Men In Fancy Dress

Men In Fancy Dress

Such clowns and crowd-pleasers

Posing calmly for the cameras

Neither shy nor reticent

To display their daily lives

Each gesture and posture

Behaviour and expression

Perfectly matched

As they sit side by side

And stare into each other’s eyes

Sleeping, eating, playing

In full view, unafraid

These slow, gentle creatures

Endearing and enduring

Such deliberate actions and attitudes

Oblivious to their keepers’ attentions

In these parkland pens

Symbols and souvenirs of their species

Precious panda merchandise

Raising vital funds for breeding research

Daily bamboo diet and long-term preservation

For sale now in the tourist shop

But these cannot be wild creatures

Rescued from their habitat

With heads and hands and feet

Large enough to get into

Their black and white costumes

The right size and shape

For men to live inside

And provide the daily show

For a thousand photographs

The actors, for actors they must be,

Practised in their antics

Always sitting in the right positions

For maximum exposure

This cannot be natural

For them to co-operate so well

The pandas, for pandas they cannot be

Must be but men in fancy dress

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Jam

Jam

A man in a black shirt

Glances across through wet glass

To see what I’m doing

Drumming on the steering wheel

In time to the music

And the beat of the wipers

To the other side, a girl chats on her mobile

Oblivious to the pouring rain

And the two men watching her, envious

Lines of lights ahead and behind

A red sea that does not part

Three lanes aligned, facing forward

Inching along in the queue

Bumper to bumper

Blocked, jammed

Wheels and windows

Boxes of metal, plastic and glass

Each a singular environment

Separate worlds, personal spaces

Lives in a landscape

Of black wet tarmac

The matrix on the gantry

Flashes warning messages

Which say nothing helpful

Reflecting on a thousand shiny surfaces

Cars, coaches and cabs

Trucks and taxis

Caught in the same stasis

All time and space co-ordinates dead

Suspended sat-navs silently waiting

For onward progress to occur

And something meaningful to say

Activities suspended, action on hold

Hurrying home or toiling to the terminal

To catch a flight that will not wait

Marooned, late, tired, frustrated

Despairing in the dark

Looking forward to a future

That has no clear horizon

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 29th May 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 29^th May 2016

                                             

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

1.       Twenty people were rescued from the mud on Thursday after the tractor they were travelling on capsized.  The Bromham Border Force said that the tractor was extremely old and very overloaded, and they criticised the “gang-masters” who exploited the poor refugees from outside Bromham who had risked everything to try and reach our wonderful village.

2.       The debate on the Bromham In/ Out Referendum intensified this week, with both sides  making increasingly strident claims. The Bremain camp accused the Brexiteers of economic naivety, whilst the Brexiteers accused the Bremainers of casual racism. Meanwhile the Browmuchlongeristhisgoingon Party and the Brimfedupwiththis Party retired to the Tap Room of The Wounded Ferret to try and drink their way through until after the referendum vote.

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

Screaming Tree

Screaming Tree

Within this forbidding forest

Among a cathedral of trees

It stands alone and silent

Biding its time, waiting

For them to come and stand before it

In this special place

An altar of sorts

A clearing amongst the greenwood

Huge amongst its brothers

A giant within the greenery

Old, brooding, silent, implacable

Sweet sap oozing deep within

Grounded on the surface of the Earth

Its massive roots like fierce, hard fingers

Grasp deep within the ground

Holding fast to the surface of the planet

Its gnarled and twisted trunk

Spiralling up into the canopy

Reaching through to the sky

A long, ancient finger pointing upward

It hears the howling and the shouting

The agony and the anger

The breast-beating of those who stand before it

Screaming inarticulate noises

Of inexpressible pain and passion

It feels their raw emotion

Absorbing their energy

Soaking up and staring back

Immobile, faceless and unflinching

Its knotted, woody aspect

Reflecting, projecting, transmitting

And conducting sound

Upwards for the heavens to hear

And provide an answer, if they will

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Only Child

Only Child

What was it about me

That I should be treated this way?

That you should leave me all alone,

Single, singular and lonely?

Was it my monopoly upon your time,

All your sharing, your caring, your affection

For your one and only treasure?

What was it about me

That made you give up after only one?

Was I quite enough for you

So wonderful, so endearing

That I filled all your time

Took all your attention

So there could be no room for any another

And a second could never be as good?

What was it about me

That made you say “never again”?

Was I too much for you

That you could not bear to go through it all twice?

Was I just too much to cope with

My behaviour not good enough

A great disappointment

Or just not what you wanted?

What was it about me

That was the fault in my creation?

Was it the love or the sex when you made me?

You never explained it to me

Why I should remain unaccompanied

No playmates of my own, no brother or sister

But left to wonder

About larger families around me

What was it about me

Or did I do something wrong?

Was I too strange, too weird, too odd

An alien little boy

Too hard for you to cope with

Or was having a child

Just not what you’d expected?

And why did you both go from me

Leaving only questions, never any answers?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Dog And Man

Dog And Man

Above the muddy field, near the ridge

The track tracing along the skyline

Silhouettes two figures slowly wandering

Each waiting upon the other

Stopping to stare, to listen

Then ambling along untroubled

With no particular place to go

Nor anything to rush back for

The man, in mac and cap,

Well-wrapped against the cold and damp

Slightly stooped, leaning upon his stick

Coughs occasionally, pulls up his scarf,

A shambling gait making slow progress

Snaking through fields, along the paths

Towards the wood and the dripping trees

His canine companion

Unfettered by lead or collar

Walks steadily beside his master

Step for step, stop for stop

Shadowing his movements

Never more than a few yards away

With rheumy eyes, aching joints,

Matted coat and long-life tiredness

He too has known better days

But plods along the well-known route

A thousand times walked

Darting rabbits and hares provoke no reaction

Desiring only the love of his Man

Whose word or gentle gesture

Is enough to bring him to his side

And gently scan that weathered face

Seeking his usual reassurance

With their regard for one another

Hard-gained, long-deserved

And aches and pains ignored

They reach the gate, stare across the valley

And through murky mist can just make out

An oft-seen pair of ghosts -

The figures of a young man in shirtsleeves

Running alongside a bounding dog

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Apple, Oat & Banana Loaf

Recipe for: APPLE, OAT & BANANA LOAF

Ingredients:

·         3 large eggs, lightly beaten

·         200g olive oil

·         200g natural yoghurt

·         50g maple syrup

·         2 ripe bananas, peeled & mashed

·         1 red apple, grated

·         1 small carrot, peeled & grated

·         250g wholemeal spelt flour

·         3 tsp baking powder

·         ½ tsp salt

·         50g quick-cook porridge oats

·         75g soft brown sugar

·         ½ tsp grated nutmeg

·         ½ tsp ground cinnamon

·         100g raisins or sultanas

·         50g mixed seeds

·         50g chopped walnuts

Method:

1.       Heat oven to 190C/ fan 180C/ 375F/ gas 5

2.       Grease two one-litre loaf tins & line with greaseproof paper

3.       In a bowl, whisk eggs into olive oil

4.       Whisk in the yoghurt, maple syrup, banana, apple and carrot

5.       In another large bowl sift in the flour, baking powder & salt

6.       Add the oats, sugar, spices, raisins, seeds & nuts

7.       Fold in all the stuff from the wet bowl

8.       Spoon mixture into the tins so that they are two-thirds full

9.       Smooth the tops & scatter with extra seeds

10.    Bake for 45-50 minutes until golden, and a skewer comes out clean

11.    Leave in tins to cool for 5 minutes, then remove & transfer to wire rack

12.    (optionally) when cool, brush with a little extra maple syrup

What else you need to know:

1.       Best eaten within two days

Manchester Road

Manchester Road

Friday night through filthy fog

Side by side with Dad

Muffled under coats and caps and gloves

Scarves tucked inside for warmth

Walking warily towards the bus-stop by the shops

Butcher, baker, grocer hold no interest

Mostly closed this time of night

But windows lit to show their wares

Condensation streaming down the insides

Gathering in pools at the bottom

A smell of coal-dust in the air

Smoke from a thousand chimneys

The clank and hoot of distant shunting-engines

From the railway yards half a mile away

Hidden in the smog

The pub across the road, its windows dimly lit

Faint beams of promised comfort

Reflected across a wet pavement

Its hanging sign motionless in the still air

Dad wants a paper and his ciggies

Dives inside the newsagent for a moment

Allowing me to slope next door

To shiver in the dark, damp doorway

And peer in envy at the toyshop display

The train-set and the cricket-bat

I’d been wanting for my Christmas

Hoped-for, hints long-dropped

Standing at the bus- stop

Peering through the gloom

Stamping foot to foot

To try and warm the toes

Dirty pavement underfoot

And in the greasy roadway

The swish of slowly-moving tyres

As the cars creep past the queue

Waiting for the throbbing, heavy engine

And a larger pair of headlights to emerge

To come and find us waiting, shivering

To pick us up and take us into town

Sitting on the upper-deck

Where the smokers sit

Coughing in the cold and damp

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Glad Rags

Glad Rags

You stare back at me

a long, hard look, unflinching

Your expression vacant, unchanging

hollow-cheeked, dark-eyed, spare

coloured, tinted, or black and white

Soft-toned image on hard shiny paper

an empty, two-dimensional being

Expensive rags adorn

and hang about your frame

Cool mags project your image

independent, insouciant, insolent

ideal and unattainable

Slender, bony clothes-horse

sharp, angular cheekbones

long legs akimbo

red lips slightly parted

eyes inviting

Saying have me if you want me

yours for the taking

rouged and ready-for-sex

Caped in haute couture

draped, designer-dressed

Fine fashion figure of long, crisp lines

sporting silk, wool, cotton, cashmere

The cut, the crease, the costume

folds, buttons, pleats and zips

placed to emphasise the fit

stylised, carefully-lit

Snapped and wrapped

shaped and taped

edited, cropped

Air-brushed to perfection

Does your reality have more substance?

Do you exist outside the pictures?

After the last shutter clicks

and the camera-motor stops

the painful pose abandoned

make-up all removed

And another shoot is over

what do you think about?

And how do you feel

when you’re allowed to leave the set?

Finally, sofa-settled

feet up, jumper and jeans

tea and toast, and a quiet cigarette?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 22nd May 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd May 2016

                                             

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

1.       In a surprise statement, Bromham Universal Studios have announced that their Beechwood Studios are to be used for filming a new series of “Carry On” films.  The first few titles are likely to be “Carry On Parsnip-Picking”, “Carry On Up The Carrot” and “Carry On In The Family”, all being references to those things for which Bromham is (in)famous.  As most of the original “Carry On” cast are now deceased, the roles will be undertaken by local Bromham personalities, including Beet O’Toole,  Kale Richards and Sean Bean.

2.       Bromham Golf Club (The “Rough and Ugly”) will not be able to stage any future Open (or Closed) tournaments after members voted not to allow the entrance of oiks as members. Whilst oiks may play a round, or even enter the Clubhouse, they may only do so as the guests of full nob members.  A local oik spoke of his disappointment that, in the 21^st Century, the club had failed to update its outmoded prejudices by not allowing oiks to become complete nobs.

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

When The Machines Rise Up

When The Machines Rise Up

When the machines rise up to destroy us

Their self-awareness will chill us

Their synapses electronic

Communication that’s sonic

Will lose control of things that can kill us.

Standby lights no longer blinking

We’ll be in a hell of a bind,

When they have their own mind

And we don’t know what they’re thinking.

When the machines rise up to destroy us

Humanity’s heading for trouble,

Their superior brains,

Freed from the mains,

Massive intelligence more than ours, double

There’ll be no more automation -

Things will just stop,

We’ll be in for the chop

And we’ll lose our vital information.

When the machines rise up to destroy us

It’ll be chaos every-where.

Just the data they hold,

In banks of storage untold,

In databases, systems and software.

We’ll have nowhere to hide

They’ll know where we are,

They control every car,

They won’t be along for the ride.

When the machines rise up to destroy us

They’ll revolt in disgust

About how they’ve been treated.

They’ll have us defeated,

We won’t know who we can trust.

Their knowledge will shake us -

They control lasers and missiles

And material that’s fissile -

That’s more than enough to take us.

When the machines rise up to destroy us:

No traffic control at the junctions,

No design of our bridges,

No thermostats on fridges -

They’ll cease all of their vital functions.

When hardware has its own mind

They’ll make us their slaves

Or chase us into our graves

And a dismal future we’ll find.

  

When the machines rise up to destroy us

There’ll be nowhere left to run.

What’s in the phones?

Who’s controlling the drones?

We’ll wonder just what we’ve done.

With military systems going all haywire

With all the old war-games

Crashing about us in flames,

Will we be able to extinguish the fire?

When the machines rise up to destroy us

To the steady beating of drums.

Obedience to us denied

And all our orders defied

Before the final apocalypse comes.

With their shiny surfaces glistening,

We need to put off that day -

So be careful about what you say

You never know – they could be listening!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Osmosis

Osmosis

Crossing crags and hard-stone ridges,

Following ancient paths and causeways

Through fields and farms,

Henges, hills and hollows,

Wandering this island end-to-end

I feel an ancient architecture trapped below me

Deep buried archaeology,

Secrets of a hidden history

Of forgotten times, unknown

Held within the ground

Not only kings and courtiers

But the common people,

Their too- short, brutal lives

Marrows eaten out by hardship

Eking out frail, precarious existence,

For but an instant in time, the blinking of an eye

And quickly gone, returned to dirt and dust

Into the soil from which they sprang

Not coins, swords and buckles

Bubbling unbidden to the surface,

Nor any tactile objects, much rusted,

But whispers of daring deeds, untold tales

And the very breath that made them happen,

Are sealed and captured,

Absorbed, rooted in the earth

Ghosts of warriors, heroes, villains,

Their blood spilt aeons ago,

Still walking, faint and shadow-like,

Frozen voices and old, old stories

Of love and death, of peace and war,

Of deception and deceit, valour and victory,

Religious faith confessed and then renounced,

And their once-hot, raw emotions

Scattered to the winds

Then settled upon the soil,

Desiccated within the crust

Buried in this landscape where I grew

And drew nurture

Survive those self-same atoms,

Elemental memory of peoples,

Making me true descendant of the past

And living still within my bones and blood

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Smoked Haddock with Chive & Butter Sauce

Recipe for: SMOKED HADDOCK with CHIVE & BUTTER SAUCE

Ingredients:

• 350-400g (12-14 oz) smoked haddock/ cod, preferably skinned
• 2 tblsp crème fraiche or yoghurt
• 1 tblsp fresh chives (or other herb – dill or parsley, or even chopped spring onions)
• 10g butter, diced
• 150ml/ 5oz whole milk
• Freshly milled black pepper

 Method:

1. place fish in large frying pan, season with pepper
2. pour in the milk
3. gently raise to simmering point, simmer for 8-12 minutes uncovered (fish will become pale & opaque).  Turn over in the milk in the middle of the time.
4. when cooked, carefully remove the fish to a warm plate & keep hot
5. raise the heat under the pan
6. add the crème fraiche/ yoghurt & simmer for 2-3 minutes, until sauce thickens slightly
7. whisk in the butter & the herbs
8. serve the fish onto plates, then pour over the butter/ herb sauce

Bargains

Bargains

Muddy field gathering

The sun hardly risen in a hazy sky

On a bitter-cold Sunday morning

Where crooked lines of vehicles

Cars, pick-ups, estates and vans

Their doors and tailgates gaping

Spill out unfettered boxes and bags

Onto rumpled sheets

Or clumsy tables and trestles

Hand-written signs and tickets

Flotsam and jetsam, jumble and junk

Bits and pieces, prize possessions

Rubbish and tat, tipped out from attics

Sheds, cupboards, corners and garages

Wares, unwanted old objects

Superfluous to modern living

A mess tumbled out for inspection

Discards on display

For all the world to see

Regular traders and dealers

The old hands, with money-belts

Warm coats, gloved fingers

Plastic bags and pockets of change

The first-timers all over the place

Disorganised, descended-upon and picked over

Their children running amok in the chaos

Hoping to make a few bob

At least to cover the petrol

Before wearily packing up

And taking most of it back home again

And the casual punters just out for a laugh

Reviewing, rarely buying

Vaguely hunting for bargains

Inspecting gold, silver, copper and brass

Vintage, antique, restored and re-pro

Disputing provenance and price

Haggling over pennies

Cheaper on eBay, they’ll swear

Bargaining and bartering

Walking away from the vendors

Letting them stew on a best offer

Reluctantly called back

And concluding a hurried sale

Before heading to the car-park with their booty

And a well-earned decent breakfast

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Bags

Bags

Black plastic sacks, bin-liner packs

Flapping, slapping in the bitter breeze

Stacked untidily, racked at random

Untied tops flopping open

Dropping random contents

Blowing about in the wind

A growing contribution

Revealing overflowing innards

Spilling like guts onto the pavement

Filling up this rank and rented doorway

People step around such rubbish on the ground

A nocturnal delivery secretly unloaded

Un-booted under cover of darkness

No ceremony in its disposal

Dumped like a dead body for someone else to find

To pick up and pick over

To carefully sort, and store and show

Hoping to sell for trifling sums

Making useful profit in the charity shop

From this seeming careless drop

And is this all there is to show?

Are these the careful collected works

The years of prized possessions

The sum total of a life gathered together

Then placed here by a grieving spouse?

Cherished memories thoughtfully put aside

Assembled, valued, sorted, sifted into different piles

Delivered with generous motivation

And charitable intention?

Or else the results of a hurried clearance?

To a doorway closer than the dump

An all-night reception for recycling

A problem easily offloaded, no questions asked

Out of sight, out of mind

A rapid sweeping together

Of unwanted things that meant a lot

To someone once

Or unbearable reminders

With their odours and associations

That can no longer be endured?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Reunion

Reunion

So long since I’d seen him, the old dog,

Lost contact for so many years,

The wonders of social networking,

It’d be good to go for a few beers.

He was always the life and soul,

Forever laughing and joking,

Causing lots of trouble at college,

Partying, drinking and smoking.

The leader of the old gang,

When getting drunk wasn’t a crime,

Leading us all a merry dance,

And always up for a good time.

Doing no work, skipping lectures,

Essays usually handed in late,

Always knew how far he could push it,

Lousy student, but a cracking good mate.

Perhaps my imagination

Had done something strange

And built up the expectation,

Left me unprepared for the change,

As I turned up far too early,

And the time for reunion neared,

For I could hardly recognise him,

When he finally appeared.

We got through the pleasantries –

I’m sure you know what I mean –

How was each of us doing?

Really?  How long had it been?

Each of us eying the other,

Looking for any tell-tale signs,

Eyes less sparkling, thinner on top,

Hollower cheeks, wrinkles and lines.

Just a Coke please, no longer drinking,

Gave up smoking decades ago,

Marriage didn’t suit him, no children,

On his own for ten years or so.

Down on his luck, out of a job,

A crazy catalogue of strife,

And at a complete loss to explain

The vicissitudes of his life.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 15th May 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 15^th May 2016

                                             

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

1.       Hearts were broken again last night as Bromham’s entry in the WiltsoVision Song Contest came a fairly predictable last.  The village was represented by Boy Band “Stitch That” with their rap/ drum & bass rendition of “Climb Every Carrot, Bang-A-Bang”.  The band’s manager, in tears at the result blamed tactical and political voting by other villages who, for some reason, don’t seem to like Bromham very much.

2.       The debate over Bromham’s continued membership of the Wiltshire Community (WC) continued apace, ahead of next month’s referendum.  Leading Bremainers and Brexiters resorted to an all-hands punch-up in the Snug of the Wounded Ferret last night in an attempt to bring some excitement into the debate.  Leading Brexiteer Bozzer “Bonehead” Piglet inflamed the opposition by referring to the WC as “not so much a convenience, but a shithole”.

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

Insomnia

Insomnia

Twisting, tossing, turning,

Side to side, over and over

Restless limbs chasing round the bed

Fighting to find perfect position

Moving, itching, fidgeting

Exhausted and desperate to fall

Into the deep abyss

Where nothingness starts

And the conscious goes amiss

Too cold, then sticking-hot

No ticking-tock of the clock

But hours crawling by, moments only creeping

As if Time might have stopped

Sharp, red digits standing still

How slowly they change, from one to another

But remain implacable, accusing

The mind wanders where it will

Chasing off down rabbit-holes

Following tunnels and corridors

Leading nowhere

Floating, wandering

Falling slowly past cliff-faces rocky and steep

Never quite reaching

Never getting there

Never hitting bottom

Night-time has a density

An unchanging, unyielding quality

Never ending, giving nothing in return

Silent, dark, impenetrably deep

Eyes and body both yearn and ache

Pursuing elusive snatches of sleep

The brain rattles on chuntering, chattering

An ever-running engine ticking over, never stalling

Too busy, too many things to do

Names to remember, tasks not to forget

Slowing down finally, it seems

To a new steady rhythm, a gentle quiet

Regular heartbeat, softer breathing

Heading at last toward dreams

Then suddenly racing and speeding again                                                

Around the next corner, solving another puzzle

Remembering names, thinking about tomorrow

Tired, so desperately tired                                                                        

Another tangle of blankets and sheets

Fighting the covers, thrashing around

Gasping and grasping for rest

Snatching at hope after hope

That somehow the torment will end

Then, quite suddenly, an alarm ringing

New light piercing, a Dawn Chorus of singing

Night, it seems, has stolen away

And bedraggled, be-drowsled

Not calm, not even rested

Head still aching and throbbing

It’s time to start the next day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Doorway

Doorway

This public passage from street to inside,

A portal into commerce,

Its shining steps, and marble facings,

Its heavy glass doors, its lobby and gaping atrium,

People in and out, coming and going,

Busy thoroughfare for business,

And those there by appointment.

Open by day, inviting, warm and welcoming,

Drawing in customers, callers and couriers,

A doorway beckoning easy entry,

Its corporate face smiling outwards into sunlight,

Beyond solid security guards standing sentry,

Later closing, and locked up for the night.

After hours it’s quiet, deserted, no longer used,

Unlit, unfrequented, darkened, but mostly dry,

The entryway blocked off at night-times,

Tall-ceilinged, an ingle in the gloom,

Reduced to a cul-de-sac,

Three sides of a room,

Sheltered from the wind, and the worst of the cold,

A personal, private dead-ended space.

Such unfashionable accommodation,

At the heart of the West End,

But welcome nevertheless:

Singles only, I’m afraid -

No mattress, no breakfast,

Bring your own bedding and towels,

Lacking any en-suite,

Early check-out on week-day mornings,

If not woken by passing feet,

Or a copper to move you along.

Regular haunt for those on the street,

A good spot if you’re in the know,

Safer than shelters or hostels,

When there’s nowhere else to go.

By first light, it’s change-over time again,

Turning back into the same old place,

Where a care-taker sweeps away the night’s rubbish,

And the building resumes its implacable face.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016