Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner

Hands just washed, all at table

Watching Mam come rushing in

From out the steaming kitchen

The old roasting tin still smoking

Piled high with Yorkshires

Tall and brown and crisp

Dished out quick enough onto cooling plates

With a lake of Oxo gravy thickened as we like it

And finished up in minutes in case there’s one left over

Simple batter puddings to fill our grumbling stomachs

Then the cindered joint of beef

Cooked to the usual formula

Gas mark eight for two hours

When it’s brown, it’s done

But when it’s black, it’s buggered

Lifted straight out of a searing oven

And asking Dad to do the usual

As if anyone else would ever be allowed

To carve the burnt offering

Small, careful, wafer-thin slices

Spread out to look like more

Mam hawk-eyed watching

And quickly passed around till all are served

The grey meat livened up with Colman’s English mustard

And then the roasties handed round

The shining fat still dripping down

Always with carrots or peas

Nothing fancy, plain as always

And what used to look like sprouts

Boiled to within an inch of their lives

Waterlogged and dangerous to know

Pushed to the side of the plate

Reluctantly eaten

Only when threatened with no pudding

The scraping of knives and forks

On chipped and mismatched plates

Hides the murmurs of approval

But no time for chatting amongst the rapid eaters

And first to finish asks if there’s any seconds

But there hardly ever is

For nothing’s ever cooked that might be wasted

Except the remnants of the joint

That will make our Shepherd’s Pie

Or rissoles on Monday

Same as every other week

Then the siding away of dirty plates

And the clattering of the cooking dishes

Piled up in the sink to soak amidst hot, soapy water

And the inquests on any leftovers

Before the pudding bowls and spoons                                                                  

Put in their appearance

A fruit and pastry pie

And lashings of Bird’s thick custard

Topped off with a skin

That nobody seems to want

Feeling full-to-busting

“FTB” says Dad

Heavy stomachs and shining eyes

Everybody had enough?

Before tackling the washing-up

Arguing over who’s washing and who’s wiping

And who shall put the pots away

Mam now tired and fretful

After slaving over a hot stove all the morning

Driven by the need to prove her metal

Haunted by recent memories

Of war-time restrictions

Of rationing and shortages

Making do and mend

Keeping calm and carrying on

And Gran asleep beside the fire

Leaving Dad to read his paper

And listen to the wireless

Where Family Favourites and The Clitheroe Kid

Keep us all amused

And Mam can put her feet up for an hour

Before it’s time for Sunday tea

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Kindling

Kindling

Many years ago

I saw your blackened face

As it shone by firelight

With beads of sweat

Streaking whitened paths

Through the sooty grime

As it dripped into your beard

You stood above the flames

Your features darkened

By shadows flickering

Tending to your bonfire

Watching the orange fingers

Leafing through the pages

As they turned them over, one by one

And burned them fiercely

Within the conflagration

The blasphemous words

Dangerous thoughts

And heretical teachings

Within those banished books

Made easy fuel for flames

Mere card and paper

Covers and bindings

Consumed within the smoke

Rendered down to ash

So that none might read them any more

But now your brow seems furrowed

As you wonder what to do

With all this glass and plastic

Metal and electronica

Casings and batteries

Of phones and iPads

And other hand-held gadgets

That will not catch alight

Nor burn with any purpose

This digital economy

Its airwaves alive with anarchy

Downloaded through the ether

A seditious cyberspace

That cannot be controlled

A communications spectrum

That provides its own oxygen

Requiring nothing else to Kindle

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Sunday 28th June 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 28^th June 2015

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

1.       In another piece of financial brinkmanship, Dave Wentwrong, leader of the Parish Council, has announced that the citizens of Bromham will decide on the village’s future in a referendum, not the bureaucrats at Wiltshire County Hall.  There are continuing fears that Bromham will default on its overdraft payment to the Bromham Bank (currently £327.45 overdrawn), and that the Parish Council will become, in effect, bankrupt.  Queues of up to five people formed at the ATM in the High Street as people rushed to withdraw their meagre savings, and to put them somewhere safer (such as under that big black rock at the back of the cow-shed, where no-one will find it).

2.       And the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) has just announced that a middle-aged, shouty, sweary man who does stupid things in fast cars will replace another middle-aged, shouty, sweary man who used to do stupid things in fast cars in one of their most popular programmes, dedicated to middle-aged, shouty, sweary men who would like to do stupid things in fast cars, but who don’t have the money or the imagination to do it for themselves.

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

Turning Into My Own Father

Turning Into My Own Father

It’s of little use

I can see it all now

The mirror does not lie

I find myself looking at a man

That I do not recognise

Yet is alike, and who looks vaguely familiar

Although I cannot quite place him

I’m sure he is not a stranger

The fullness of his face

The receding hairline

Ebbing back above his brow

A distinctive pattern

That I know from photographs

In the sepia tones of generations

Dark and hooded eyes

Look back towards me

Posing unanswerable questions

Full, fleshy uneven lips

Thickening jowls

Jaw-line set heavy

And the slackness of muscles

Etch long, deep lines within sagging skin

And tell a story of their own

Unblinking he returns my stare

His face unreadable

Implacable and calm

But tired, deadly tired

As if this may be the last time

That he will stand so still

Allowing himself to be inspected

His features so exposed

Under the unforgiving bathroom light

And at last I am forced to look away

No longer able to hold his gaze

Nor to make the excuse

That I am too busy

To spend more time

On this sad reflection

And I am left to wonder

If his eyes will continue to follow me

Around the room

Long after I have moved away

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Cat's Cry

Cat’s Cry

How your crying disturbs me

Makes me sit up and take notice

And listen to your distress

To your prowling round the room

Along the edges and into deep corners

Seeking among the shifting shadows

Something that is not there

And that you will never find

The pitiful, lonely sound

That mewling tone

Of fear and desperation

Catches at me, snags on something

That makes me want to comfort you

To tell you that it’s alright

That I’m always here for you

But you do not understand me

When I try to soothe you

The words carry no sense

In your feline world

And soon the frenzy passes

Back into forgetfulness

And your normal cool indifference

As you cease to enquire

Into the meaning of your existence

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Fifty Shades Of Gravy

Fifty Shades of Gravy (a modern romance)

How long have I loved thee my dearest? – I guess it was since I was a mere child,

But the slightest thought of devouring you is guaranteed to drive me quite wild!

For this is a very ticklish subject, and I don’t like to seem naughty or coarse,

But we’re talking about that sticky stuff, which posh people refer to as “sauce”.

I hate it when things are too watery - to have it like that is surely a sin -

It needs to have some kind of substance - it serves no purpose if it’s too thin.

It just slips off all over the place, and everything starts sliding around,

It doesn’t keep the right things together - you need something thicker, I’ve found.

You see it has to have the right texture, and about this I know I’m quite picky,

But if it doesn’t have enough body, it’ll never stand up and be sticky.

Without it, things just won’t move along, and you’ll be left wondering why,

And if it’s not adequately lubricious, you’ll find everything tends to be dry.

Such lack of lubrication’s a problem and can render you exceedingly grumpy,

‘Cos what you don’t expect, when you get down to it, is for it all to feel terribly lumpy.

And if the flavour’s not tasty enough it can leave you feeling quite queasy,

For the last thing you want at this juncture is something that’s oily or greasy.

It’s got to be configured just right, for the appetite it needs to induce,

To bring forth great oral pleasure, you must have plenty of juice!

No, you can’t have it too firm or too runny - such liquid upon you I just wouldn’t foist,

But something for the meat and two veggies - it’s best to have everything flowing and moist.

Yes the moisture derives from the meat, it’s what you need, if you’re to have dripping,

The jus and the fat come together, and it’s like on nectar you’re sipping.

Of course, I speak not of jelly, but gravy, made with Oxo, Bisto or browning,

Where on your plate there’s an ocean or lake, and the roast spuds are waving, not drowning.

So, I appeal to you ladies out there, if you want something that’ll cut the mustard,

Make sure you’ve got plenty of gravy, and avoid shark-infested custard!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

A Taxing Problem

A Taxing Problem

Times is tough and money is short;

It’s hard to know what to do;

The creditors keep asking for payment,

Especially the Inland Revenue.

But now there’s something that’s bothering me,

It’s difficult to know where to start,

‘Cause some people have hired accountants,

And made tax-avoidance into an art.

It’s all done through complex company structures,

Where they shift all their profits off-shore,

Paying far less than they really oughter,

And making out that, really, they’re poor!

The Yanks seem to be especially cute,

Hiding their earnings in crannies and nooks.

I’m talking about Google and Amazon,

And especially about Starbucks.

But they’re not the only ones in the game,

Who seek for their taxes to minimise,

By shifting their trading operations,

And their sales figures to disguise.

It might all be technically legal,

But morally, ethically, it’s not right.

It’s time that we did something about it,

It’s time for us all to put up a fight!

These corporations can afford to pay tax,

If they want to trade here in our market.

It’s time they made the right contribution –

Otherwise, we should tell them where they can park it!

They’re earning millions and billions,

Selling us books, DVDs and coffee.

The Government seem powerless to act,

And can’t spot the loopholes for toffee.

So let us consumers lead a fight-back,

Let’s see how much spending power we’ve got;

Time to vote with our purchasing choices,

And hit them with the tactics of boycott.

I’m fed up with being taken to the cleaners,

I’m almost at the end of my tether,

And I swear I’ll belt that idiot Cameron,

If he says again that “we’re all in it together”!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Night-time Navigation

Night-time Navigation

I hope you won’t mind me telling you this, but there’s something I have to confess:

I’ve got this disembodied voice that I hear, but where it’s coming from - I simply can’t guess.

Sometimes, whilst I’m sleeping and dreaming, (that is to say, this happens during the night),

Being of a certain age, you see, I often find that my bladder is tight.

I find I have to get up for relief, and I desperately need to get to the loo:

I’ve got to find the bathroom quite quickly, in order to do what it is that I’ve got to do.

But as I disentangle the covers, I cannot but observe it’s pitch black,

And if I were to wake up the old lady, she’d surely give me a smack.

I’m half asleep, and I can’t really see: in fact, there’s no sort of landmark,

So I have to find my way to the toilet, without the aid of a lamp, in the dark.

That’s where my automatic pilot comes in: as I quietly slip out from the bed,

Through many years of custom and practice, I can hear the voice speaking inside my head.

“Go forward four paces, then turn to the left, carry on - right to the end of the wall,

Exit carefully into the next room, and be careful that you don’t fall!”

“Proceed three steps, and the toilet you’ll find: you are located before the loo station,

Now stop! and switch off your engine - you have arrived at your destination!”

It’s curious I can do this whilst asleep, I think it’s just a gift that I have.

I’m thinking of selling on the idea – perhaps Tom Tom could market it as “Sat Lav”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Leopard

Leopard

A shout and then a frantic scramble

Engines revving, jeeps reversing

A finger points toward the tree

There, there! - up on the shaded branch

Binoculars focusing, cameras snapping

Jostling for position

To get the clearest sighting

There, there! – reclining, relaxed and lazy

Dozing through the day

Lithe and muscular

His deceptive power concealed

Hidden in his restful pose

A paw casually hanging down

Towards the ground

Awesome in his beauty

Calm and camouflaged

Sandy ground, black-spotted

Among the shadowed, shimmering leaves

Noon-time elusiveness

This shy, retiring cat yawns wide

Revealing razor teeth

Blinking yellow, slitted eyes

Which gaze, bored, at his admirers

Conserving energy till drowsy dusk

And night-time hunting

A fearsome predator in the dark

Stalking killer, silent assassin

Striking without warning

And as the low-sinking sun

Burns itself into the horizon

Throwing long shadows

The nervous herdsmen move their lowing cattle

Inside their flimsy compound

Away from night-time danger

And stare after the retreating jeeps

As they roll away, back to camp

Amid rising clouds of dust

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Fungus

Fungus

A slow progress through the countryside

Breeze-carried through the air

Whispering, a gentle breath

Infection, invisible and insidious

Creeping, hidden, unseen movement

Bringing disease and certain death

A tiny fungus, just a spoor

Microscopic, beyond perception

Multiplying, growing quickly

Inside the branches and the leaves

Spreading, covering its victims

A landscape dying, wheezing, sickly

Trees ailing, falling, humbled

By the contagion in the country

Cut back, thrown upon the fire

A forest with holes in, open to the sky

The ashes slowly die back

And burn fierce upon the pyre

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Some Limericks

Some Limericks

There was a young girl on a Honda,

Whose time on the road turned her blonder.

It might have been sun,

As she rode quickly along,

But just what did it is beyond her.

There was a young man of Tashkent,

Whose tool was exceedingly bent.

To save himself trouble,

He put it in double,

And, instead of coming, he went.

There was a butch lass named Grable,

Who liked to sup pints when she was able.

It gave her no fears,

To knock back the beers,

And she could drink most men under the table.

There was a young man in Singapore,

Who found washing a bit of a chore.

He thought taking a shower

Was just for the flowers,

But his friends could only say “Phwoar!!”

There was an old lady named Rogers,

Who lived among some very old codgers.

She spent all her money,

Which ain’t very funny,

And now she’s taking in lodgers.

There was a young chap, name of Darren,

Whose life became increasingly barren.

He felt very strange,

So he had a sex-change,

And now we all know him as Karen.

There was an old git named Andy,

Who became increasingly randy.

He came across a sheep,

Which was soundly asleep,

And thought: “Cor blimey – that’s handy!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Rhymes In The News

Rhymes In The News – (Hey Diddle Diddle)

Cutlery Couple Forced To Return Home

Police and Child Protection Officers have become involved after a young couple from the kitchen area were discovered to have absconded without permission.  Angry parents (a Mr & Mrs Ladle) have claimed that the Dish, who was a year older and who hailed from the less-fashionable area of Crockery, had persuaded their daughter, a younger spoon from the Cutlery group, to run away with him after a protracted period of “grooming”.  They were said to be heart-broken, after having paid huge fees for their daughter to attend a top cutlery-drawer establishment.

The young couple were known within kitchen circles, despite their different backgrounds, to have been quite friendly, but knives and forks (who were part of the same silver service) had been unaware that the couple had begun to engage in spooning activity.

The couple were finally tracked down in a holiday resort and theme park known as Nurseryland, after they had spent two weeks on the run, living on their parents’ credit cards.

A local dog, who had witnessed the elopement, said ‘it’s a bit of a laugh, isn’t it – a bit of sport?’

A quantity of hallucogenic drugs were recovered from the couple’s luggage, after they claimed to have seen visions of a large feline playing a violin and a cow attempting to vault over the moon.

And in other news:

·         A young girl, believed to be a milk-maid, sitting eating an all-dairy lunch, was frightened away, when a large arachnid, so far unidentified, sat down beside her.

·         An elderly gentleman had to be removed from the local pub, when he became over-rowdy.  He was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, after he insisted on smoking a pipe within licensed premises, and loudly shouting out musical requests to the resident band, consisting of three violins.

·         And Police were also called to a scene of domestic violence, when a Mr King assaulted his own son, whom he called a knave, when he discovered that the boy had stolen a number a jam tarts, which his wife had recently baked.  The father was warned as to his future conduct, and the son escaped with a formal caution after he returned the stolen items and vowed not to steal again in future.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

If Only...

If Only…

If only… he’d got out of bed in the mornings

And gone for a run in the sunshine

Just a few miles to get the heart beating

And the muscles more finely toned

If only… he’d never started smoking

And forsaken the twenty a day

Given his lungs a break from the poison

And avoided the tobacco and tar

If only… he’d not developed a taste for the beer

Not drunk so many pints in a night

Missed out on the intake of alcohol

Ah, yes, if only he’d looked after himself better

He might have led a healthier life

If only… he had taken his chances

When they had presented themselves

Had taken the risk by gambling

Double or quits on the turn of a card

If only… he had backed the horses that won

The ones that romped home by a mile

Or piled in another few coins

To the machine that was due to pay out

If only… he’d remembered to buy a ticket

And pick out his usual numbers

That week they came up in the lottery

A double roll-over jackpot

Ah, yes, if only he’d speculated

He might have been so much wealthier

If only… he’d been brave enough

To speak his mind when he saw her

To ask her to walk out with him

And to be the special one in his life

If only… he’d been sure enough

To value her above all of the others

To want to spend the rest of his life with her

And given her the whole of his heart

If only… he’d asked her to marry him

And set up a home life together

To have and to hold from that day forward

Ah, yes, if only he’d asked her

He might have been much luckier in love

If only… he’d seized life by the scruff of the neck

If only… he’d squeezed out the juice of the fruit

If only… he’d tried that little bit harder

Things might have been so much different for him

He might have been healthier,

Wealthier and loved by the world

He might have felt a sense of fulfilment

That he’d drained life to the dregs

That he’d truly lived

Ah, yes, if only…

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015