Which was all we expected you to do,

‘Cause Uranus and Neptune were away,

When near their orbits you travelled through.

Thanks for all of the data you sent back,

With lots of stuff we didn’t then know,

It was all terrifically useful,

And it helped our cosmic knowledge to grow.

You’ve been a really brave little probe,

With electronics from Seventy-Seven,

We didn’t expect you to last this long,

As we fired you up into the heavens.

But your batteries just kept on charging,

Giving new life to you, year after year,

Now you’re leaving our solar system,

And losing all contact with us, I fear.

Your journey’s beyond all previous limits,

And on you, our hopes for deep space are pinned.

You’ve left our Sun millions of miles behind,

No longer assisted by its strong solar wind.

We’ve detected a change in the particles,

That surround you in your travelling,

We’re losing communication with you,

The mission’s slowly unravelling.

As far as anyone knows, you’re unique:

Nothing else man-made has ever made it this far.

Your journey into the next solar system,

Makes you into what we’d call a real star.

Have a good time out there in the Galaxy:

Be careful of the cosmic dust, or worse,

Whatever you encounter in the darkness,

Of that vast and infinite Universe.

We cannot know how long might be your journey,

Or if there’s a destination out yonder,

But you’ll not be forgotten back on Earth,

However long you might finally wander.

If there’s other life out there to be found,

In the emptiness of many light-years,

Remember – you’re not lost, just travelling,

Carrying humanity’s hopes and its fears.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Trousers

Trousers

What a wonderful invention are pants! Or, as the upper classes say, “trizers” -

For the lower male garment comes in many forms - it all depends on what the wife buys us.

You’d think the designer’s not got that much to go on, when he thinks about gentlemen’s kegs,

But - you must have a large hole for the body and (I suppose) at least one for the legs.

Of course, trousers come in so many forms: cords, pantaloons, slacks, whatever you wilt:

Plus-fours, culottes, even trackie-bottoms or, if you’re North o’ the border – the kilt.

But there’s more to it than first meets the eye, and the permutations can be legion -

You’d be surprised at the considerations when clothing a man’s nether region.

For a start, there’s the aspect of comfort, which demands a great deal of care,

But, naturally, some of the problems depend on your style of underwear.

For chaps are sometimes known to go Commando, which can lead to a great deal of slipment,

To say nothing of plenty of movement amongst the various bits of equipment.

But, if they’ve got any sense, they’ll wear undies to keep everything tidy and neat,

Shorts, slips, jock-strap, or a nice pair of boxers, but a good pair of knickers is hardest to beat.

They keep the meat and two veggies warm and, I don’t want to hear any drivel,

For if things below are allowed to get cold, there’s a serious danger of shrivel.

This allows the trousers to get on with their main job, like the role (for the ladies) of their skirts,

Which, apart from providing some modesty, is there mostly for the tucking of shirts.

That’s to say nothing of extra functions, and you’re in no position to mock it,

When we enter that very strange kingdom - the diverse uses of the male pocket.

For there you can keep your change, or some keys - about the contents you can get cocky -

Not to mention that pursuit of little boys - a furtive quick game of pocket-hockey.

Openings and fastenings are many, a subject that can cause some chaps to worry:

Buttons are slow, but zips can be dangerous, especially if you’re in a great hurry.

For you need a belt and braces approach, and you must be aware of what you’re about:

On leaving, “Gentlemen - Adjust Your Dress” - you mustn’t leave anything still sticking out.

So let’s pause and celebrate men’s trousers, a serious subject that everyone mocks,

I hope I’ve explained it all clearly – but just don’t get me started on socks.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Attachments

Attachments

She got it mail-order – it came in a large van -

She’d been wanting it since last December,

And with a flourish of her credit card,

There it was – a new family member.

Now I like to think I’m as clean as the next man,

And with a duster I’m a lovely mover,

But ‘Er Indoors goes in for extreme cleaning,

And she’d demanded the latest hoover.

There’s all types on the market you can buy,

Including several from Mister Dyson,

But it was a special one she’d coveted,

A top-of-the-range one she’d had her eyes on.

It took three days just to unpack the boxes:

The cardboard and plastic wasn’t the least,

For this thing needed major assembly -

I soon found it was a hell of a beast.

This fantastic piece of machinery

Towered above me, erect and so tall,

Covered in sockets, dockets and ports -

So many clips and wires, and that wasn’t all.

The orifices, gizmos and nozzles

Harboured so many attachments and tools,

Brushes, fitments, hoses and extensions:

She stared in wonder at her new Crown Jewels.

There were things for every application:

Truly this was a space-age appliance.

It had more computing power than NASA,

And was forged in the white heat of science.

It could do every possible job needed:

You just had to read the right instruction,

To locate the right setting or programme,

And it would produce mind-boggling suction.

She fell in love with it at first sight,

She could see it would be a lovely mover:

This machine that would do anything -

Truly it was a Swiss Army Hoover.

I remember the days of just pushing one round,

A job that could be done all alone,

But this thing was full of technology,

And I think it had a mind of its own.

  

It seemed to have clear fixed ideas,

About the best method for house cleaning.

There was something about it quite spooky -

If you get the drift of my meaning.

It was all programmes and electronics,

Controls and switches that needed setting,

So complex and damned complicated,

That we’d no idea what we were getting.

It talked to us when it wanted something,

In a synthesised voice thin and reedy,

Like when it wanted its dust-bag changing:

Soon we realised that it was quite needy.

It started to follow me round the house,

Even if I wandered from room to room.

It didn’t like being on its own much -

You could say it was a lonely vacuum.

There was almost nothing it couldn’t do,

And its motor was virtually silent.

I began to feel it was spying on me,

For it was there, wherever I went.

I had to creep quietly when I moved -

It created in me paranoid cares,

Until I discovered a new strategy,

For, just like a Dalek, it couldn’t climb stairs.

I thought that I’d finally beaten it,

And that I’d be able to live in some calm,

But it started using its extensions,

And to plot ways to cause me some harm.

You see it wanted ‘Er Indoors for itself,

And to be the holder of her affection,

It couldn’t stand me being in the way,

And it sought to sever my connection.

So in the end I took drastic measures,

And “by accident” fed it some water -

The explosion was quite spectacular -

There’ll be no more trouble from that quarter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Leek, Cheese & Bacon Muffins

Recipe for: LEEK, CHEESE & BACON MUFFINS

Ingredients:

·         1 leek, washed, trimmed & very finely sliced

·         100g butter, melted

·         4 rashers bacon, chopped (or lardons)

·         300g self-raising flour

·         1 tsp baking powder

·         ½ tsp mustard powder

·         ¼ tsp cayenne pepper

·         2 large eggs

·         175ml semi-skimmed milk

·         150g extra mature cheddar, grated

Method:

1.       Preheat oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas 6

2.       Lightly grease 12 holes of muffin tin

3.       Cook the finely chopped leek in 1 tblsp of the butter over a low heat for 5 mins or until soft

4.       Set cooked leeks aside in a dish

5.       Reheat the pan, add bacon & cook until fat starts to crisp. Drain and add to leeks

6.       In a large mixing bowl, mix sifted flour with baking powder, mustard, cayenne & a pinch of salt

7.       In another bowl, lightly beat the eggs, milk and rest of melted butter together.

8.       Into that, add the cooked leeks & bacon, then the cheese, then the flour mixture

9.       Stir until evenly mixed, but don’t over-do it, or the muffins will be tough

10.    Divide mixture between 12 muffin holes & bake for 25-30 minutes until golden.

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve for brunch snack, or with soup

Drought

Drought

The tramping feet of skinny cattle

Herded along the track

Raise dust billows

Between brown and empty fields

Where the earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Solid in its crustiness

Lies parched beneath a searing sun

Burned and beaten crops

Lie defeated by the dryness

Their wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Down between the cracks of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted

In the cratered furrows

Liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive

The landscape sterile

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Fierce and rain-barren

The glaring, cloudless sky

Curses and punishes the land

Withholds its water from the needy

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drop to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Dirt-crumbled in the empty air

Powdered into shifting dust

Drifting slowly into piles

Driven by an arid wind

Which whispers as it blows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 24th May 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 24^th May 2015

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

1.       The Snug Bar of The Wounded Ferret was packed last night as the results of the Bromham Referendum were announced.  In a landmark decision, history was made when Bromham villagers voted six to five to change local by-laws and to allow inter-species marriage.  Whilst the practise has been common in some of the more outlying fields for many centuries, only now will it be legal to take a sheep or a goat into a formal sexual relationship.  Traditionalists in the staunchly vegetable-farming communities are said to be outraged.

2.       Bromham’s entry in the Euro-Wiltshire Song Contest once more ended in failure, coming in last place.  Despite a rousing chorus and outrageous dance routine, Ted and the Scarecrows’ entry, entitled “Boom-box-a-bang-around-the-barn” failed to impress the judges, drawn from a cross-county panel.  Commenting on the quality of this year’s entry, Peter “Campy” Piglet, the famous Bromham impresario, noted that the group “had been lucky to even score nul points”.

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

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin pearls, peels apart

tiny droplets, liquid beads

sitting pert, proud

waiting, welling moments

brimming, holding pause

awaiting further strength to push on

Then the pump and pulse

the stroke of a distant heartbeat

mechanics and hydraulics

forcing fluid pressure

through arteries, veins, capillaries

the cut-confines broken

an inundation, a rupturing

pouring crimson from the wound

a tracered stream of life-blood

red-staining onto flesh-whiteness

The torn and jagged scratch-line

filled and flooded by the flow

drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

vital to some-one else

but my wasteful gory loss

waiting the staunching, padding, bandaging

or the subtle clotting power

of life’s congealment

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

It’s just that he had to get to the loo.

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

But if it’s brown, you must flush it right down.

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

“Oh dear!  I can’t see how I can mend,

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

As I say, this man was no navvy,

And with plumbing was not very savvy.

He didn’t wish to dwell,

Or to stay with the smell,

But wanted to escape from the lavvy.

He found himself trapped there in the loo:

He was in a right pickle, it’s true.

He put down extra paper,

To cover the vapour,

And wondered what else he could do.

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

 Which caused the said contents to be pushed,

Deep into the water and mushed.

This meant that his floater,

Was no longer a boater,

And decidedly the opposite of flushed.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

Ness knew he needed a proposal,

For the man outside with his nose’ll,

Guess what occurred,

Regarding the turd,

Unless he could conclude a disposal.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Blunt Axe

Blunt Axe

There was an executioner called Beck,

Who was paid to cut off heads by the neck,

But was exceedingly lax,

About sharpening his axe

And of his victims made a terrible wreck.

He gave his instrument a mighty swing,

But, though it was a frightening thing,

It just seemed to drop,

It didn’t actually chop,

And simply delivered a slight sting.

The prisoner with his head on the block,

Whose knees had already started to knock,

Said: “For God’s sake, you dick,

Get on and make it more quick,

Much longer and I’ll expire here of shock!”

This caused Beck to issue forth a great grunt,

And for the whet-stone started to hunt,

For it’s no use just tutting,

When you’re meant to be cutting,

And you can’t chop with an axe when it’s blunt.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge

The door makes a gentle sucking noise as it opens

The yielding gummy seal

Revealing the contents within

The lamp flickering with alarm at my intrusion

Faintly illuminating the gloomy interior

The shelves sparsely populated

With a range of dubious items

Covered and clumsily wrapped

Concealing the substances

Which sit forlorn, congealing

Whose provenance is now unknown

And the subject of fervent speculation

At the back there’s something grey

Hiding, cowering unloved

Shrinking from the scrutiny of prying eyes

Crawling from a mouldy plate

Along the wire-lines to the edge of darkness

Oozing towards the side

There’s a nameless clammy odour

Emanating from that crumbled blob

Which might once have been cheese

Now building its own dairy culture

As it transforms itself into yoghurt

Inching slowly towards the bottom

And perhaps those grey flakes of something

Used to be fine fresh slices of ham

Bought to go with the selection of leaves

Which crouch within their plastic packets

In the special salad crisper below

Transmuting themselves into a liquid form

In three different shades of brown

It’s a sorry sight at this time of night

No answer for a hungry man when desperate for nourishment

It offers little hope of satisfaction

And may be a danger to health

So the only practical thing to do

Is to close the door again, sighing gently

And turn elsewhere for comfort

Whilst making a firm resolution

To clean it out tomorrow morning

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Egg

Egg

There’s a single egg in the fridge

Which sits alone and forlorn

Abandoned by the rest of its dozen

The only occupant

Of that strange frame in the door

I’m in a quandary on how best to proceed

Since it’s not enough on its own

It really needs a companion

To make up a proper omelette

Or to be scrambled with butter

If there were some bread

I could summon some soldiers of toast

And have it soft-boiled

Before knocking its head off

And dunking them in headfirst

Or perhaps poached gently in hot water

Swirling in a vortex of bubbles and steam

Maybe slowly baked in a ramekin

In a bain-marie in a low oven

Or hard-boiled to make a small sandwich

There’s a single egg in the fridge

Which probably thinks that it’s escaped

However I fear it’s much mistaken

Since I can see it’s going to get fried

Now that I’ve spotted the bacon

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Vegas

Vegas

Across the open trackless waste of nothing

The big emptiness of sand and grit

Bare and featureless but for random rocks

A burned brown mineral wilderness

Of yellows, oranges and golden reds

Small, sharp shadows etched into the earth

By a relentless sun that scorches

And torches out its solar energy

Unchanging, fierce and blazing

A crumbled endless horizon, heat-hazed

Beyond the cactus-pocked wasteland

Its desert spikes the only landmarks

In the monotonous sprawl

Fit only for snakes and scorpions

And bleached-white bones

Scoured and scrubbed, sand-blasted testament

To creatures that once expired

Fried alive, tired and shrivelled

Beaten by heat and thirst, died years before

In vain attempts to cross the arid expanse

The dust eddies and aimless whorls

Tormented, driven by staccato wisps of wind

Mindless in their rolling, roiling,

Un-tamed in their blowing, drifting, piling

Through the thin air of nothingness

Scraping and scratching all before them

Hot-raked, parched and toasted

In this waterless wasteland of nowhere

And the vast-canvas painted azure mid-day sky

A painful, acid-hard brittle mono-blue

Shimmers unending, clear and cloudless

Oxygen-free and static-loaded

An all-embracing carapace of glare

Mantling over distant concrete structures

The Strip, Caesar’s Palace and Luxor

White and crimson neon ads rolling
Enticing punters from hot sidewalks

To step inside their cool and dark interiors

For cold beers, slots and tables

The flimsy-dressed hostesses shivering

In the chill of dam-powered air-conditioning

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 17th May 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 17^th May 2015

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

1.       Ministers from across Wiltshire met in the palatial surroundings of County Hall on Wednesday to discuss proposed solutions to the problem of the so-called “boat people”.  Tens of people have been risking life and limb in a misguided attempt to escape from brutal regimes in Gloucestershire, Somerset and Berkshire by crossing the Avon River and Kennet & Avon canal in rickety “pleasure boats” hired out to them by unscrupulous holiday-hire companies.  People have been arriving starving and dehydrated after spending up to a couple of hours without a cream tea in a café or a pub lunch.

2.       Bromham Parish Council procedures were thrown into disarray this week when it was discovered that the leaders of all the parties and all the factions had resigned for “personal reasons”.  Some were thought to be spending more time with their families, some more time with their money, and at least one example of more time with his parsnips.  No-one could be found to comment on the situation since the Clerk of the Council had also resigned.

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

Split

Split

To travel not knowing what may be found

Is the joy, the promise, the hope

Of those who journey open-minded

Delighted by what turns up

The more unexpected, so much the better

But the sudden chasming of the Earth

The falling away of land

The breaking of ground

Its sharp, precipitous edge

Forming a vertiginous rim

Looking over into the stomach-churning void

To the deepest valley bottom

Far, far below the vantage point

Almost beyond the power of the naked eye

Is still the greatest shock

And is a glory indescribable

A level, monotonous landscape

Fools to deceive

And carries no warning

That it conceals within its folds a feature

A whole mountain range of rock

That simply isn’t there

A massive hole of empty space

An accident of geology

In its prehistoric making

A crack, a gash, a split

A weather-riven wedge

A canyon crack in the planet’s crust

A trench of impossible scale

That seduces the senses

Its blues and greys shimmering

A shifting drift of haze

Making a mist of distance

Belying its terrible depth

Down, down into the abyss

  

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Red Shoes

Red Shoes

It’s a strange kind of gap

Or emptiness you could call it

But there is a hankering I have

A longing, a long-held desire

To complete my wardrobe

And fulfil a need I’ve had since youth

When I knew no better

I must have a pair of red shoes or boots

To peer out shyly from my denims

And show the world that I am still alive

But they must not be bright or brazen

The wrong shade, not Royal Mail red

But dark as ox-blood, deep as bleeding

Soft, gentle tongues

Beneath eyelets and laces

Pulled through and carefully tied with double bows

Hard soles and calf-leather uppers

To embrace my aging feet

And carry me through

Until I need footwear no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Quiche Lorraine

Recipe for: QUICHE LORRAINE (and variations)

Ingredients:

• For the pastry:
• 60g butter, fridge-cold, cut into small dice
• 100g plain flour
• Pinch salt
• 1-2 tblsp iced water
• 1 egg yolk
• A little beaten egg
• For the filling:
• 8-10 thin rashers of rindless, smoked, streaky bacon, cut into 1cm pieces
• 200g cream cheese
• 3 egg yolks
• 3 whole eggs, beaten
• 400ml whipping cream (or use less cream & more milk/ eggs)
• Salt & pepper
• A little grated parmesan and/ or cheddar (for the topping)
• Optional other fillings (add or substitute):
• Grated cheese (of any type)
• Ham (in cubes or strips)
• Mushrooms, sliced & lightly sautéed
• Onions, sliced & lightly sautéed
• Herbs (of any type except rosemary, which does not cook easily)

 Method:

1. make the pastry: put the flour, salt  butter in a bowl and mix with your fingertips until you have a coarse breadcrumb mixture
2. add the egg yolk & water, mixing in with a knife or your fingers
3. chill in the fridge for an hour before rolling out on a well-floured surface
4. heat the oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ 350F/ gas 4
5. lightly grease a 20cm flan dish
6. roll out the pastry thinly & line the prepared flan dish
7. cover the pastry with foil or grease-proof, then fill with baking beans and bake blind for 15-20 minutes
8. remove the beans & foil/ paper, then brush the part-baked pastry with beaten egg (this will form a seal & prevent leaks)
9. return the flan dish to the oven & cook for another 10 minutes until the pastry is golden & crisp
10. lower the heat to 170C/ fan 150C/ 325F/ gas 3
11. meanwhile, make the filling
12. fry the bacon in a dry, non-stick pan & render the fat until the bacon is crisp
13. drain the bacon on kitchen paper
14. in a bowl, whisk the cheese with the egg yolks & whole eggs.
15. stir in the cream & season with salt & pepper
16. assemble the quiche:  spread the bacon evenly in the pastry case, then carefully pour over the cheese/ egg mixture
17. sprinkle a little grated cheese & salt & pepper over the top
18. bake in the oven for 30 to 50 minutes, depending on the depth & combination of fillings, until the top is golden brown & the custard has set

 What else you need to know:

1. best served warm, rather than hot or cold, with salad & salsa/ pickles

The Party's Over

The Party’s Over

The daily canvassing’s completed,

The weekly Hustings been and gone:

We’ve had more politics than most can bear,

And none of it has been a lot of fun.

The polling stations are deserted,

After everybody went to town,

The balloons gone softly deflated,

And the banners have all come down.

The counting’s all done and over,

And now the result is finally clear:

If the answer didn’t suit you,

Now’s the time to shed a tear.

The five-yearly chance to vote is finished,

Democracy in action’s had its day,

So let’s take stock of what just happened -

What else is there possibly left to say?

Let’s talk of the winners and the losers,

The inaccuracies of the pundits’ calls:

Of how New Labour got castrated –

Well – they clearly lost their Balls.

Constituencies no longer red -

For them the night was a real mother:

Miliband’s chance to eat a bacon sarnie,

And spend more time with his brother.

And the slaughter of the innocents,

The Lib/ Dems really took it on the chin:

Vince Cable, Danny Alexander, both now gone,

Clegg’s resigned, his career’s now in the bin.

For the Greens it was lost deposits,

But they’re not the ones that are out of touch:

With no proportional representation,

So many votes that didn’t count for much.

And what of those on the Fruit-cake stall?

The right-wing loonies and their nippers?

Their campaign was surely Reckless?

A low-point for Farage and his UKIppers.

And up in Scotland, things turned upside down:

That Nicola Sturgeon’s quite a dish,

But with Alec Salmond in the Commons,

Why are the SNP so obsessed with fish?

But to the victor must go the spoils,

And Cameron’s back in Number Ten.

The Electorate have clearly spoken,

So we’re in for more Austerity again.

It’s an end to Coalition:

The lights have sadly dimmed,

The Cabinet’s drinking full-fat milk,

And there’ll be no more semi-skimmed.

There’s to be no negotiation,

And all those red lines will count for naught.

The gloves are off, it’ll be unfettered

Benefit cuts and measures of that sort.

But as the new boys and girls turn up for work

In Westminster for the start of term,

With their shiny bags and sharpened pencils,

Perhaps there’s a lesson they should learn?

As the old guard clear out their offices,

To spend much more time with their money,

We’ll see the launch of some new careers,

Appearing on Strictly – and that ain’t funny.

Just remember – politics is deadly,

And nobody will shed any tears,

If you go and bugger up anything else,

You might not even last another five years!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Husks

Husks

A gently-trembling hand

Reaches across the beer-ringed table

To grasp the glass half-empty

And drain it to its meagre dregs

Before slowly rolling out a cigarette

With the last of this week’s tobacco

A delicate thread of spittle traced along a line

To seal gossamer-thin white paper

Then tucking it behind the ear

For later consumption

On the way home

Through derelict streets

Deep-set wistful eyes

Survey the scene unchanging

Staring out through rheumy windows

Eking out an eternity of endless days

A waiting-room of dejected men

Rejected and pensioned into retirement

Who feel no ease or comfort

Nor expect any better prospects

Sitting wordless among the others

Staring across the musty bar-room

Where no-one talks today

Since there’s nothing much to say

Ground down by hopelessness

Arms rendered thin and scrawny

Through life-long labour

On shop-floors and in building-yards

Which sit now silent and abandoned

Worn thin by years of heavy toil

Sinew-stretched and weakened

Old muscles worn and wasted

Proud-standing veins show blue

Upon the wrinkled, liver-spotted skin

Of these exhausted men

Insides hollowed out

Husks of what used to be

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Comfort Zone

Comfort Zone

She always said there was a simple choice

To be made each and every morning

When waking out of easy sleep

Her heavy dreams untroubled

By any prickles of anxiety

To lie in tangled bedclothes

Lazy with the feeling that all is well

Comfortable with easy thoughts

About the well-worn path of the day ahead

Merely coasting

Through the normal routines

Along the daily groove of habit

And the same old, same old

But then she thought there was another way -

The stringent spirit of adventure

To step outside oneself

And take the plunge

Without anticipation

By diving into the hard, cold water

Of novelty, of originality

And face up to something scary

That uneasy feeling of standing near the edge

The fierce wind blasting from below

A rising vortex of danger

Nerves taut and jangling

With the sheer exhilaration

Of knowing that we’re really alive

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 10th May 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 10^th May 2015

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

1.       Bromham was left in minor shock on Thursday when, contrary to all expectations, Dave Wentwrong’s Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP) was re-elected to power in the Parish Council for the five hundredth time in the last two thousand years.  Despite hopes from the Seend Fundamentalists, there was no revolution.  Indeed, several opposition candidates lost their deposits round the back of the bike-sheds.  Three of the party leaders were said to be “considering their position”  and weighing up the prospects of spending much, much more time with their families.  So the next five years will be more FLOP.  No change there then.

2.       Party leaders joined service-men and their families at the Bromham War Memorial yesterday, to give thanks for, and to remember those who fell in the last War against the Seend Separatists. They laid wreaths at the tomb of the Unknown Turnip Farmer, sang songs for Victory in Eddington (VE Day) and looked suitably sad for nearly two minutes, before retiring for a major piss-up in lounge bar of The Wounded Ferret.  There was also a celebration of the end of meat rationing in the village with a passionate rendition of the war-time favourite song “Whale Meat Again.”

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