Transit of Venus

Transit of Venus

He waits and watches carefully

Afraid to gaze too directly

At what he wishes most to see

For seeming hours-long periods which last but minutes

Terrified that he may miss the moment

When the smallest crescent of black

Floods the lens and resolves itself

Into the small complete spot

The dot of a distant planet at the very edge of vision

Left to right slow moving

Forging a steady path

Traversing the fiercely-blazing

Massive backdrop of the blinding solar orb

Light-pulsing energy

A hot star burning persistent

At astronomic distance from his naked eye

It is only a matter of seconds

Through a particular conjunction

Of elliptical trajectories

And specific circumstances

That she arrives where she does

At these exact co-ordinates

So that he might have the chance

To stare openly at her distant unclothed body

Across the cold expanse of dark empty sky

Although his voyeuristic act of observation

Means nothing to her

And is of no consequence

And as he bends again towards the eyepiece

Of the solar-focused telescope

To follow the heavenly path

And marvel at the beauty of her namesake

His earth-bound Venus

Walks behind and slowly past him

Hidden in the darkness of sun-cast shadows

Making a transit of her own, unseen

Across the space that divides them

Her movement attracting no attention

And within seconds the moment is over

And she is gone again

Her tiny body lost to sight

Pursuing an orbit of her own

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Dear Diary

Dear Diary

Between the clasped covers

Lie the clean, unsullied sheets of white

To be carefully written upon

In the quiet times at night

When she can sit alone, unwatched

To confide the shapeless thoughts

That float around inside her head

And translate them into the solidity of words

Until they crystallise upon the page

Yesterday there were brief anxieties

Worries to be picked over

Like the entrails of the day

And a breaking heart to be repaired

If such a thing were possible

And in deepest desperation

She trusted in the blank discretion

Of her silent companion

Never to reveal her inner pain

Nor the nagging ache of love and loss

Then today there are things that must be said

Confided to her intimate, her familiar

That she cannot tell another living soul

For the fear that secrets will escape

Whispered out into the world

And that others may untimely know

Of her guarded hopes and dreams

And tomorrow there will be anger

Resolution and determination

A brutally honest appraisal

Of her future prospects

Confessed in some enigmatic code

To her friend, her willing witness

The pen fierce upon the page

Pressed without restraint

Biting through the paper

The contents then quickly shuttered

And hidden under lock and key

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Wren

Wren

How is it possible

for such a tiny frame

to hold a beating heart

the quivering lungs

and all the body parts

enough to survive

and endure the hard cold of winter?

And what is the source

of the courage of this little creature

a pert and perky thing

that cannot weigh an ounce

and yet has wits enough

to defy the cruel odds

of an enormous world?

And how quick must one be

to see the flash

of bright and beady eyes

aside a head so small

that twitches on alert?

or the feathers and feet

that flit and flicker

in a sudden blur of movement

before taking wing

to a safer place?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Fifty Sheds of Grey

Fifty Sheds Of Grey

A man has to have some hobbies in life,

Something  to make him leap out of bed,

And when he arrives at a certain age,

That something tends to be a grey shed.

It’s funny - it never appeals in anyone’s youth,

When things tend to happen all in a deluge,

But once you’ve been married for a few years,

A shed can become a man’s haven, or refuge.

It doesn’t take much – a shed can be quite modest,

A roof, a window, and four wooden walls:

Just somewhere homely to escape to,

Whenever some unwelcome chore calls.

It’s a manly or masculine thing,

Just to get yourself behind a closed door,

To rummage around in the darkness,

Or to spread your things out on the floor.

For in this exclusive men-only club,

You need never ask anyone’s pardon,

Just to disappear down the primrose path,

To your shed, at the end of the garden.

Yes, a shed can be a man’s very own kingdom,

The realm where what he says is what goes:

A place to play with his bits and pieces,

And what he does inside – nobody knows.

And he can make the place quite homely,

Then spread out as much as he dare,

By getting a radio, perhaps, and some carpet,

And, if there’s room, a comfortable chair.

A bottle or two and a few glasses,

And an optic can easily form up a bar.

Then you can get all your mates round,

And be the gardeners’ idea of a star.

You see it becomes more than a shelter -

It’s not just for keeping out of the rain -

It’s a sanctuary that’s out of the house,

A place that might keep you sane.

So, don’t denigrate such constructions,

And pay heed to what I’ve just said,

For a man’s the king of his castle,

When he’s finally alone, in his shed.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Enough

Enough

How long can this go on?

You came, unbidden, two weeks ago

Without welcome

And stayed to torment me

Day after miserable day

Always making out

That you were ready to go

At any moment

To let me breathe again

And give me back my energy

And let things be

The way they were before

And yet you’re still here!

Can’t you see I’m sick of you?

You’re bringing me down

And choking me

Can’t eat, can’t sleep

Whilst you hang around

My head is thick and throbbing

And my chest wheezes

Every limb aching

As my body uses every cell

To fight back

And requests you, firmly, to leave

The medicine cabinet’s empty

Since I rifled the cures and the drugs

Seeking for any relief

From your unpleasant effects

Now I can’t think straight

And everything’s too hard

To manage any more

Enough is enough!

Be gone, foul visitor

Your departure’s overdue!

Go find someone else to impose on

And leave me to crawl back to bed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 26th July 2015

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

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

1.       Train and passenger services through the Bromham Tunnel were disrupted for long periods this week when there was increased activity from illegal immigrants at the Seend end of the tunnel.  Police put “Operation Stack” into force, involving parking several Seend-bound tractors being parked along the lane.  New security measures have been announced that will involve building a new secure compound on Seend High Street to prevent people desperate to get to Bromham from hijacking cars to smuggle themselves into the village.

2.       Today sees the culmination of the great cycle race “Tour de Wiltshire”, with the peloton of riders entering the village in the final procession stage up the High Street.  Bromham’s own Chris Parsnip will be wearing the leader’s traditional yellow farmer’s smock.  During the race angry people in other villages have pelted him with a selection of root crops.  Asked if he was angry about the rough treatment Chris replied that he was simply looking forward to a mixed vegetable stir-fry for his tea.

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

Woss Happenin?

Woss Happenin?

Everything’s falling to bits,

Nothing’s the same any more:

Helicopters don’t stay in the sky –

They hit cranes and fall to the floor.

Things aren’t what they might seem:

You can’t trust what they tell you -

The Dreamliners have nightmares

And technical problems too.

The Internet is eating the world,

There’s no shops left on the High Street:

Not only Jessops and HMV,

But now Blockbuster’s admitted defeat.

And Rio Tinto walks into a wall,

Which is as bad as it gets.

The CEO’s taken his long walk,

For under-valuing their assets.

I think I’m going to go back in my shell,

I think I’m admitting defeat.

Can’t even do comfort eating,

Cos my burgers are full of horse-meat.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Living

Living

everything is here

that could possibly be needed

for a careless, easy life

all that can be metered in clothes and cars

every modern convenience

every appliance, every gadget

shining sheet glass and steel

polished by the daily help

each room a showcase

of angles, clean lines

witness the good, the better things

from a lifetime’s striving

long-houred, hard working

trophies of success

nothing is missing

a sense of completeness

settles like a shroud

there are no loose ends

nor material wants and needs

that remain un-satisfied

we may go anywhere, at any time

at a moment’s notice

to fulfil the slightest whim

or the merest craving, our heart’s desire

and suck the juice until it’s dry

and yet

 and yet

 and yet

through this mogadon movie

of shining achievement

whilst we sleep in splendour

a spirit creeps about at night

breathes hoarsely

whispers insistently

an un-nameable something

and will not be still

and in the morning

when we awake, un-refreshed

we still ache inside

with that empty feeling of nothing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Don't Ask Me

Don’t Ask Me

I’m happy to give of my opinion,

If you want to hear what I think.

That is, when I’m down at the pub,

With my mates, just having a drink.

But at home, it’s a different story,

And one that causes me strife.

For there we have the fount of all knowledge,

And it’s not me, it’s the wife!

For she’s got strong views on every topic:

There’s no subject on which she hasn’t a take.

She’s an expert in every field you can name,

No interest in which she hasn’t a stake.

Tho’ she is my love and my darling,

My dearest, my treasure, my dear,

She’s got a fearsome way of talking,

That inspires a goodly portion of fear.

Across the marmalade at breakfast,

I’m on The Guardian, but she reads the Express.

She chokes on her toast and she fulminates,

And the crumbs she exhales make quite a mess.

You see she’s got a very firm stance,

On any social policy or decision,

Religion, the Royal Family,

And even on female circumcision.

I can’t get a word in edgeways sometimes,

As she dispels any kind of confusion.

She’s got the answer to everything,

And for every problem, a solution.

Professors, doctors and researchers,

Who’ve spent a life-time studying ideas,

Stand for nothing in her onslaught,

As she contradicts them with jeers.

Economics, world hunger and AIDS,

She can hold forth without pause,

So it’s pointless you asking me,

You’d best check with ‘er indoors.

Immigration, emigration, benefit cheats,

Foreign policy, football or cricket,

It’s best to listen, not interrupt,

Or she’ll tell you where you can stick it.

Decoration? Fashion? Or trends?

She’s the one who knows where it’s at.

Northern Ireland? Palestine? Or Syria?

She says what she thinks, and that’s that!

Homophobia, xenophobia,

And prejudice of every kind,

Could be banished within a few minutes,

If she gave you a piece of her mind!

  

She knows what’s wrong with everything,

She’s clear how things ought to be done,

There’s little she can’t address herself to,

And for her, there’s nothing new under the sun.

If only people would listen to her,

The world could be a much better place,

There’d be no fighting, or wars or disease,

And evil would be gone without trace.

Politics is her specialist subject,

And don’t get her started about the tax-man.

Her polemical style is worse than Jon Humphrys,

And on a bad day gets worse than Paxman.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking,

That she’s incredibly well meant,

That she should perhaps become an MP,

And see how she gets on in Parliament.

But it’s far too late for that I’m afraid,

There’s already been a roll of the dice:

For Conservative Central Office,

Already ring daily just to ask her advice.

No, there’s no situation she can’t handle,

There’s not a dogma she won’t fight:

If you’re looking for a policy statement,

She’s the one who’ll provide a sound-bite.

She’s never ready to settle for nonsense,

And she can’t abide the status quo.

She doesn’t know the meaning of silence,

But, for God’s sake, don’t tell her I said so!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Girl On The Number Forty-Seven

(Girl On The) Number Forty-Seven

Monday to Friday it’s always the same,

Off to work, to carry the load:

Waiting, whatever the weather,

For that bus to trundle down the road.

Route forty-seven is the number I need,

Though other numbers stop there too.

There’s jostling, and pushing and shoving,

As we stand there in the queue.

Sometimes it’s full and we can’t board,

Or perhaps there’s some spaces upstairs,

Then you have to get up there quickly,

And wait for the man collecting the fares.

But there’s one thing that I look out for,

That makes my journey complete:

The girl with the long blonde hair,

And she’s always there in the same seat.

She rides the upper deck near the front,

Staring from the window, calm and serene.

She’s beautiful and desirable -

I’m sure you know what I mean.

I wonder where she goes to each day,

And what could be her destination,

Cos I have to get off before she does,

As I continue my journey from the station.

I admire her, from my seat here at the back,

Though of me I’m sure she’s quite unaware.

I don’t even know what I’d say to her,

But I try and get as close as I dare.

She seems so cool, and calm and complete,

She looks so happy, assured and care-free.

I think she’s in a league way above me,

And I doubt if she’s ever noticed me.

So day after day, I just think about her,

And carry on without any fuss.

I don’t even know what her name is,

She’s just “the girl on the forty-seven bus”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Special

Special

The careful unpacking of the car

Its safety seat unclipped, unbuckled

Passed gently in to waiting hands

Its cossetted cargo

Wrapped up warmly against any chill

Cocooned in blankets

Tissue-paper protection

For this long-dreamed-of new life

Fragile, precious

The son and heir

The only one

The oft-practised transfer

Into the bumpered baby-buggy

Strapped and restrained

Armoured against a hostile world

Robust and resilient

Protection against a reality

Of bangs and cuts and scrapes

Or cold and unseen germs

Screened and sheltered

Lest any danger should penetrate

Multi-layered defences

And give the slightest cause

For any concern

Fiercely treasured

Special beyond measure

An antiseptic existence

Preserved in layers of cotton-wool

This first, their only child

Kept from all possible harm

And dangers of the world

Loved and feared in equal measure

By his doting parents

Who will do anything

To ensure his survival

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

T In The Lounge

T In The Lounge

What’s the attraction of festivals?

The discomfort and the expense?

The downside is really extensive -

Haven’t people got any sense?

They’re desperate to go to Glasto

Have a great blast-o

Get absolutely plast-o

Sail before the mast-o

Get stoned fast-o

Or that other great festival

The aptly-named Bestival

Where you get no rest-ival

Patience put to the test-ival

The insects are a jest-ival

And you head gets messed-ival

Then there’s T In The Park

With rock music to hark

Mongrels to bark

Snort a good narc

Chance to make your mark

As you pee in the dark

Nip over to the Isle of Wight

Use all your might

Get in a mud-fight

Or as high as a kite

Not feeling too bright

Well out-of-sight

Go to bed tight

I suppose it’s about the music,

But who wants expensive booze?

Cheesy chips, over-priced, greasy food?

And queuing just to use the portaloos?

Chemical toilets are a real downer,

And with the exposure to the sun’s rays,

The sunburn, the dehydration,

The not washing for five days.

And then there’s the camping,

Sleeping out on lumpy ground,

And even with elegant glamping,

A tent that can never be found.

  

Watching the stage from half a mile away,

The sound is distorted and loud.

There’s a chance of food-poisoning,

And you get lost in the crowd.

The bouncers and security men are rough,

It’s quite a dud, in an ocean of mud,

Plastic glasses and polystyrene cups,

And warm cider’s really no good.

I could get very bitter

About all the litter

But I’m not a big-hitter

I get all of a jitter

I’m a miserable critter

I can’t help but witter

You see - I’m sofa-seat sitter

I like all the comforts of home:

A bed, a shower, and a good seat.

I can still eat shit food if I want to,

But watching on TV’s quite hard to beat!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 19th July 2015

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

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

1.       Scientists in Bromham celebrated this week as their land probe, dubbed Wiltshire Voyager, successfully carried out its drive-by mission in the far-distant town of Trowbridge.  This strange, alien world, was first discovered in the last century, and only 50 years ago suffered the indignity of being reduced in local parlance from a “town” to “gert village”.  Photographs were beamed back via a weak 3G link to space headquarters on the High Street, where head scientist George Piglet said “we have discovered many new things about Trowbridge, including the fact that we had long suspected – it is a place with no atmosphere.”

2.       A new report has been issued on the future of the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), setting out a range of options for how it should be funded.  The Corporation has suffered recent criticism of its attempts to make popular programs such as “Strictly Come Farming”, “Top Beer”, “The Bum Show” and “Fleece-Enders”, rather than more public service-oriented documentaries such as “Planet Bromham” and “The Great Bromham Beetroot-off”.

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

Smoke In The Woods

Smoke In The Woods

Footfalls muffled by leaf-mould

Springy turf of mulch and lichen

Amongst the dark and louring trees

Their trunks tall and straight

Like rigid columns

Holding up the canopy

That shades the lower cultures

Bud-laden, thick and lush

The saplings and the bushes

Of the under-growth

And among the monumental beeches

Pierced by glittering

Flickering sunlight shafts

Hangs a hazy skein of wood-smoke

Diaphanous, gauzy

Floating, drifting slowly

Its lingering strands

Fingering higher branches

And within the greater silence

Where there is no bird-song

Nor any rodent scuttlings

That can carry any distance

Through the depth of empty forest

There penetrates the faintest crackling

Cracking twigs and logs upon a fire

A simple sound of comfort

And a promise of human warmth

The smells of damp and ash

And simple cooking become stronger now

Than natural woodland aromas

Betraying the location

Of a camp-site under canvas

Hidden in a hollow

Among the dark, dank greenery

Of wet, mouldering vegetation

Near the gurgling stream

A lonely retreat

Far from any crowd

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Galloping

Galloping

A flash of flanks and fetlocks

Horses turned free within the paddock

The grass beaten and churned into sodden ground

By thumping, pounding hooves

As they wheel away

Heads held high and proud

Distended nostrils and teeth exposed

Manes flowing in the breeze

Beating alongside the fencing rails

At first a trembling trot

Building to a cautious canter

Before breaking into wide-legged gallops

Drumming in steady time

Shoulders and backs bent to the task

Of increasing speed

Then careering across the open field

Driven by the memories of former glory racing days

And the dash along the final furlong

To the invisible finishing line and waiting glory

Now rid of bits and reins and saddles

And high-seated, whipping jockeys

Allowed to frolic unrestrained

Driven by sheer exuberance into an ecstasy of sprinting

Coursing round the imagined circuit

Only pulling up at last, when good and ready

With a lung-deep triumphal whinney

Panting and straining to catch their breath

Pleased as punch, happy with their efforts

Then shambling gently over to the gate

To scrounge a proffered apple

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Drowning In Five Inches of Water

Drowning In Five Inches Of Water

A telephone ringing

Far away down in the hall

Takes only a moment to answer

But creates an absence of minutes

From precious play-time in the bath

And begets a long, empty space of waiting

Of wanting you

Of needing you

To hurry back upstairs

And an opportunity for her

To slide slowly down

Soft-skinned and slippery

Soapy from the bubbles

From the clear air above

To a short watery rest

Below the surface

Beneath the noise

Within the quiet, calm nothingness

And to breathe evenly

Drinking the warm liquid

Just long enough

To fall asleep forever

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

The Staff

The Staff

I’m a very busy man these days,

Working twenty-four seven earning a dime -

I’d like to do so many things,

But I simply don’t have the time.

I don’t have a minute unoccupied:

There are books un-read upon my shelf,

So I get others to do things for me,

That I can’t get round to myself.

Mrs Clegg comes in to do the ironing,

With folding and creasing she’s got the nous -

She drops things off at the dry-cleaner’s,

And there’s another lady cleaning the house.

Her husband is outside, doing the garden:

He’s here early, from when the day dawns,

And he’s still here in the evening

In order to get finished the lawns.

I have all the groceries delivered,

Because there’s no chance to nip to the shop -

It keeps the local economy going,

For my life never seems to stop.

My accountant does my all my tax returns,

To make sure the figures aren’t funny -

I don’t get chance to look at the papers -

I’m far too busy just earning the money.

I use people with the right expertise,

For being wealthy that’s a great perk.

I get things done professionally -

Like the government, I outsource the work.

The girl next door does the baby-sitting,

And a lady comes round to walk the dog.

I find that the task just takes far too long,

And I don’t have time to go out for a jog.

I’ve got a subscription at the gym,

But it takes far too long going there,

So my trainer does the exercise for me,

Well – it saves on all the wear and tear.

I record everything that’s on the TV,

And I’ve got a huge collection of CDs.

I’m using some-one to listen to them for me,

Then to make a start on the box-set DVDs.

   

I have a faithful old house-keeper too:

She makes the beds, and in the evening she cooks,

And, because I’ve simply no time for leisure,

She’s reading her way through my books.

You can employ someone to do anything,

Provided that you’re happy to pay.

For example, I can’t take a break from my work,

So I’ve got a young chap taking my holiday.

It saves all the time of travelling -

He’s relaxing in the Caribbean sun.

I’ve given him plenty of money to spend,

To make sure he enjoys all of my fun.

You see – I’ve got everything sorted!

My life is organised very fine -

I just wish that I was able to enjoy it,

But I simply don’t have the time!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Daughters

Daughters

When did it start to happen?

Was it as soon as you were born?

Or was it even earlier

As you floated in the amniotic fluid?

Or even at the moment of conception

In a complex interplay

Of genes and chromosomes

That the differences began?

The females of my species

Developed along a very different path

From the ways that I had known

And had their own concerns

That yearned for pink in everything

(When I know full well

That such a colour

Never crossed our minds)

And took to wanting dollies

And kittens and puppies

From a very early age

And then grew up all too quickly

Soon giggling in barricaded bedrooms

Confused by active hormones

Pre-occupied with latest hairstyles

And clothing in the fashion magazines

Or brands of make-up and shampoo

And the sensitive removal of body hair

Or the base behaviour

Of the latest boyfriends

And who fancied who at school

Then the greater changes

Of maturing mind and body

Ripening into an all-at-once adulthood

With its sudden sensibilities

Of the female and the feminine

And the ferocious gender-bonding

Among the sisterhood

And a new respect

For a mother long-ignored

And who had little time for men

The masculine, muscled males

With their loudness and crudeness

Their football and sporting obsessions

And testosterone-driven lives

When did you girls grow into women?

Was it something subtle that I missed?

How did you grow so far apart from me

And became so very different?

And how many years has it taken now

For us to hardly know each other once again?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Yaffle

Yaffle

Beady-eyed head bobber

Persistent beaky nodder

Large lawn-digging pecker

Ever watchful and waiting

Not greater nor lesser spotted

But sheen of green and crest of red

With your hoarse, chattering cry

As you take sudden umbrage

At my presence in your ground

And fly swooping to the trees

Where you call bitterly

Complaining, to your mate

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 12th July 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 12^th July 2015

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

1.       A desperate humanitarian effort is under way this weekend as Bromham Airways (BA), based at its terminal in a small shed at the bottom of the lower field, prepares to send a fleet of tractor-replacement services to Trowbridge to re-patriate Bromham people who have been stranded there.  Recent advice from the Parish Council that only essential travel should be undertaken in the Trowbridge area, following last week’s outrage,  means that nearly seven people will need to be brought back to the village at short notice.

2.       Sunday will be a day of calm in the village after the local cricket team unexpectedly won its game against Potterne yesterday, wrapping the game up with a day to spare.  Asked if the team would use the extra day off for more batting practice in the nets, team captain Isaac “Hunt” Piglet said, ‘Oi doubt it. Ois’ll probably go down Ee Wounded Ferret and get bladdered with the rest of the boys.’

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

Villages

Villages

We rolled on through the broken landscape

The old road cracked at the edges

The surface cratered with potholes

Badly-used and neglected

Our progress precarious

A village –

The people curious and suspicious

Their houses broken and shell-holed

Tarpaulins, ropes on the roofs

Rusted, corrugated sheets bound in the walls

Pungent smoke from crumbling chimneys

Old carpets draped in doorways

Hunger in their eyes

The track then twisting and turning

Churning mud under our tyres

The engine labouring at times

My arm aching from shifting the gears

My back breaking from the rolling and pitching

But still moving forward

Another village –

No people, or perhaps hidden from view

Echoes in the emptiness

Smells of scattered straw

Dirt and dung piled in the streets

The burnt black ribs of a house

Deserted amid the rubble

Straighter again before plunging downhill

Through a gulley, arched over by trees,

Darkness for a few moments

Flickering light dappling the windscreen

Emerging at the foot of a valley

The car rolling and rattling

And another village –

Tents here but no buildings

The women washing clothes in the river

Their faces gritted with effort

Bodies shivering with cold from the water

Regard us with envy

Their menfolk nowhere to be seen

Danger in the darkness

Right foot down

Quickly, thankfully, left behind

In the fumes of our escape

Diesel exhaust and dust

Headed for the distant lights of town

Blockades, barricades, checkpoints

The only remaining things

Between ourselves and sanctuary

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

BBQ Wars

BBQ Wars

What a fine creature is the Englishman,

Who stays English wherever he may roam -

He regards his house as his castle,

And always comes back to his home.

And I’m no different to the others,

A middle-class semi is my domain:

Like a dog, I mark out my territory,

But the neighbours can drive me insane.

In the Summer, the house seemed way too small -

I just couldn’t wait to get out in the garden.

I liked to spread out as much as I could,

And for that I’ll not beg any pardon.

The Supplements call it “patio living” –

I’ve no idea if that’s really true –

I just want to get out there and party,

And to wheel out the old barbecue.

I’ll admit that my cooking contraption

Had probably seen much better days,

But I’d used it over and over -

I was too old to be changing my ways.

The sides might have been grease-encrusted,

Harbouring a well-blackened grill,

But the rusting pan still held the charcoal,

And you could smell the smokiness still.

A quick dose of petrol and firelighters

Was enough to get them coals glowing,

A beer in my hand, the stereo blasting,

And soon we had the sausages going.

Set among the cracked patio slabs

With some rickety, broken plastic chairs

And a great big wobbly plastic table

It was a bit ramshackle – but who cares?

That was until I looked over the fence,

To see what it was my neighbour had done.

I know it’s not meant to be a competition,

But his guests seemed to be having more fun.

I saw that he’d started to up the ante,

That he’d got a bigger, better barbecue.

It was one of those high-end models,

And not only that, but it was quite new.

  

It had multi-burner gas rings,

Thermostats and finger-tip controls,

Shelves for the food and utensils,

And synthetic, re-useable coals.

I stared in horror and disbelief,

At this top-of-the-range barbecue beast,

As he loaded his flavoured cooking wood,

And served up a veritable feast.

There were coloured marinade brushes,

A rotisserie and a pizza stone:

It was truly the dog’s bollocks of “homeware”,

And, as he cooked, he jawed on the phone.

His guests lounged on ample bamboo sofas,

Under a candy-striped open marquee,

The sun shone on the glass-topped dining-table,

And his well-tended lawns were easy to see.

I looked back at my miserable display,

At my bare patch of ground with no plants,

At my shed that was tumbling down,

And decided the whole thing was just pants.

My middle-class angst overwhelmed me,

I could see how I’d be marked as a “fail”,

I hated next door’s culinary nerd -

I was beaten by the local Alpha Male.

My burgers and ribs no longer appealed,

That was to be no more cooking that day -

Steak that for a game of soldiers, I thought,

Went inside, and ordered a takeaway.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Buffalo Wings

Recipe for: BUFFALO WINGS (Spiced chicken wings)

Ingredients:

·         A great big pile of chicken wings (cut the thin tips off & joint each wing into two to leave bit-size pieces on the bone)

·         2 cloves garlic, peeled & crushed

·         1 tblsp olive oil

·         1 ½ tblsp cider vinegar

·         1 tsp parika

·         1 tblsp Worcestershire sauce

·         2 tblsp tomato puree

·         1 tsp salt

·         2 tblsp pepper sauce – choose how hot/ intense you want the wings to be!)

·         2 tblsp clear honey

Method:

1.       Prepare the chicken wings, and place them in a large bowl with some room to be able to stir them around.

2.       In a separate bowl, mix all the other ingredients to form a hot, sticky marinade.

3.       Taste & adjust as you see fit, depending on how spicy you want your wings.

4.       Pour the marinade over the wings, and turn them over to coat everything thoroughly.

5.       Cover and stick the bowl in the fridge for as long as possible.  Overnight is good.

6.       Stir/ turn the wings in the marinade a few times.

7.       When you are ready to cook, heat the oven to 180C/ fan 170C/ gas 4.

8.       Drain the wings and reserve the marinade.

9.       Spread the drained wings onto a large baking sheet, spacing them out as much as possible.  If there’s a lot, use two trays rather than crowd them – they need to bake, not steam.

10.    Bake for 30 minutes, then pour off any excess oil that has gathered on the tray.

11.    Baste the wings in some of the marinade, then return to the oven.  Turn the oven up by 10-15C, because we want the edges of the wings to start catching in the heat.

12.    Bake for another 15-20 minutes, basting with marinade 2 or 3 times.

13.    The wings should be sticky & glazed, with most of the liquid/ marinade evaporated or poured off.  That means dry, not floating in a sauce!

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve on a warmed large serving platter, sprinkled with chopped coriander and/ or spring onions.

2.       Provide plenty of napkins/ kitchen towel as the wings are wonderfully messy, and a bowl to catch all the discarded bones.

3.       The traditional American accompaniments are sticks of raw carrot and raw celery, together with a blue cheese dip/ dressing.  No idea why, but they do, and it works just fine!