News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 31st January 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 31^st January 2016

                                             

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

1.       A row has erupted in Bromham over the treatment of immigrant yokels.  It has been revealed that the Parish Council has been secretly marking these unfortunate individuals by insisting that they wear baler-twine “bracelets” and that the doors of their workers’ cottages should be painted cowflap brown.  The yokels have complained that these symbols mark them out for abuse from better-off villagers, who regale them with insults as they drive past in their Range Rovers and Chelsea Tractors.

2.       It has been revealed that Mrs. Olive Piglet, of Love Lane in the village, has finally agreed to pay her newspaper bill at the Village Shop.  Following intense behind-the bike-sheds discussions over the past few days, Mrs Piglet has reached a final settlement with the retailer.  Parish Councillors, however, demanded that an inquiry be set up into the settlement after it was revealed that Mrs Piglet had been seen to pay cash twice in one week at the butcher’s shop in the High Street.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Leek, cheese & bacon scones

Recipe for: LEEK, CHEESE & BACON SCONES

Ingredients:

·         2 Earl Grey teabags

·         1 leek, washed, trimmed & very finely chopped

·         2 rashers smoked bacon, finely chopped

·         1 tblsp oil

·         50g/ 2oz butter

·         225g/ 8oz self-raising flour

·         ½ tsp mustard powder

·         ½ tsp cayenne pepper

·         50ml/ 2 fl oz semi-skimmed milk

·         1 tblsp maple syrup

·         75g/ 2 ½ oz extra mature cheddar, grated

Method:

1.       Preheat oven to 200C/ fan 180C/ gas 7

2.       Lightly dust a baking tray with flour

3.       In a small bowl pour 50ml boiling water over the Earl Grey teabags & leave to steep

4.       Meanwhile, cook the finely chopped bacon and leek in the oil over a low heat for 5- 10 mins or until soft

5.       Set cooked bacon and leeks aside in a dish to cool

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

7.       Add the butter & use your fingers to rub in to form bread-crumbs

8.       Add the cooled leeks and bacon, and the grated cheese

9.       In another bowl put in the liquid from the Earl Grey teabags, add the milk and maple syrup then mix the liquids together.

10.    Pour the liquid into the bowl of flour mixture.  Bring together with a spoon or your hands

11.    Tip out the mixture onto a floured surface.  Flatten to a piece about ¾ inch thick

12.    Using a knife or a cookie-cutter, create triangles or round shapes

13.    Place them onto the floured tray, and brush the tops with a little milk

14.    Bake for 18 – 20 minutes until risen and golden

15.    Remove from the oven onto a wire rack and allow to cool

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve for warm or cold with butter, or with soup

Bumps And Bruises

Bumps And Bruises

Be careful, darling, as you crawl along,

Beware the dangers on the ground.

I’ll try my best to protect you,

Because your Daddy’s no longer around.

There’s things out here that could harm you,

My precious, listen hard to me.

It would be so easy to hurt yourself,

With perils that you might never see.

You can’t know yet, but it’s a bad world out there,

In ways you cannot even conceive,

And there’s a struggle that’s going on,

With men fighting for what they believe.

They’re at it now in lands far away,

Armed forces pitched in terrible fight -

I can’t expect you to understand it,

But they’re just doing what they know to be right.

It’s why your Daddy went off last year:

He felt that he just had to go.

He was doing his job and playing his part:

He never meant to be a hero.

He wasn’t especially brave or tough -

Just a regular guy doing his bit,

Dressed up in his uniform,

And carrying the usual kit.

He was a soldier, trained and true,

Posted on patrol near foreign borders.

He didn’t question what he had to do,

But carried on, and followed orders.

We missed him during every tour,

Time without him always seemed to drag.

But we understood the job he did,

For Queen, and Country and the flag.

He expected to come back home to us,

Just like all the other men,

But too many bumps and bruises,

Means that we’ll not see him again.

We’re alone now, there’s just you and me;

You’re my precious, you’re my beauty,

You’ll grow to admire that soldier, your father:

A man protecting your freedom, and doing his duty.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Identification

Identification

This is how it all started once before

With simple marks and signs

The means of clear identification

The distinction in status

Back then it was pink or yellow

But now it seems to be red

The plastic wristband

The painted door

The convenient grouping together

The insignia of things that must be distinguished

And next it will be numbering

Indexing and recording

After that it will be branding of the skin

A more permanent answer

Pre-cursor to a Final Solution

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

For National Holocaust Memorial Day - A History Lesson

History Lesson

As the first oven door opens she has to go outside

To recover herself, and fight back the tears,

As if the enormity of the crime,

The wickedness of it, the evil itself, still lives here,

And the smell somehow lingers

Within the charnel house, where the bodies baked,

In those early days before the numbers grew too many.

She comes back in again, re-joins the tour,

Sees the bloody Birkenau production-line of murder

Its branch-line running right inside the camp,

Past guard-houses, towers, miles of razor-wire,

Its empty block-houses bearing silent witness

She can see the selection process,

A mere matter of seconds,

Watches them shamble over to the showers,

Undressing, stripping, leaving everything behind

To be collected later, or so they think,

Herded together, the door slamming shut,

Then the screams, the panic, the fear,

A roof-top trap-door opening,

And the casual dropping of the Zyklon,

The guards waiting for silence,

Before dragging out the bodies to the fire-pits.

Her legs are shaky, she thinks she will faint,

Standing inside the blackened walls,

Imagines how it happened, smells the vapour,

Sees where history was made,

In desperate pursuit of a final solution,

To wipe undesirables from the face of the Earth.

To Canada then, to bear witness,

To the residues of countless victims,

Cardboard cartons of personal papers,

Glass boxes full of shoes, of clothing, of toys,

Of teeth, of hair and human bones,

Recoverable substances for the Reich.

Exhibitions, reconstructions, documents,

Photographs, testimonies, memories,

The deniers overwhelmingly denied.

Feels these school-children rush past her,

Shouting at each other, and into their phones,

Crisp packets rustling, coke cans drained,

Laughing and joking, cat-calling,

Oblivious to this living lesson

Unaware of eugenics and euthanasia,

Ignorant of this inhumanity,

And for whom the holocaust has little meaning.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Welcome To Your World

Welcome To Your World - some advice to the 7 billionth human being to be born

Happy Birthday! Welcome to the planet!

Being late would have been such a crime,

Good you didn’t leave it any longer, though,

In fact you’ve got here just in time!

There’s been a lot of babies born lately:

You’re number seven billion, as it goes,

But you’re such a pretty little baby,

Just look at those lickle fingers and toes!

You see, things are getting rather crowded,

As you can most probably guess.

We haven’t had the time to clear things up,

We’re really sorry about all the mess.

It’s just that we’ve been really busy,

I’m sure we’ll find a little space for you.

You don’t take up very much room – yet,

But you’ll have to join the back of the queue.

You see, human life is competitive,

And just getting through it has been our goal,

We haven’t had chance to bury the waste,

Whilst we were digging all of the coal.

Resources are all in short supply,

Because of this recent baby boom,

And the really bad news, if you’re desperate,

Is that there’s a long wait for the bathroom.

Anyway, I’d best leave you my advice,

Give you my opinion before I go:

There’s a few problems that need sorting out,

I just thought you should probably know.

We never did find cure for cancer,

Malaria’s still a killer I think,

And we did get a bit carried away -

So a few species did become extinct.

I think we’ve cocked up the environment,

With rivers diverted and the lakes shrunk.

We’ve produced quite a lot of waste,

And, circling the planet, we’ve left lots of junk.

I know it looks like we’ve used everything up,

And, yes, there’s a fair bit of pollution,

But don’t worry about it for too long,

Because scientists are seeking a solution.

Burial plots are full – standing room only,

Which is an increasing problem, I fear,

But you’ve got to keep things in proportion –

Given that we’ve dissolved the atmosphere!

Did we really need the ice-caps anyway?

The planet can take its chances -

We’ll get out of this pickle somehow,

There’s bound to be technical advances!

With all this increased life expectancy,

Better health care, space flights and GM food,

What have we got to worry about?

We should be in a much better mood!

So religion, world hunger and crime,

Are topics I feel I ought to mention.

The planet’s probably buggered I fear -

If you could give it your best attention?

So I hope you’ll have a great party,

With cake and jelly, and music that’s loud.

Don’t worry too much about who to invite -

I’m sure there’ll be bloody big crowd.

Best of luck, and I’ll leave you to it then.

I hope you have a life that’s happy and sunny,

Although I think I forgot to mention,

That we haven’t left you any money.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

I Remember What's-Her-Name

I Remember What’s-Her-Name

I was only thinking just the other day

About many things so far away

Before my recollection could wane

As I took a trip down Memory Lane

That I hadn’t seen her for such a long time

The girl I had courted back in my prime

She was handsome, and she was pretty

She lived in old Bradford City

I was sweet on her, which she surely knew

And I think that she was sweet on me too

So many years have now slipped by

How the decades have tended to fly

Such a long time since I played the courtship game….

I wonder whatever happened to What’s-Her-Name?

After such a promising start

We gradually drifted apart

Then came that fateful day

When her family moved far away

We saw each other for one final night

Of course we promised we’d write

It didn’t happen, and as is often the case

I think she got married to… What’s-His-Face

And as the story usually bids

There followed at least a couple of kids

Then, just like you read in the books

She faded, and lost all of her looks

Now I wish I hadn’t so tarried

She was the girl I ought to have married

So I’ll never know whether

We might have been happy together

You know - right after our first date

I knew she was my soul-mate

So close that our spirits were linking

We knew what each other was thinking

It’s such a shame it didn’t last

And now it’s all so far in the past

I don’t think either of us was to blame…

I just wish I could remember her bloody name!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 24th January 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 24^th January 2016

                                             

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

1.       The report into the mysterious death of Ivor “Bigun” Piglet was published this week.  It was revealed that Piglet was poisoned by being fed a lethal concoction of Jerusalem artichokes, broad beans and radio-active carrots, laced with the chemical Bromham-B3102.  Police were able to re-trace the murder trail by finding minute traces of the B3102 right across the village.  The report concludes that Piglet’s murder must have been authorised by the very highest authorities in neighbouring Semington.

2.       Scientists in the village are excited by the prospect that another large town may exist with the Wiltshire universe.  It has long been suspected that another great urban force was occupying the area of space far out beyond distant Salisbury, but no sightings have ever been recorded.  But recently, with the aid of new bus-pass technology, and the decoding of the formerly-incoherent ranting of village pensioners, boffins at Bromham’s University of Real-Time Paranormal (BURP) believe that such metropolis, perhaps ten times the size of Bromham, may be exerting magnetic and gravitational forces at the very far end of the known county.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The New Vicar

The New Vicar (or how appearances can be deceptive)

Our village is small but quite pretty,

With a shop, a pub and a church.

Then our vicar broke some commandments,

And left his flock in the lurch.

The bishop he had to be summoned,

And we told him how we’d been rocked,

By the antics of our latest Reverend.

Well – in the end, he was defrocked.

It was now several months later,

And I heard it only by chance:

A removal truck had been spotted -

Our new vicar had moved in to the Manse.

So, being of a neighbourly demean,

I thought I’d meet him as soon as I could,

And welcome him to his new parish,

And nip any problems right there in the bud.

I wandered along up to his front door.

Well - you can imagine my shock,

When the door was soon answered,

By a tall young bloke in a smock.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

He stood there with a mop of long hair.

He had tattoos and an earring,

And before I knew it, I was staring.

His beard was short and quite wispy,

But the greatest of all of my cares,

Was what he was sporting below:

My God – a pair of pink flares.

He was younger than I was expecting,

And dressed up all rather fey.

If he went round the parish like that,

Some folk wouldn’t know what to say.

I’m not an expert on the latest fashion,

Nor am I up with the latest trend,

But, what had possessed our good bishop

Such an odd character to send?

Now I’m as broad-minded as anyone,

But, to me, it was as plain as the light.

I could see that we were headed for trouble,

And that I’d have to put the chap right.

It’s quite a conservative village,

And the locals don’t suffer fools,

So as part of my introduction,

I thought I’d lay down a few ground rules.

  

I told him that we liked our services

Traditional, not happy-clappy.

So if he’d like to keep things the same,

We’d be grateful, there’s a good chappie.

Singing Onward Christian Soldiers

Was just what we expected to sing.

No trendy, modern stuff would be needed,

And very short sermons – that was the thing.

Our church organist is in his eighties.

He’s deaf, and so isn’t sure when

The choir has finished already,

So the rest of us just sing the last verse again.

And after all of this advice,

I saw that his eyes had gone sort of glazed.

He looked at me in some surprise.

In fact, he was totally amazed.

Up to this point, the poor chap hadn’t spoken.

But the door he now opened wide.

He gestured for me to enter,

So I thought I’d better go inside.

“Wait there” he said all at once.

“Before you get into more of a lather,

I’ll go and get the man that you really need –

He’s the new vicar here – my father!”

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Masala Pooris

Recipe for: MASALA (Spiced) POORIS

Ingredients: (makes 20 – 25)

·         400g/ 14oz wholemeal flour

·         2 heaped tblsp chopped coriander, leaves & stalks

·         2 green chillies, very finely chopped

·         ½ tsp each of ground black pepper, chilli powder, cumin powder, cumin seeds

·         1 tblsp melted butter or oil

·         Sunflower oil for deep frying

Method:

1.       Sift flour into a large bowl with 1 tsp salt

2.       Add other ingredients (except melted butter) and mix well

3.       Add the butter/ oil and rub in well

4.       Gradually add 200ml water, a little at a time, kneading by hand to make a fine dough.  You may need a little more or less than the 200ml, but it should not be sticky

5.       Wrap dough in cling film or damp cloth & leave to rest for 15-20 minutes

6.       Heat 5-8cm oil for deep frying

7.       Prepare a sieve, some kitchen paper spread on a tray and a slotted spoon

8.       Roll out the dough as thinly as possible, avoiding using any extra flour if at all possible

9.       Cut out 5 – 8cm discs

10.    Test that the oil is hot enough by dropping in one poori.  It should rise to the surface immediately and cook quickly until golden.

11.    Cook no more than 2 or 3 pooris at once

12.    Best technique is to hold them down, spin them in the hot oil, then let them go, flipping them over as soon as they bloat & colour slightly.  They should cook in a few seconds.

13.    Drain on the kitchen paper & keep hot whilst you cook further pooris

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve hot with chutneys & curries

Is There Anybody There?

Is There Anybody There?  (or what the dead may have to tell us from the other side)

Now I had an old maiden aunt,

Who on her death-bed was lying.

I stroked her cheek, and held her hand,

But inside I knew she was dying.

As her time slipped slowly away,

She rallied briefly and muttered.

I strained to catch what she was saying,

But just couldn’t make out what she’d uttered.

She’d obviously had something to tell,

But the mystery remained unresolved,

And I knew that I wouldn’t rest,

Until the puzzle I’d solved.

So when she’d been laid to rest in the ground,

I went to seek what I lacked.

I contacted a spirit medium,

To see if I could make some contact.

The lady in question was a gloomy old girl,

With a crystal ball and an old ouija board,

But she seemed to know what she was doing,

So my hopes had presently soared.

She first noted the particulars,

In order to narrow the search down.

We didn’t want any old maiden aunt,

But, specifically, my own.

She pulled across the dark curtains,

And then she started the séance.

I wondered what was she was up to,

But then she went into a trance.

She started moaning & groaning,

And rolling around on her chair.

And then she suddenly shouted:

“Is there anybody there?”

The answer was quite spontaneous,

And the table started to rock.

I felt there was a ghostly presence,

And then was some sort of knock.

“Is there a message for someone here present?”

Asked the lady spiritual guide.

“Do you want to say something,

From across on the other side?”

Now, I have to say that I heard no-one answer,

But the clairvoyant was still swaying.

She seemed to be listening intently,

To what some ghostly voice was saying.

I’ll admit I’m a bit of a sceptic,

And of the occult I’m not really fond.

And I didn’t fancy ectoplasm,

Nor voices from the beyond.

  

Then suddenly it was all over:

We’d come to the end of the session.

What, I wondered, was the result

Of this bizarre intercession?

My spiritual lady became now composed,

But what on earth could this presage?

She put her ringed hand on my arm,

And then she delivered this message.

“I’m sorry I passed away before I was ready.

But I was in no fit state to shout.

Just don’t forget next Monday -

You need to put the rubbish bins out.”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

It's The End Of The World On Saturday

It's The End Of The World On Saturday

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

Can I stay up late the night before?

If we’re all getting fried on the week-end,

There’s no point being a bore.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

The pastor says there’ll be a Great Flood.

There’ll be fires, and earthquakes,

And boils & locusts & rivers of mud.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

I want to be one of the saved.

It’s what we’ve all waited for,

The ending that we’ve all craved.

There’ll be no time for quips,

We’ll squeak like pips.

It trips off the lips,

As our confidence dips,

When we meet our apocalypse.

Mam, it’s the end f the world on Saturday.

The cataclysm is here.

Judgement Day is coming.

No time for trembling in fear.

For we’ve been groomed,

Our future has loomed.

We’ll all be entombed,

The ending zoomed,

As we prepare to be doomed.

Mam, it’s the end of the world I’m sure.

I don’t want to be one of the sinners -

I want to be lifted to heaven,

I want to be one of the winners.

It said in Ezekiel,

There’ll be no equal,

To the terrors,

And the meek’ll

Inherit the earth.

* * * * * * *

Mam, the earth didn’t end after all;

It’s all been a terrible let-down.

I thought I’d be sitting next to Jesus,

And be one of the stars in His crown.

Mam, it seems it just wasn’t to be:

There wasn’t any of God’s wrath -

It’s all just the same old same old,

There was something wrong with the math.

I think I can tell,

All is still well.

There wasn’t a death knell,

No ringing of bells,

No fires of hell.

Mam, it seems the signs & portents were wrong.

The reasons aren’t simple to capture:

The End of Times didn’t come,

And I wasn’t lifted up in the Rapture.

If there’s no Second Coming,

If we’ve all mis-read the code,

I’ll have to take that library book back,

And pay back that fiver I owed.

Mam, the end of the world didn’t come in the end.

There’s no point living in fear.

It’s all so – disappointing,

So Armageddon out of here.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Call Girl

Call Girl (or how telephone sex is not as good as it’s cracked up to be)

I’m a great fan of online banking,

And I use it to manage accounts.

But last week I ran into a problem -

On the screen were the wrong amounts.

So seeking to sort this problem at once,

To the bank’s Call Centre I rang.

I listened to music for minutes,

As on the phone I was forced to hang.

Then a recorded voice quite sharply said:

“Press 1 for this, and press 2 for that”.

So I worked my way through the options,

Trying not to feel like a prat.

My digits blazed over the keypad,

Pressing this, pressing that, and then you

Think you’ve finished at last,

But there’s always one more menu.

At last I got to where I wanted,

After this long game of hide and seek

For it was just with a human being,

That I desperately wanted to speak.

At last came a female voice quite confident -

I wasn’t trying to be choosy.

She asked if she could help me,

And told me her name was Susie.

I stumbled through with my problem,

But really I hadn’t much of a choice.

I’d become all kind of nervous, you see,

Seduced by the sound of her voice.

So began my fantasies & questions:

I went right through the book.

Was she young, and was she pretty?

In fact, how good did she look?

I started to imagine for myself:

What was the colour of her hair?

For her voice was so gentle,

I decided she had to be fair.

Could I ever get to know this girl?

I could feel my cheek starting to heat.

Could we take this relationship further,

And arrange somewhere cosy to meet?

I wanted to take this thing off-line:

I felt that she was waiting to be whirled,

Away from her Call Centre employment,

To something more solid in the real world.

   

She carried on talking, working her script.

She was a mistress of her profession.

She was confident & well-drilled.

Would she listen to my confession?

She worked her way through my problem,

But the solution had started to vex.

Did a one-sided fantasy like this,

Count as telephone sex?

I wanted to keep her talking, you see,

And try to keep her involved.

I felt we needed to build up some rapport,

So I brought up new things to be solved.

Her voice was so delightful & sexy,

But always in command, never a fall-girl.

I wanted this to go on and on,

To take things further, with my dear call-girl.

Her accent betrayed nothing at all,

But she seemed like an English rose.

I’d no idea where she was,

But she certainly felt very close.

Eventually, I screwed up my courage,

And asked her if there could ever be more.

That’s when she said it was against the rules,

And besides, she was talking from Bangalore.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Ee, It's Grim Down South

Ee, It's Grim Down South (or how a Yorkshireman Laments His Homeland)

When I was a lad, at home in the North,

I was told that I lived with great bounty,

In the best place that there was:

Yes it were Yorkshire – God’s very own county.

We’d grand hills & dales to go walking,

With so many sheep you’d be amazed,

Which drove the great wool industry,

With its mills wherever you gazed.

At home, things were quite rough though:

Our house was subject to flooding.

We’d no access to sand-bags,

So were forced to use lengths of black pudding.

The food were boring & monotonous,

I’m really sorry to gripe.

For, although I’m quite fond of a pork pie,

You can only eat so much onions & tripe.

The tea was made strong & very sweet

To bolster our old working men.

You could stand your spoon up in it -

You had to be right sturdy back then.

You’d be woken by the sparrows,

Coughing first thing in the dawn,

And, to the strains of a Hovis advert,

You’d set forth to your work in the morn.

You’d work in the spinning mills,

The factory, or one of the pits,

And think of yourself as quite lucky

If you didn’t suffer from nits.

And rickets & diphtheria were all of the rage;

Keeping pigeons or whippets the usual thing.

We kept our coal in the bath-tub,

And in the lavvy, you had to know how to sing.

The women were fierce & big-chested,

And Tetley’s ale was always the best,

Rugby League was the sport among men,

And brass bands played without any rest.

The toil was rough and it was hard,

But you took what work you could find.

My father was broken down daily

By his labours in the Treacle Mine.

But among the chimneys and the grime,

We still thanked God for our lot,

For we could still have a bath monthly -

Aye – whether we needed it or not!

But then the industries all closed down,

And took all the amusement away.

The North were classed as “Special Needs”,

And down South I was forced to stray.

So I came down here to see what were brewing,

To work, to live & to marry.

Thirty years I’ve managed to survive,

But I’ve not been as happy as Larry.

For the hills are all piddling & gentle,

And the beer is always served flat.

There’s no proper cricket teams,

And I can’t say any fairer than that.

But I think I’ve given the South a fair trial now:

For thirty years I’ve been right plucky,

But I’ve missed the doom & the gloom

I just didn’t realise: I were that lucky!

So one of these days, I’ll just get up & go,

My image will soon fade from your view.

I’ll bugger off back North again,

And be no longer here to bother you.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 17th January 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 17^th January 2016

                                             

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

1.       History was made this week in Bromham, as a man born and bred in the village itself carried out the first external repair of a tractor whilst it was circling the village.  Dressed in special overalls, sealed by industrial-grade bailer twine, went on a four-hour “walk” to repair the left-wing rear-view mirror of the tractor.  At no time was his life in any real danger, due to the rigorous safety regime in operation.

2.       Bromham Crown Court finally convicted the three elderly criminals involved in the great tea-cake theft from the village shop.  Over the Spring Bank Holiday weekend last year, whilst the shop was closed for two days, 88 year old George ‘Cat Burgler’ Piglet, 89 year old Peter ‘Thief’ Piglet and 86 year old Robert ‘Blagger’ Piglet broke into the shop and stole a packet of tea-cakes and other goods.  Police said that some of the stolen items may never be recovered, as they had been eaten.  The criminals were caught not using forensic evidence or detailed police investigation, but by simply looking at their nicknames.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016