Farewell My Lovely

Farewell My Lovely (I’m in a good relationship now, but my last girlfriend….well there was a bit of a problem…..)

Farewell my lovely, for I must go,

Though I’m not removed by any force,

I think that, for many reasons,

Our relationship has now run its course.

It wasn’t your dog that worried me,

Though his habits were certainly vile,

The postman’s out of hospital now,

And the locals don’t run for a mile.

I didn’t mind that you smoked,

Though sixty a day was over the top,

And though I couldn’t see you through the fog,

I never, ever begged you to stop.

I’d quite got over the look of your face,

Though it was quite odd of a sort,

Your crooked, lop-sided smile,

Topped off with a rectangular wart.

I looked beyond your cauliflower ear,

Your tattoos never gave me a care,

Your broken nose was never an issue,

Nor that your palms were covered in hair.

But I’ll admit that I got a few shocks,

The first time that we went to bed,

Before taking all of your clothes off,

Your whipped your wig off instead.

You know I’m no oil painting myself,

But I can’t deny that I was galled,

Having chatted up a blonde bombshell,

To find I was with a girl who was bald.

The surgical stockings came off next,

Which you hung up on the peg,

Followed by two pairs of tights,

Then unfastened your wooden leg.

I thought that this might un-nerve me,

But I didn’t want to appear pathetic,

Nor appear to be too un-grateful

At the sight of your pink prosthetic.

But when you took out your teeth,

And placed them on the bed-side table,

I could see them grinning at me,

And I didn’t think that I’d be able.

To love you in the way in the way I’d intended.

At that point, you remember, I turned shy,

And I had to look the other way,

As you removed your cheery glass eye.

  

You put it there in a glass on the side,

And it gave me a terrible fright,

As it stared at me -  not just at first,

But another twice in the night.

So, you see, darling my dearest,

I’m not usually one to moan,

But I’m still left wondering,

How much of you is your own?

There’s so many parts to your make-up,

That make you look so fetching and fair.

But I’m going to find a new girl-friend,

And I’ll make sure the next one is all there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Parsnip, Thyme & Cheese Bread

Recipe for: PARSNIP, THYME & CHEESE BREAD

Ingredients:

• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 large onion, peeled & very finely chopped
• 180g self-raising flour
• ½ tsp salt
• 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
• 50g hard cheese (goat’s, cheddar, parmesan, or a mixture)
• 180g parsnip (peeled & grated)
• Fresh ground black pepper
• 1 egg, lightly beaten
• 2-3 tblsp milk

 Method:

1. heat oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ 350F/ gas 4
2. heat oil in frying pan & sauté the onion gently until soft & lightly coloured, stirring occasionally – about 10-15 minutes.  Remove from heat & allow to cool
3. in a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt, thyme, cheese, parsnip & some pepper
4. add the cooked onions & mix thoroughly
5. beat the egg lightly with the milk, then add to the dry mixture
6. mix to form a soft dough, but do not overwork. Just bring together with your fingers and a very light knead
7. shape into a small round, then place onto an oiled baking sheet
8. bake for 40-45 minutes, until the loaf is golden & makes a hollow sound when tapped on the bottom
9. leave to cool on a wire rack, before slicing

 What else you need to know:

1. serve warm or cold, spread with butter and a deep bowl of soup

The Reckoning - Hillsborough by Numbers

The Reckoning

I’ve been doing some reckoning,

Even though you may think that I’m dense,

Trying to make some numbers add up,

To see if they’ll make any sense.

They set off to watch FA Cup football,

A semi-final they wanted to catch,

A vital game of the season:

They said it was a killer of a match.

Two were the hours to get to South Yorkshire,

Two more to get into the ground,

Herded like cattle by police horses,

Abused, and given the run-around.

Crammed into standing terraces,

The over-crowding was insane,

They all knew about Hillsborough,

Waiting for kick-off in Leppings Lane.

The push and the crush, then emergency,

Bodies spilling over onto the grass,

The dying piled up everywhere,

An awful disaster had come to pass.

Fifteen after three when it happened,

Twenty-seven years since the event,

The denigration of the deceased -

Hard to understand what it all meant.

The Sun said the Scousers were drunk,

The police tried to shift all the blame,

They said it was the fans’ own fault,

And worked hard to polish their own name.

Under thirty years were most of the victims,

We know that forty-five might still be here,

But ninety-six in all died that day,

Cos the ambulances weren't anywhere near.

Eighty-nine – the year of the tragedy,

When the powers-that-be protected their own,

And stitched up all of the evidence,

Hoping the truth would never be known.

One hundred and sixteen statements were fixed,

Of many so crimes, that was the chief:

Contempt for processes of democracy,

In a cover-up beyond our belief.

Three hundred and ninety-five pages’ report,

Is what it took to force the exposure;

Four hundred and fifty thousand documents,

Just to give the families some closure.

Now Cameron says “profoundly sorry”,

As if that were enough after all this:

We’ve finally forced out the truth,

But what we need now is some justice.

This sorry tale should not have to be told,

And one the Government must not condone.

How could they have treated people like that?

How could they have let them Walk Alone?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

I Remember Amnesia

I Remember Amnesia (I think)

Have I told you this before?

Can I make this easier?

You can’t blame me for this,

I think it’s called amnesia.

Have I said this already?

I don’t want to tease ya,

It’s not my fault you know –

I think it’s called amnesia.

I don’t remember much.

I forget when I’m breezier,

Now, what was I saying?

I think it’s called amnesia.

My memories are slippery,

Elusive and greasier,

I just can’t hang on to them –

I think it’s called amnesia.

The other day I went – somewhere.

I must have had some sort of seizure,

It could have been anywhere,

I think it’s called amnesia.

I was wrapped up snug and warm,

Wearing something….fleecier,

But I can’t remember what it was,

I think it’s called amnesia.

I was talking to….somebody,

I think they were from Silesia,

But it could have been anyone –

I think it’s called amnesia.

Have I already mentioned?

I’m feeling a bit queasier,

Since whatever it was I ate –

I think it’s called amnesia.

I hope I’m not boring you,

I only want to please ya,

But the thing is that….

I think it’s called amnesia.

Now, have you all got that?

Oh, I wish this was easier,

Have I already told you?

I think I’ve got……

And now, I’d like to read you a poem

Called “I remember amnesia (I think)”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Where's Ya Bin Lately?

Where’s Ya Bin Lately? (or the tale of the bad-tempered domestic waste operative)

I’m up in the early morning -

You could say it’s up with the lark.

But all that I know is -

Outside it’s still bloody well dark.

The alarm sounds like a siren,

Right at the crack of the dawn.

I stumble straight into my clothes.

It’s another freezing cold morn.

Then I’m off down to the depot -

I can smell it before I even get close.

To meet up with the crew & the truck,

But it’s not worth holding your nose.

We put on our caps & thick leggings,

Together with some steel-toed boots,

And reflective jackets, thick gloves -

These form up into our business suits.

Then it’s off down the road to the first job,

Before the manager comes round.

That means parking for breakfast,

At this little café we’ve found.

It’s tea & it’s butties all round.

There’s banter & plenty of talking.

There’s no rush to get started,

On those miles & miles of walking.

The oldest bloke in the team is the driver,

The rest of us just follow behind,

Working at the back of the truck,

Dealing with garbage of all kinds.

The pay & conditions are poor,

So most of our bin-men are dross.

We’ve got no pride in our work,

In fact, I don’t give a toss.

We work our way through the streets,

Making as much noise as we can.

Nobody sleeps through our workings,

As we drop every bin with a clang.

We search through whatever’s left out,

To see if there’s anything worth keeping.

That goes into our special compartment,

And builds a fund that’s ours for the reaping.

Then we run through our reasons for rejections:

Bins that are too heavy for lifting,

Lids not quite closed or overfull -

Well it’s something we’re not shifting.

Bags at the side are not ours to do:

It makes it quite clear in the rules:

We’d be breaking our new contracts:

We just can’t afford to be fools.

  

Folks chuck away everything that’s messy,

And I don’t care what you think:

There’s no way it can be avoided -

Most of the bins really stink.

There’s rats and dead cats to look out for,

Cooking fats & things dripping with grease.

Watch as we leave a great trail of debris,

Right across the lawn you can follow with ease.

And don’t bother, or dare, to complain:

It’s really not worth your while,

Cause next time we’ll remember,

And leave all your trash in a great pile.

When the truck finally fills up with your rubbish,

We get a short break as we drive to the dump.

It all gets tossed into land-fill,

And lands with a ruddy great bump.

There’s short-cuts & some fiddles,

Too many for me to relate,

But we all go hunting for tips,

Some extra pay to create.

We let the chaps in the big houses

Talk us into shifting their trash.

We’ll shift anything you want, guv’nor,

Provided there’s enough cash.

But we’ve got to get through our quota,

Before we can knock off for the day.

The work is boring and relentless,

So we make sure we do it our own way.

And the toil is hard and it’s dirty:

We smell like the rubbish we’ve carted.

Everyone takes us for granted.

And recycling? – Don’t get me started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Tandoori Nights

Tandoori Nights (or why I love an Indian)

As the sun sank down in the West,

I sank pints down the pub without worry,

And I found that I’d developed a craving:

What I needed next was a bloody hot curry.

You see KFC just wouldn’t cut it:

The chicken tasted like some old flab.

Fish and chips were no good at the time,

And I couldn’t go near a doner kebab.

There’s other things I could have had if I’d wanted:

Chinese – but you have to be in the right mood,

You’re usually hungry again an hour later,

And to be honest  it’s not my favourite food.

An Indian it had to be for me then,

It was no time to act like a shrinking lily,

Something to clear my sinuses out,

A meal with a kick of some chillie!

Poppadoms I started with, and some pickles,

Bhajias, pakoras and some tikka –

So hot that it made my throat go numb,

You can tell I’m an Indian thrill-seeker.

I’d no idea what next I should choose

Picking one was something of a great drama.

Dhansak, Madras or a hot Vindaloo -

Patia, Jalfreezie, or Chillie Masala?

Chicken, vegetable or lamb for main course?

A tough question I had to decide.

Cooked in which tasty, spicy sauce?

Cos I always like a bit on the side.

There was bhindi, gobi and aloo –

Vegetable koftas, dhal and some rice.

I had to have all of these dishes:

I didn’t care so long as there was plenty of spice.

I hadn’t even started yet on the breads:

Naans, rotis and chapattis all soft,

I mopped up the delicious sauces.

And four pints of lager I quaffed.

And when it was all ordered and eaten,

When I couldn’t eat one other thing,

When my stomach was finally beaten,

And my mouth continued to sting.

I’d finished my lager and was getting the bill,

I knew that I’d be back again in a hurry.

I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be cured,

Of this addiction I’ve got for a curry.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 24th April 2016

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

                                             

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

1.       The debate over Bromham potentially leaving Wiltshire (Brexit), took a further twist yesterday when some bloke from Trowbridge unloaded his opinions in the back room of the Wounded Ferret.  He said that if the village shop pulled out of the Costcutta trading collective, it could take weeks (if not months) to negotiate a new deal with Nisa or Londis. In the meantime, the safe supply of custard creams and chocolate digestives could be threatened.  Bromham might be at the back of the queue in such negotiations.

2.       The world of international show-biz received a further shock yesterday when it was announced that the chap at No.57 on the High Street who occasionally plays guitar in the covers band Pa’Snips was found dead, slumped over a pile of Brussels Sprouts trimmings.  Toxicology tests are being carried out but it is expected to be several weeks before the results are known.  Tributes have been paid to him - such as “creative genius in the chord of G”, “quite a plucker”, “sound-track to my formative years”, “great loss to the East Wiltshire pub trade” etc. Several other people have already died in 2016, and it is expected that some more will also die later in 2016. Quite a year then.

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 Shopping Forecast

The Shopping Forecast

And now for the Shopping Forecast,

Issued by the Met Office today.

They want to clear out their sales goods,

And they think this is a good way.

There are warnings of Sales in these areas:

The bargains are quite striking.

And to help with this new ploy,

The manager’s dressed like a Viking.

Chippenham High Street and town centre -

Depressing & occasionally poor.

Increasing number of pound shops,

And charity outlets at every door.

Woolworths has long gone now,

And many shops have gone silent.

After dark it gets much worse -

Dangerous, occasionally violent.

Somerfield and The Co-op – moderate,

Though there’s not much in the aisles.

Tesco, Asda and Sainsbury

Are out of town – five miles.

But small shops on the High Street,

And others of such propensity,

Then there’s Bejam and Safeway,

Finally losing their identity.

Lidl & Netto – very depressing,

But a bargain or two in the process.

Backing up at the checkouts:

Expected to get better – I guess.

Piles of goods – poor visibility.

Bright coloured trolleys – veering.

Unclear why they don’t fix them,

And try to improve on the steering.

Although there are local variations,

Getting around there is erratic.

It takes a Force 8 to push them,

Then you get to the checkout - automatic

The general position in Devizes:

Moderate or good – price marking.

Bear, Pelican and Black Swan:

Market Place – good parking.

Corsham – fast foods & some bargains,

Kebab shops – always increasing.

Markets on Tuesday – improving.

Discounts - never ceasing.

Marlborough – posh shops & Waitrose;

Prosperous and very well-heeled.

Punters with more money than sense,

Though some were born in a field.

  

M4 motorway – veering west:

Bath & Bristol – always enticing.

Wallet - slowly emptying.

At Iceland – moderate icing.

Cribbs Causeway – intimidating.

To get in there’s a big deal.

Debenhams, and House of Fraser -

Credit card – beginning to squeal.

So here is the general Synopsis:

If you run out funds you must borrow.

Depressingly the same I’m afraid,

But improving – better tomorrow.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Cherry & Almond Cake

Recipe for: CHERRY & ALMOND CAKE

Ingredients:

• 200g butter, softened
• 200g golden caster sugar
• 4 eggs
• ½ tsp almond extract
• 175g self-raising flour
• 85g ground almonds
• ½ tsp baking powder
• 300g glace cherries
• 100ml milk
• 2 tblsp flaked almonds

 Method:

1. heat the oven to 160C/ 140C fan/ gas 3
2. line the base & sides of a 20cm deep cake tin with grease-proof & butter it
3. beat together the butter & sugar until light & fluffy, then beat in the eggs one by one, ensuring that each is well incorporated before adding the next
4. fold in the almond extract, flour, ground almonds and baking powder, followed by the cherries (see below) and milk
5. scrape the mixture into the prepared tin & scatter over the flaked almonds on the top
6. bake for 1 hour to 75 minutes, or until the cake has risen with a golden-brown top, and a skewer comes out cleanly
7. cool the cake on a wire rack before serving

 What else you need to know:

1. if you want the cherries to be distributed throughout the cake, cut them up a bit.  If you leave them whole, they will tend to gather towards the bottom

Garden Centre

Garden Centre

Let’s go to the Garden Centre,

Cause I fancy a real cracking day out,

Let’s throw caution to the wind,

Let’s pile in the car together -

We’ll have a great time, without any doubt!

It’s signposted from miles away,

With a range of those little brown signs.

The car parks are the size of an airfield,

The traffic all arranged into lines,

It’s a long walk - that can’t be denied,

So then you have to decide, whether to pick up a guide

Or to go with the Park and Ride.

Cos the long path weaves around and around,

Till you hear the loud shrieking sound,

Of youngsters in the children’s playground,

Going right past the meerkats’ mound,

And then suddenly you’re found

Near animal corner with its small pets,

Beside the picnic and patio sets,

Ornamental features with water jets,

Fish-pools, fishing equipment and nets.

See - it’s not just about plants, or about trees,

And flowers that appeal to the bees,

Cos grandma likes to go to the café for teas,

Where she sits amongst the cabbages and peas:

No – there’s so much more to amuse,

Many more things from which you can choose,

Cos when you finally get to the main complex,

As you poke your head through the swing-door,

Penetrate much further inside the store,

The panorama across the vast floor,

You’re taken on a grand tour,

Across a huge range of departments.

By now you’ll be desperate,

So it’s first stop at the toilets,

To prepare you for the rigours ahead,

As through long snaking aisles you’ll be led,

In case you’d like to buy a new bed,

For it has to be said, get it into your head,

Things have changed in these days -

Retail is different in so many ways.

You’re drawn deep into a maze,

It all becomes a thick haze,

A kaleidoscope of offers you’re copping,

A blitz of ideas that are topping,

But it’s tiring, you’re ready for flopping,

You need a rest from all of this shopping….

Yes, let’s go the Garden Centre,

Just let me be your mentor -

How much more could you want?

There’s three cafes and a restaurant!

Indulge in their Special Meal Deal,

We can eat and drink whatever we feel,

We can wait for our blisters to heal,

Then we can finally steal…

…Through interior furnishings,

Give the sofas a test, be our guest,

Sit down for a rest, pick out the best,

Then to household wares,

Without any cares, gloves and wellies in pairs

The gift shop with its presents,

Dream-catchers and candles with scents,

Then another quick trip to the gents,

A wide range of new knick-knacks,

Arranged in long tempting racks,

And low-priced multiple packs,

Stationery and multi-coloured tacks,

It’s the unnecessary taken to the max….

Oh please, let’s go to The Garden Centre,

Let’s have a wild, mad adventure,

It’s no longer a horticultural bore,
That’s not what it’s there for,

It’s more of a department store,

It’s a Grand Day Out for pensioners,

And those who have nowhere else to go,

A meeting-point for those in the know,

A real destination that puts on a show,

You don’t need to mow, to hoe, or to sow -

Just turn up and go with the flow,

Till you develop a warm glow.

Warm in the Winter, and cool in the Summer,

There’s a bookshop, a crèche, a bar to get blotto,

There’s even a year-round Christmas grotto,

A biosphere, a Nature Reserve right here ,

And multiple concession stands,

At week-ends they even have bands!

Finance and credit facilities, building supplies,

Landscaping services, no-one denies,

With tool and machinery hire, this place is on fire!

Vouchers and tokens, a loyalty card…

Our pleasure would only be marred,

And it would be too hard, if we were barred

By the security guard….

But, look now, it’s started to rain -

Just forget everything I previously said -

Perhaps we should go to the seaside instead?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Lost In Cyberspace

Lost in Cyberspace (or the dangers of the online world to the unwary)

There’s a world out there waiting to be found,

I’m sure you’re willing to agree,

But there’s lots more in cyber-space:

A domain that was quite new to me.

I’d lived happily enough in the real world,

Until in front of my keyboard I was set,

To probe into the mysteries

Of this thing called the Internet.

I started by opening my browser,

And began searching for websites.

And then they came up on the screen,

A whole new world of delights.

You just click on the links – it draws you right in.

I was looking for some “biography”,

And before I knew what I was doing,

I was staring at high-grade pornography.

I saw some things that boggled my mind:

I admit that I was almost quite tempted.

It’s amazing what you can do with your body:

Some positions I’d never attempted.

I thought I’d better move on quickly,

And try to do something worth rating.

So I signed up to this site that I found,

For some online computer dating.

I entered all of my details:

You know - young, good-looking and free,

To see what matches it might find,

And pull up a partner for me.

Before long I’d struck up a friendship,

With this lady who called herself Honey.

But it didn’t take too long in the chatroom,

Before she started asking for money.

She passed on my details to some people she knew,

Who ran a scheme that was a scam.

They bombarded me with emails,

And filled all my inbox with spam.

Before this new time on the computer,

I’d thought that email was often a treat,

And my only experience of Spam

Had been pink luncheon-meat.

I couldn’t believe she’d betrayed me.

The experience had started to suck.

So I sought solace in online friends,

And put my profile up on Facebook.

  

It was then that I discovered,

How cruel the world could sometimes be.

I wanted to be loved, to be wanted,

But nobody ever poked me.

All this was totally depressing.

I began to feel like some kind of frog.

So I told of my disappointments,

And I began writing a blog.

The online community was waiting, I knew,

For someone who wasn’t a quitter.

I decided to go completely global,

And started tweeting on Twitter.

I sent my message out to all who would listen,

In my attempt to be a great hero,

But I found that I wasn’t that popular:

Number of followers – zero.

Then my firewall appeared to crumble,

My anti-virus started to crack.

With Trojans, Worms and Malware,

It appeared I was under attack.

My cursor started jumping around,

Problems all over just erupted.

My cookies turned very soggy,

And my files came out all corrupted.

So I think I’ve learned a good lesson:

It’s a great hint here I’m dropping.

Just be careful when you log on,

And best stick to online shopping.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Bottom-Pincher Of Old Trowbridge Town

The Bottom-Pincher of Old Trowbridge Town (the latest in a line starting with Milligan/ Goons’ Dreaded Batter Pudding-Hurler of Bexhill-on-Sea, and Milligan/ Two Ronnies’ The Raspberry-Blower of Old London Town)

There’s a town in West Wiltshire,

That stands out proud beyond the A4.

Let me tell you a tale of old Trowbridge,

That you’ve not heard of before.

For in this quiet, peaceful corner,

With its old High Street & its shopping,

Things most nefarious were afoot,

Which would have your jaw dropping.

The old Village Pump had its characters,

Near The Lamb there were girls and old punks,

The bag-ladies, and kebab-sellers,

And the usual winos & drunks.

Trow-Vegas car parks and the toilets,

The back-streets and the alleys,

But surrounded by great country,

With rolling hills & some valleys.

T’was a peaceful town it’s reported:

In the Gazette there was an article,

About the town’s small Hadron collider

And the search for the Chippenham particle.

But then this peace was suddenly broken:

The ladies there broke into a sweat,

For out on the streets one day,

Emerged a terrible new threat.

An elusive figure, a pimpernel,

His crime was a clincher:

Creeping up behind ladies:

The phantom bottom-pincher.

At first they were all in an outrage,

For he didn’t seem really to choose

The attractive younger ladies:

It was the older ones he tended to goose.

But soon they felt themselves flattered:

I just have this to mention,

It may have been a bad thing to do,

But really they liked the attention.

For shopping in Trowbridge was boring,

Thrills could be quite hard to find,

Even if the criminal was unknown

At least someone’d touched their behinds.

So no-one ever reported the crime,

The police were powerless to act,

But the ladies’ husbands became annoyed

And vowed vengeance - that’s a fact.

   

The provisional wing of the Salvation Army

Were brought in to scout,

But they never spotted the crime,

They never caught the chap out.

The bum-pincher became a popular figure,

Of his habit he took fully his fill,

There was no-one to get cross with,

For the victims shared in the thrill

So you’ll find if you go into Trowbridge,

It’s a town of wonderful places,

But now you know the deep secret

Of so many smiling faces.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Health, Wealth & Happiness

Health, wealth & happiness: (or how I was persuaded to seek health & youth, but gave it all up for booze & fags)

Now I’m the first to admit,

Although I’m certainly not wealthy,

I’d like to try & live as long as I can,

And that includes being healthy.

My other half – she looked hard at me,

And cast her critical eye.

“You need to get into shape” she said

And here are some ideas you can try.

She reeled off a number of therapies:

In fact she became quite verbal.

They were mostly New Age & Modern:

Some were Chinese and some were herbal.

I started on aroma therapy

Which created a wonderful smell.

But that just made me sleepy,

And off the treatment table I fell.

So nursing some bumps & some bruises,

I went to see a chiropractor.

She caused me so much pain that I cried.

And I’m afraid that I then sacked her.

So seeking for calmer approaches,

I tried ayurvedic head massage.

It brought a smile to my lips,

And peace to my ugly visage.

Hypnotherapy, meditation & yoga,

And various types of new diet:

Wheat-free, dairy-free and Atkins -

If it was faddy, I just had to try it.

Reflexology, and ear candling,

And all sorts of new medication.

Then finally I built myself up to try

Transcendental meditation.

This led to a new feeling of calmness:

My chakras were all in a line.

I started to feel so much better:

I fact I felt really quite fine.

And this was all very well for a while,

But it merely calmed my mental state:

I needed something else for my body -

A new person I wanted to create.

So I started to become more ambitious:

It’s what you do at such a juncture. -

Manipulation, electro-therapy,

And finally some acupuncture.

  

With needles all over my body,

My wellness began to increase.

If I could just push to the next stage -

Well – wonders might never cease.

I looked out for more treatments:

Anything health-like related.

Until finally I succumbed,

And had my colon irrigated.

It’s called hydro-therapy,

But there’s no need to sob -

It was all quite pleasant really,

And much easier than my later boob-job.

For I’d become addicted to nips and to tucks:

I didn’t need to be urged on.

I was even getting a discount

From my cosmetic surgeon.

But I suppose it’s the human condition,

To look for something more exotic,

When your diet gets increasingly boring,

And everything’s become pro-biotic.

Then finally the treatments stopped working:

What was once tight now only sags.

Anyway I’ve discovered a new diet –

It consists of chips, of beer and of fags.

So let this story become a warning to you:

Don’t think you can make yourself healthy.

Just stick with what you know,

And that way you might keep yourself wealthy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 17th April 2016

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

                                             

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

1.       The leader of the Parish Council, Dave Campervan, has taken the village by surprise and published a summary of his Tesco Discount Card Account.  However, opposition leaders are furious that he has not disclosed the full details, leaving them to speculate about some purchases, and to fill in some of the blanks.  The pressure is now on for all members of the Parish Council to publish details of their card accounts, including those at IKEA, Nectar and B&Q.

2.       And in a further shock revelation this week, the vicar of St Knickerless, Ivor Pugh, has revealed that the man whom he has been calling his father for the past forty years is not in fact his biological parent.  In an emotional statement Pugh divulged that his mother had been having an affair with the church-warden, a Mr Hugh Jarse, right up until the day she was married.  However the reverend minister said he was relieved to have gone through life as Ivor Pugh, rather than Ivor Hugh Jarse.

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

That Sinking Feeling

That Sinking Feeling (the desperation to not miss the sailing & find my ticket)

What a fine April morning to travel:

At last I’m my own master,

But the thing that’s worrying me

Is, can’t this train go any faster?

I’m already hungry & thirsty,

But those problems must wait.

If we don’t get there pretty smartish,

I’m afraid I’m going to be late.

For that steamer sure won’t delay,

If I don’t get there in time.

She’ll be departing in two hours,

Sailing across the Atlantic rime.

All that I possess is in this suitcase,

For I’m alone now, with no wife,

To try my luck in America,

And to try to start a new life.

For there’s nothing for me here now,

England’s become nowt but a cage.

There’s no work & no social,

And no way to make a living wage.

So I’ve decided to strike out for the new:

Got to do something to lick it,

And I’ve saved and I’ve borrowed,

Just to afford my third-class ticket.

At last – here we are at Southampton,

As the train shudders & rocks.

I hope it’s not far I’ve got to go,

To find my ship moored up in the docks.

It’s been a long journey, my case is so heavy,

I don’t want to be walking around,

But there’s bands playing and a great crowd -

After all, my ship is easily found.

She’s just over there, not far to walk.

There’s three different gang-planks,

Going right up into the ship:

A different one for every rank.

But what’s this? My ticket is lost!

I’ve searched myself all around,

In my jacket & coat pockets,

But the thing is nowhere to be found!

I can’t come all of this way,

Only to fail at the last minute.

Oh, where’s that blasted ticket

Where had I last seen it?

Then, Thank God, the panic is over -

I needn’t have been in a stew.

I had it all along I was sure,

I’d tucked it into my shoe!

  

So finally up the gangplank:

I’m only travelling steerage.

I’d love to go into First Class,

But that would require a peerage!

The ship is crowded & busy.

My below-decks cabin is cramped.

So I’ve stowed my gear quickly

And up the staircases I’ve tramped.

Then onto the deck & join in the cheering.

I need not have been in such a panic.

There’s even time to gaze down at the nameplate.

My new life starts here – on the SS Titanic!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Good (Allotment) Life

The Good (Allotment) Life (or a tale of how NOT to grow your own)

I’ll tell you all a cautionary tale,

If you’ll just give me some pardon,

Of how I dug out an allotment,

Down at the end of my garden.

The patch was all covered in weeds,

And at first I started to panic,

But you can’t let things stand in your way,

If you’re set on a life more organic.

So I rotavated and weeded and dug,

And laid the jungle all to a waste.

All this in pursuit of some veggies,

And produce superior of taste.

The effort I put in was enormous,

What with much raking & tilling.

Every day I was quite knackered,

But I found it strangely fulfilling.

And when I’d got it laid out quite flat,

There was still the marking & hoeing.

There seemed so much I’d still got to do,

And I hadn’t even started the sowing.

Then it all had to be fertilised:

Compost, manure, whatever you call it -

But the man on the farm where I went,

Just said I should call it horse-shit.

I carried it and tipped it onto the patch;

I dug it all in and then sat.

Only to discover I’d created a toilet,

Mostly for the use of our cat.

So I raked it all over once more,

And then had to do some light weeding.

Then, at last, after weeks of effort,

I finally got to the seeding.

Beetroot, pumpkins and potatoes:

I went at it quite maddish.

Courgettes & beans all in a row,

And in the corner – some radish.

I planted out carrots, potatoes & peas,

Some caulis, cabbage and kale,

And I looked out on it so proudly -

How could it possibly fail?

I soon found out there were problems:

For as soon as I’d worked off my nadgers,

The beautiful crops that were growing,

Had just become fast food for the badgers.

The crops were under attack night & day,

Although I was clean in my habits.

For as soon as the lettuces came up,

It was feeding time for the rabbits.

   

Pigeons, mice and slugs all attacked me:

I tried to drive out their tails,

But they all seemed to get past me,

To say nothing of squash-eating snails.

I ranted & raved in frustration,

And scared them away with my shouts.

Well – you have to do something,

If you’re going to hang on to your sprouts.

Bad weather then came down upon me,

As I struggled with every means.

It’s a lot of effort to go to,

Just so I can freshly eat beans.

But now I’ve got my freezer full,

After working and busting my gut,

For after the initial famine,

I find I’m now facing a glut.

So I’d just like to say in my summary,

It’s very well trying to live The Good Life.

But there must be easier ways to get by,

Than feeding all of the local wild-life.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016