Barred From Bromham: September 2015

Wednesday, 30 September 2015

An Angel On The Bus

An Angel On The Bus

We were getting worried about Grandma,

A widow, she’d long been left all alone,

She was getting more and more forgetful,

She seemed to be in a world of her own.

But she was a determined old lady -

We didn’t want her being put out to grass.

Then one day a new vista opened up,

When she got hold of her first bus pass.

She took to it like a duck to the water,

She became known as the “Off-peak Rover”;

Soon she was a frequent traveller,

And used it to voyage about all over.

Her confidence picked up, we noticed,

And she became increasingly keen.

When we asked her to tell us about it,

Her features became calm and serene.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve had an encounter,

About which it’s not seemly to boast,

But on the Ninety-Seven last week,

I ran into one of the Heavenly Host.”

Now we thought this was pretty unlikely,

And knew that Grandma was liable

To be somewhat over-impressed,

By things she’d read in the Bible.

We asked her what she was talking about,

What on earth was making her so happy,

And, suspecting that we doubted her word,

She became all defensive and snappy.

She said she’d seen an Angel on the bus,

A Close Encounter, of the heavenly kind,

He was just sitting there all on his own,

And she’d been so near, on the seat just behind.

She could have reached out and touched him;

To his collar and the hairs on his neck,

And she trembled in her joy and elation,

As she sat there, high up on the top deck.

His figure was picked out in silhouette,

And about him there was a sunny aura,

At least that’s how it looked at the time,

As she’d remarked to her friend Dora.

He had a special and ghostly presence,

His aroma made her feel slightly faint,

But there was one further thing that clinched it,

The proof that he was truly a saint.

She was a woman of faith and belief,

She didn’t need to have her flames fanned,

But it was right there in front of her,

Truly this Angel sat at God’s right hand.

She knew that she would have missed this vision,

If she’d been travelling by cycle

But there it was clearly, on the label,

In bold, curly letters – “Saint Michael”.

Tuesday, 29 September 2015

Beneath The Surface

Beneath The Surface

There! Near the reeds, on the far bank

A sinuous, slow movement

Languid and lazy

A suggestion of a dark shape, a shadow

Beneath the silvered surface

The shimmering pond-water

Implacable, cold, lily-covered

Under a slow-warming sun

Its midge-infested meniscus

Disturbed by the easy-rising minnows

Conceals a waiting presence

Snout, and focused steady eye

Belie the beating gills and waving tail

Needled fins and razored teeth

Lie in silent patient deadly wait

Inside a green and grassy cover

Until it is time to strike

To kill and eat

Before disappearing

Back into the depth

Monday, 28 September 2015

Snouts In The Trough

Snouts In The Trough

It’s good that we live in in a democracy,

With flags blazing and banners uncurled;

Here in the Mother of Parliaments -

An example we hold out to the world.

And we take this stuff damned seriously:

We’re not mere amateur hobbyists,

But now we’ve taken our eye off the ball,

And let in the canker of lobbyists.

But it takes two to tango they say,

Someone who needs a question to be asked,

And someone whose position is privileged,

With a streak of greed that’s thinly masked.

There’s a lack of transparency

In this access for cash

Their action is rash

Trying to look flash

As they sit in a sash

Making a huge mash

And principles into trash.

Where’s honesty and integrity gone?

Public service in office?

It’s gone down the abyss

They’re taking the piss

By behaving like this

Let’s give them a hiss

Tell them to kiss

Their cushy jobs good-bye.

Only hidden cameras and microphones

Have blown this thing open -

Insider access is a wheeze

They start with a tease

Then outline their fees

Soon acting with ease

They should be on their knees

Not slopping in grease

And wallowing in sleaze.

And to add insult to the injury,

By using these tools, they take us for fools,

And with faces all innocently turned,

Claim “I was only following the rules!”

Sunday, 27 September 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 27th September 2015

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

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

1. The red carpet was rolled out in Bromham this week for some senior bloke in the Church of England. He was shuttled from event to event in a “bishop-mobile” and was met at Bromham International Airport by Parish Council leader Dave Wentwrong. However, a somewhat discordant note was struck when this celibate man, who was wearing a dress, embroidered slippers and a rather dodgy conical hat, attempted to preach a sermon to the massed crowds. However no-one turned up, so he had to settle for a couple of senile dogs walking down the High Street. His theme was about the sanctity of married life, the sin of contraception and the crime of abortion. The dogs could not afterwards be found for comment.

2. Extra-ordinary stories emerged this week as the unauthorised biography of Dave Wentwrong was serialised in the Bromham Bugle. The articles by Lord “Squealer” Piglet lifted the lid on the earlier life of Wentwrong when he was still a student at Bromham Polytechnic back in the 1990s. Piglet alleged that the leader of the Parish Council was involved in sex-games involving baler-twine, smoked illegal carrot-root, and on one occasion placed a part of his august anatomy inside various farm animals. It is not stated whether the carrots or the animals were either alive, or were harmed during this process. The animals could not be traced for comment.

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

Saturday, 26 September 2015

One Way Ticket To Mars

One-Way Ticket (to Mars)

I was looking for a new challenge, something to banish senility’s fears,

When I spotted the advertisement, a way to spend my retirement years.

It said they were looking for astronauts, to head on out into deep space,

So I signed myself up for the training, and entered into the space race.

They had a great vision for mankind: to journey towards the stars.

We’d be taking off from the Earth - it was a mission to colonise Mars!

Yes, we were setting off for the Red Planet, to establish a colony, or a base-camp,

Like the pioneers in the days of old, I felt like Columbus as I mounted the ramp.

The blast-off was truly spectacular, as our rocket rose towards the night sky,

And Mission Control raised a big cheer, as they sadly waved us good-bye.

Then we pulled out of Earth’s gravity and, as we carefully avoided The Moon,

It hadn’t yet even occurred to me that I’d become a hostage to fortune.

You see, when a man settles down for a while, and there’s no alcohol on board, no drinking,

His thoughts turn to existential matters, and that’s when I got round to some thinking.

If we’ve dropped all of our boosters, and we’re voyaging in this tin can,

How are we going to get back from Mars? Won’t we be stuck there, to a man?

I voiced my concerns to the captain, and mentioned it to the rest of the crew,

But they all just fell about in their laughter, and said that they thought that I knew!

It turns out that this is a one-way journey! I’ve been issued with a single ticket!

There’s no possible way to return: well, I mean, that’s simply not cricket!

I knew that it would take a long time, if mankind was to make a great mark,

But I didn’t realise how final it was, that day when I’d turned up to embark.

We’re to be the first of our species to land on Mars – that’s our true fate,

And if we survive our arrival, our next job will be to pro-create!

Now I’ve had a look round at the rest of the crew, and there’s none I’d want go out with on a date,

So it could be a long, lonely existence if I’m the only one not taking a mate.

There’s one girl who’s been looking at me, and paying me lots of attention,

I think I know what’s on her agenda, I think I can spot her intention!

So here I am, trapped in this spaceship, with only the Sun’s gravity to tow it,

Heading off to a fate worse than death – it’s space, Jim, but not as we know it.

Friday, 25 September 2015

Christmas Cake

It's that time of year again. It needs to be made now because it takes a good few weeks to mature and to be properly "fed".

Recipe for: CHRISTMAS CAKE

Ingredients:

1 lb currants
8 oz raisins
1 lb sultanas
6 oz mixed peel
4 oz glace cherries
4 oz shelled almonds (optional)
10 oz butter, warm or softened
10 oz caster sugar
6-8 eggs
12 oz self-raising flour (or plain + 1 tsp baking powder)
Pinch salt
2 tsps mixed spice
Grated rind of one lemon
Juice of one lemon
Splash of milk or buttermilk

Method:

get two big bowls out. In the first assemble all the dried fruits, nuts & peel. Put aside.
in the second bowl, put the butter & caster sugar. Cream them together until light & fluffy. Be prepared for your arms to hurt a lot while doing this. While you’re having frequent rests, line & butter a large cake tin with grease-proof paper & set it on a baking tray.
when the creamed mixture is ready, add the eggs one at a time. It’s easiest to do this by lightly beating each egg in a small bowl first, then adding it. Make sure each egg is properly incorporated before adding the next.
when all the eggs have been added, gradually sift in the flour, salt & mixed spice
when that’s done add in the lemon & the milk
when that’s done, gradually mix in the pile of dried fruit & nuts from the first bowl
the mixture should now be a solid mass of ingredients held together by the sponge mix. It should be of a stiff dropping consistency
pile the mixture into the prepared lined cake tin & pat down gently to avoid any major air bubbles. Smooth the top with a spatula.
bake in a low to medium oven (160C/ 150C fan) for about 3 hours. It’s hard to be precise, depending on heaviness of mixture. Test from 2 hours onward with a skewer – if it comes out clean, it’s cooked. The cake should be browned on the top and the sides just starting to come away from the sides of the tin. If in doubt, give it another 20 minutes, then test again.
remove to a wire rack to cool completely, then store & begin feeding.

What else you need to know:

the cake should be made in August/ Sept if possible because it needs time to mature & to be fed before Christmas. Store in an air-tight container;
feed the cake weekly. You can use rum, brandy or sherry or any combination you like. Prick the cake all over the top with a fork or a skewer. Use a tea-spoon to gently pour your alcohol of choice into the holes, then re-seal in the cake container;
this cake is wonderful on its own, but is improved when accompanied by a wedge of a white crumbly cheese such as Wensleydale, Lancashire or Cheshire.

Thursday, 24 September 2015

Mission

Mission

We left upon a high tide

Of love and hope and enthusiasm

That pushed us gently off from home

Out into the starry night

To travel upon waves of faith

And the best of our technology

We embarked upon the journey

In our silvered ship of dreams

Carrying deep within the belly of its hold

Supplies and building blocks of life

Essentials for the colony

And a fragile early settlement

And now we can only wait

And voyage on regardless

Tracking our co-ordinates

On our pre-determined trajectory

A long-distance one-way ticket

Through cold and airless space

There will be no return

No coming back across the void

From this long-term venture

To a dry and dusty planet

With its darker horizon

Orbiting further from our Sun

But we may survive for long enough

To thrive and procreate the species

To build a tenuous foothold

Upon the rocky surface

Where we can stand defiant

And watch the Earth rise once again

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

Socks Without Partners

Socks Without Partners

I’ll tell you a story of heart-ache and loss,

With a happy ending that’s a heartener,

Of a garment that was lost in the washing,

The tale of a sock without a partner.

Tootsie, for that was the sock’s name,

Suddenly found herself lonely and lonesome,

Carried off in the basket with the rest,

But realised she was all on her own-some.

They’d gone, as usual, in the washer together,

Then her other half seemed not to be there.

How had they managed to drift apart,

When they’d always been part of a pair?

She’d found herself in with some dirty types;

Their filthy behaviour caused her to wince,

And she found herself turned inside out,

When she finally came out of the rinse.

There’d been too much of a crowd in the basket,

With bras and knickers she’d been forced to mingle,

And it was only as she hung on the line,

That she realised that she was now single.

There was no-one to meet her or match her,

She started to rue, her anxiety grew,

She knew she was useless on her own,

There was no purpose unless there were two.

Then a kindly old night-shirt took pity,

When he saw that Tootsie was crying.

He made a suggestion to the young sock:

There was a way out, something worth trying.

“There’s a special support group,” he told her,

“Where singles can meet with a view to dating:

Goes by the name of Socks Without Partners,

Where the lucky ones may end up by mating.”

“But I’m too old to find anyone now,

With my ticking biological clock,

No-one will want some-one as washed-up as me,”

Thus wailed the little pink and white sock.

“They’ll see that I’m neither modern nor new,

My stitching’s all bobbled and sunken,

My colour has faded, my pattern’s all shaded,

And my elastic’s completely shrunken.”

The night-shirt replied, “it’s time that you tried,

By putting forward your very best foot.

And, of course, you’ll need to be on your toes,

If you want to get yourself out of this rut!”

“They don’t hang about in these places, you know,

If it’s a partner you’re after catching;

You only get two minutes for chatting,

It’s a new thing they call speed-matching.”

So Tootsie was thrown in the airing cupboard,

With no-one to love her, nobody to care,

When, just for a moment, somewhere in the pile,

Was that a flash of pink she could see there?

The colour wasn’t perfect it seemed,

The patterns on them differed some ways,

But they found that they had plenty in common,

To team up together for a few days.

The other old sock had lost his partner too,

And had been left long in this cupboard’s heat,

But they decided they could walk out together,

And, as a new partnership, they could meet.

So the moral of this story’s quite clear:

If you’ve been abandoned, don’t cry and moan -

There’s always some-one out there that’s for you,

Never give up if you’re left on your own.

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

At The End Of The Pier

At The End Of The Pier

The gaps between the weathered planks underfoot

Left tantalising glimpses of the drop

Down to the restless sea boiling beneath

The waves slapping hard against the piles

Barnacled and seaweed-strewn

A watery world, above which we were held aloft

On the bracing breezy boardwalk

Heads down into the wind

Eyes hooded against the slanting light

Along the corroded iron-girdered structure

A jaunty finger jutting out from land

Edged around by rusting railings

Their corroded layers of leaded paint

Flaking in the sea-salt onslaught

Of many stormy seas

And elemental winters

The pier’s attractions sheltered in the middle

Clustered tight together in serried rows

Harbouring sweet and sickly smells

Of sugared rock, ice-cream and candy-floss

What-the-butler-never-saw machines

And pulsating penny arcades

That held the promise of a prize

The seafood stalls set out their wares

Of cockles and crab-sticks

Pinky prawns and pin-hunted winkles

And shops that touted windmills

Flags and buckets and spades

Kiss-Me-Slowly cowboy hats

And revolving wire stands

Of saucy seaside postcards

Picturing pot-bellied punters

That had lost their little Willie

Then beyond the chevroned deckchairs

The booths and bandstand of a bygone era

Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur

Out towards the final destination

And an end of walking

The promenade’s pointing prow

With but a single heavy telescope

That cost a silver sixpence

To let the gormless gaze out into the bay

Before bowing to the inevitable

And setting out upon the journey back

That could never be as thrilling

As that first stroll out into the sea

And towards a setting sun

Monday, 21 September 2015

Oh! Mr Weatherman!

Oh! Mr Weatherman!

Oh! Mr Weatherman, you’ve done it again,

You said it wouldn’t get any wetter,

But when I look out of my window,

I can’t see that it’s got any better!

My violets are all shrinking,

There’s a line that we’ve not crossed,

It’s chilly and miserable and windy,

And tonight there’s a threat of more frost!

What happened to Spring and to Summer?

Why are your isobars clustered together?

Aren’t we due for a warm front now,

And a promise of much better weather?

The shoots in my garden are shivering

My onions look like bunions

My spuds seem to be duds

The peas think I’m a tease

Cabbages creeping, parsnips not peeping

The kale has gone pale, I think it might fail

And oh golly, just look at my caul!

This cold can’t continue

Ever more rain, is more than a bane

It’s causing me pain, again and again

I know what it means, for my haricot beans

And it gives me the freaks, when I look at my leeks

And I’ve called off all bets

When it comes to courgettes

Outside it’s all drear and wet

It’s the worst season yet

I’ve started to grouse, and crept like a mouse

Inside of my greenhouse

I’m avoiding the slugs and the bugs

But even here there are foes

But that’s how it goes

With snails among my tomatoes

So, please Mr Weatherman!

This forecast of yours sucks -

Let’s get some new heart into your chart

Cause we don’t want the weather for ducks!

Sunday, 20 September 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 20th September 2015

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

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

1. Bromham’s Foreign Ministry has been criticised after erecting a barbed wire fence on the border with Seend in a blatant attempt to prevent the migration of refugees fleeing the civil war. This represents a complete u-turn in policy after Mrs Hicks (the blousy blonde on the High Street, whose husband is always away on business) had earlier invited a homeless Seend family to come and stay with her, thus provoking a tidal wave of sanction-seekers.

2. This week marks the 75^th anniversary of the Battle of Bromham, when villagers stood shoulder to shoulder to defend the free area of Bromham from invasion by the Trowbridge jackboot of county red-tape. As the Chairman of the Parish Council once remarked: “never has do much been owed to so few vegetable-pickers” and “we will fight them in the fields, and in the packing sheds, and behind the delivery lorries” and “I have nothing to give you but beetroots, carrots and parsnips”. It is thought he had been drinking, and possibly reading the Daily Mail (again).

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

Saturday, 19 September 2015

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it was just a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as I spread the marmalade upon my toast

And heard him explain some more about it

I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table began to fade away

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

Then the room came sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

Friday, 18 September 2015

Hanging On

Hanging On

The frustration of not being able to get through, to send & receive clearly, on demand, but to be at the mercy of technology, time & cyberspace.

I thought it was meant to be progress?

This stuff they call technology?

My smart-phone’s turned into a dumb-phone,

And 4G’sjust a piece of kidology.

I don’t want to download, I don’t want to upload,

I don’t want to jabber in code:

I just want to talk to the bloke who lives down the road.

This lack of signal’s a pain, I’m giving myself wrist-sprain

I’m going insane, whilst trying to gain

The position to “send” once again

I’d be in my element, I’d become a real gent

If this text could be sent

But instead I’m reduced to railing

Cos the damned thing keeps failing

The designer of this should be quailing

If I got near him he’d be wailing

I’d want the bugger jailing

I get really riled, each time when I’ve dialled

One of the numbers I’ve filed

When it says it’s unknown, then it fails with a groan

And I can’t find a dial-tone, or enough bars on the phone

I’ll admit that I’ve cried, whenever I’ve tried

To follow the User Guide, then I get “Access Denied”

I’ve even tried bending

To improve the chances of sending

It’s my money I’m spending

But the damned things always offending

My hair I’m tearing and rending

The problems are never-ending

And my messages and calls are tending

To a status of “pending”

Why can’t I get through?

What am I supposed to do?

I think I should sue!

I’m clearly stating, that this situation I’m hating

I’m fed up of waiting, the problem’s never-abating

It shouldn’t fail, it’s not the Holy Grail!

Not on this scale, it’s beyond the pale

So I think I’ll give up and go back to email

Thursday, 17 September 2015

Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes

The world is full of wonderful wine,

So many that it’s very hard to choose.

But you’re supposed to be particular,

Not just knock it back like booze.

So I was dragged along to a wine tasting,

Then told to wait patiently and sit,

But the biggest shock I got that night,

Was being told not to swallow, but to spit!

Apparently, you can’t just rush in:

You’re supposed to take your time, and savour it.

If you go and drink it too quickly,

You’ll not discover your favourite.

There was a method and a protocol,

I soon learnt, that had to be observed,

Although I’d have liked to just get on with it,

From quaffing too quickly I had to be deterred.

Firstly they all gazed upon its colour,

Finding words to describe its “shades” and its “tints”,

So I swallowed a few mouthfuls,

And listened to them talking of “hints”.

Then there was some swirling around in the glass,

To develop the “bouquet” and the “aroma”:

But I decided to just finish my glass,

Before I slept, or fell into a coma.

I thought after that we’d get on with it,

But they started mentioning the “nose”,

So I started sipping a bit more of it -

What they were waiting for, God Alone knows.

Then, finally, they got on to the drinking,

And to their palates (that means the taste),

But I was already way ahead of them,

I drank a bit more, no time to waste.

They started swirling it all round their mouths,

And rolling their eyes as they savoured,

And sucking in air, and pinching their cheeks,

Was another method they favoured.

Then they spit it all out in front of me!

And started describing it as “amusing”.

It was “intense”, some called it “immense”,

But I just found their chatter confusing.

Now I can’t see the point of spitting it out,

Once you’ve got the stuff in your gob,

So I carried right on swallowing,

Trying my best not to look like a yob.

They were on about it being “floral”,

It was “delicate” I must understand,

And when they said it was “well-balanced”,

By this time, I had a glass in each hand.

I couldn’t frown, as I let it slip down -

They said it was “full-bodied” and “smooth” -

But by now I was cursed, with a great raging thirst,

And my drinking was looking uncouth.

The “complex notes” passed by their throats,

And there were “distinctive undertones”,

But this “fragrant” medium, had turned into tedium,

As I threw back the Cotes de Rhone.

At lasht they were talking of the “finish”,

Of how the “fragrant notes” really shung.

They were lying, to call it shatisfying,

The tashte hung around on my teeth & my tongue.

To be perfectly honesht, I’d had enough,

My legsh felt shaky; I went t’wards the door,

Everything looked all kind of doubled;

I needed no more, as slowly I shlid to the floor.

Sho take the moral of thish shtory;

And lishen to me when I try hard to shpeak:

Don’t drink too fasht, try and make it lasht,

And – shorry – I’ve to dash for a leak!

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

A Different Country

A Different Country

Things were different way back then

We accepted different things

How our heroes sailed before the mast

And behaved the way they did

Because no-one knew to stop them

But today we’re ready to talk about the past

Seeds sown so many years ago

Lain dormant, suddenly awaking

And tear-watered, flourish fast

And grow into monstrous shapes

Cast long shadows on the guilty

And leave the public quite aghast

A long, long shameful silence

Brooding on bottled-up emotions

And how history’s since been cast

Now emerging into light of day

And moved to naming famous names

How could they expect such lies to last?