News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 31st July 2016

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

                                             

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

                                                        

1.       Uncertainty rules the village this week-end as residents try to come to terms with the decision of the Parish Council to look again at the project to build an anaerobic digester at Piglet Farm.  Experts have questioned the economics, and the technical feasibility, of the whole scheme but local people are worried about the one job that may (or may not) be created there.  If built, the digester would supply up to 1% of the farm’s power needs.  The other 99% would continue to be derived from “greener” carrot-mangling methods.

2.       A number of people have been spotted in the village with their heads down, staring at the floor and all around, before running off laughing wildly in pursuit of imaginary creatures.  Whilst this has long been a feature for what passes as NFB (“normal for Bromham”) for some individuals, the latest manifestation has involved large groups of younger people.  Upon further investigation it has been found that The Wounded Ferret has been serving a new stronger cider (“tramp juice”) to the village’s younger clientele.

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

A Poem For Gail

A Poem For Gail

Who’s that haunting all the houses?

Running along on one of her rambles,

Barrelling down the Brittox,

And shaking down the Shambles?

Who’s that chasing round the churchyards?

Snapping angels, walking over bones,

Camera and notebook to hand,

And gandering at the gravestones?

Who’s the gnostic at the altar rail?

In her weeds and flowing dress,

Of great renown, throughout D-Town,

Challenging us all to think and guess?

Who’s that performing in The Bear and The Lamb?

Living life hard to find the thrill,

Then cycling through the country,

And running right up Roundway Hill?

Who’s the Phantom on Fantasy?

Or throttling along on the Thirty-Three,

That multi-coloured crazy diamond –

Whoever can it be?

Talking for the helpless and the homeless?

Stories of users, and pictures of dolls,

Fearless, gobby, telling it like it is,

Fighting back, and trouncing the trolls?

A long life, and well lived-in?

Of drugs and drink, sacred and profane,

The mistress of the Market Place,

Keeping the rest of us honest and sane?

In her guise, around The Vize she cries,

A poetess who’s prepared to shout and wail,

Don’t try to mess, unless you’d press

The Fighting Force of Nature that is Gail.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Cactus

Cactus

I’ve never really understood you

Or known what you might want

You just sit there year after year, implacably the same

Never growing or shrinking

Your pale green flesh all sheeny shiny

Bristling with hairs and spikes

A defensive exterior

Always showing to the world

But do you have a tender side to your prickly nature?

Is there a more succulent inner plant

That is cool and moist, sweet and gentle

Wet and watery

That you reveal to your very closest friends?

I confess I don’t know how to love you

When you just stare straight back at me

No signal of your feelings, nor flower of happiness

You give me so little response

That I often wonder

What it is it you’re waiting for

To me, you seem so undemanding

As if you do not even need me

I cannot comprehend your desires

Sitting in your arid pot and saucer

Happy in your desert dryness

Thriving on my neglect

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Doll's House

A Doll’s House   

                                         

Observe the finest detail

Of this perfect, tiny, tidy showcase

Everything in its rightful place

Sitting silently

Waiting for someone larger than life itself

To call, to come and play

To bring activity and energy

Into this lifeless land

See how carefully the maker has toiled

How exactly his model replicates reality

With its inter-connected rooms

Its attics, basements and cellars

Doors and floors, halls and walls

A side that opens to the outside

Revealing to wider inspection

That anyone may peer inside

With a genial God-like presence

And watch the goings-on

Of this toy-land territory

Made in matchless miniature

Look how finely-wrought the furniture

The kitchen’s pixie pots and pans

Woollen carpets and silver cutlery

Notice how small the figures

Stiffened little people

Tiny tokens of a household

Scaled-down and smaller than any doll

But still too large to be in right proportion

To the rest of their wooden world

How beautiful, how ideal it all appears

And yet how quiet, dusty and dormant

And how empty this small community

Undisturbed by cries of living children

A shining showpiece

That is a house and yet not a home

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Application For The Role Of England Manager

Hard to believe that the FA have appointed Sam Allardyce as England football manager when they haven't even replied to my application letter.

Application For The Role Of England Manager

Dear Sir,

I would like to apply for the currently vacant role of England Football Manager.

I am ideally suited for this position for the following reasons:

1.       Player well-being – I am currently working as a care assistant in a local Nursery School.  I therefore have extensive experience of dealing with tantrums, bad behaviour and pupils who will simply not do as they are told. I am also familiar with dummies being spat out, pupils getting out of their prams, and clearing up piles of crap.  Also, what I don’t know about dribbling is not worth knowing.

2.       Tactics – as I have been teaching the children to count, I will have no problems with 4-3-3, 4-2-4, 5-3-2 or any other combinations which the role may be required to deal with.  It only adds up to ten or eleven, whichever way you look at it.  How hard can it be?

3.       Daily routine – I understand that the players only turn up for part of the day, most of which is involved in socialising with each other, dressing up in costumes, playing games, getting in the bath and then going home in the middle of the afternoon.  This does not apply at week-ends, and there are long holidays.  This is the same routine as at the Nursery, so no issue there.

4.       Leaving early – the Nursery finishes at 2.30.  I gather that the England side is very familiar with making a very early exit, and I wouldn’t want to change that in any way.

5.       Personal appearance – I already own a tracksuit and a whistle which I use for games lessons, so there would be an immediate saving there.  I am familiar with pacing up and down a touchline, and with holding my head in my hands.  I am skilled in communicating with a wide range of hand signals.

6.       Scouting – obviously it would be necessary for me to learn about other teams by attending a wide range of international games abroad, and many Premiership games in the UK.  I can give you list of games I think I should attend.  Assuming that this will be at the FA’s expense, I am prepared to sacrifice my time in this way.  Just one question – will there be any personal expenses for beer and pies?  However, this could be a negotiable point.

7.       Sponsorship – I am already an extensive user of Germolene and Anusol products, and I feel that my personal experience of painful piles could be useful.  I think that these companies would make wonderful sponsors for the national squad, given the frequent invocation by long-suffering fans to “shove it up your arse”.  I could introduce you to my local pharmacist if it would help.

8.       Home & Away Strips – all those white shirts and shorts must get very dirty, and cost a lot to have cleaned.  If appointed I would change both strips to all-black – who else in World football plays in that colour?  This would have the virtue of making the team always look smart, even when they fall on their arses.  They would also be harder to see on the pitch, thus making them more difficult to play against.  In addition, my mum works at the local launderette, and can probably put the kit through the wash at a discount.  Would you like me to have a word with her?

As you can see, I’m full of positive ideas, and look forward to meeting you all to discuss the position in more detail.  The interview could be held most conveniently in the Directors’ Suite at Wembley stadium, preferably on a match-day.  I have an Oyster card, so there would be little in the way of expenses.  However, if you’d prefer to send a chauffeur-driven car I would not object.   Just for reference, regarding a good date, I’m also a big fan of rugby, American Football and major rock concerts.  I understand the Rolling Stones are due to play there on the 24^th of next month – just a suggestion.

I await your reply.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Evening Colour

Evening Colour

Where the road sweeps left

Winding through the bud-heavy hedgerows

Cutting, for a moment, the view ahead

The rainfall gathers glistening

In wide, flat pools and puddles

Catching slanting rays of late Spring sun

Glittering, reflecting golden light

In blinding sheets of white

Then swinging right again

Emerging from the tree-lined tunnel

Into a greater and wider space

Which opens up the glory of the sky

So wide, deep, darkly blue

And strongly bruised

The cumulus piled up high

Above plough-roughed fields

Their thick, large-furrowed

Dungeon-black shadowed lines

Gouging through the nut-brown earth

And on the other side

The wet rich acid-green

Of freshened pasture-land

In the rolling landscape

Intense, brilliant, citrus-sharp

Where, at the field’s edge

The young calves stand near the gate

Leaning, lolling heads in to the lane

Curious, wide-eyed, lowing

And far beyond all this

On the distant, climbing fields

Wide sweeps of lemon yellow

Gashed across the scene

Their acres of alien rape-seed stalks

Drawing bolder background stripes

To brighten the glowing vista

Between the twisting road

And the massive sky

copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Attic Treasure

Attic Treasure

Into the headspace of the house

Unwitting keeper of our careless clutter

Silently sitting above us all these years

Among wires, pipes and tanks
Within piles of soft loft lagging
Lie cases and cardboard boxes
Which hold precious memories
Long suppressed, but not forgotten
 Through cobwebby threads
And the mustiness of dust
A time-capsule of bygones
Are the things of yesterdays
Which were so important many years ago
Hurriedly stashed and stored

With the best of intentions

Against some hoped-for bright new future

That did not came to pass

There, right at the back

Where the light barely penetrates

Almost hidden from view

The baby’s cot in white-and-blue

Stacked in sections under the eaves

Paint pitted and peeling

Its patterns still visible, but faded

Like the memory of a young life lost early

Toys casually collected

In the course of a shortened childhood

And kept in memoriam

A model boat, its torn sail hanging loose

A doll that still sits staring, unsmiling

Records and tapes collecting dust

Books with jackets ripped

And piles of her clothing

Quickly removed from her bedroom

And the rest of the house

Tearfully pushed out of sight

And out of mind

Before you came home again

So that you should not see them anymore

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

This Bloke I Know Is Jesus

This Bloke I Know Is Jesus

I used to see him in the queue

Most mornings at the pool

Knew him just enough to say hello

Or pass the time of day

Then, perhaps, during swimming

Or in the changing room later

A quiet, unassuming man

With nothing much to say

I didn’t notice much at first

That his beard had begun to grow

To frame his youthful face

Adding to his gravitas

Nor did I pay much attention

As Easter-tide approached

That he seemed pre-occupied

And turned more within himself

But then I saw him in the street

Bowed and bloodied

A crown of thorns upon his head

Carrying a heavy wooden cross

A crowd following, shouting

Acting out the Passion Play

And its Good Friday journey

To the Market Place Golgotha

Where he was quietly crucified

Among a staring group of people

And I had to turn away

Yet three days later he lived again

And stood there in the queue

Waiting for the pool to open

I couldn’t believe it was really him

And that he had come among us

Just a normal day with its Good Mornings

And desultory chat among the regulars

He still looked like no-one special

He seemed to be an ordinary bloke

But now I knew one more thing about him

That he was also Jesus on the side

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

French Onion Soup

Recipe for: French ONION Soup

Ingredients:

• 100g butter
• 1.5 kg large onions, sliced
• 2 tsp caster sugar
• 100ml dry vermouth
• 1.5 litres good beef stock
• 2 bay leaves

 Method:

1. melt the butter in a large pan & stir in the onions
2. cover & leave to cook gently on a low light, for about 30 minutes, until the onions are very tender, stirring occasionally (see below)
3. remove the lid, stir in the sugar, raise the heat
4. stirring now & then, continue simmering the onions until the liquid has almost gone
5. keep cooking & stirring to stop the onions catching on the base of the pan, until the onions are a deep golden brown
6. add the vermouth & boil it off – just a few minutes
7. pour in the stock & add the bay leaves, salt & pepper
8. simmer , partly covered, for another 20-30 minutes

 What else you need to know:

1. serve in deep bowls, covered with a slice of baguette or crusty bread, sprinkled with grated Gruyere cheese – put the bowls under a hot grill to melt the cheese
2. you need to be patient with cooking down the onions slowly, and getting a brown, caramelised effect before adding the other ingredients

Kite

Kite

Holding on against the tug, the pull of line,

face in shadow, back against the sun,

never daunted by tumbling thermals

but using the physics of lift and drag,

surfaces tensioned, taut

exploiting atmospheric pressure,

elemental feel and flow of forces

to climb, heavier than the air

to defy the very force of gravity

up to exhilarating height

Distant now, but still in sight,

scudding rough across the sky,

silken fabric facets flashing,

straining bamboo frame, pigtail waving,

soaring, swooping dizzying ascent,

looping , lifting, lurching,

aerial aerobic ballet, angled acrobatic flight of fancy,

unruly child who stretches and strains,

tests my strength and patience,

cannot be steered, merely guided

Its own brute force not yet marshalled,

high aloft upon the careering wind,

yanking on the leash that holds it back,

restrained and tethered by the umbilical of thinnest cord,

yet anchored to the ground,

connecting Earth and Space

with its head up in the clouds,

but my feet firmly planted on the ground

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Dead Time

Dead time

Intervals of many hours, of waiting time

With a desperate need for resolution

Endless queues to reach suspicious clerks

And hard-faced irritable jobsworths

Notes and forms to be filled and filed

The ticking of endless empty boxes

By broken-nibbed pens, licked and grubby pencils

Rough smudges, stains and crossings-out

Gentle queries evoking impatient responses

Questions with no answers, statements taken

Mouths rinsed by endless cups of tasteless tea

Brown and thin, stewed in squeaky Styrofoam

Then dried again by cigarettes that taste of straw

And the dusty smoke of tar and nicotine

To coat the lungs, to calm the fraying nerves

A day of yawns and staring at the floor

Amid the stale atmosphere of inactivity, thick and clinging

To the labyrinthine structure of slow-motion procedure

The lost papers and missed appointments

The elephantine caveats, interminable details

With no escape from the dark and gloomy horror

Just the dour and dreary nightmare

A boredom borrowed from hell

A never-ending ennui, a depth of tiredness

The unremitting tedium of waiting, waiting

Hanging about and hanging on

In cobwebbed and dusty corridors

Of peeling paint and shuttered doors

Which hide nameless administrative men

Yet hanging on to the slowly-evaporating hope of a mite of progress

The becalmed, motionless, meaningless measurement of time

Watching clocks that do not move

Their hands surrendered to a standstill

Where seconds, minutes and hours mean nothing

With nowhere else to go

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Beer Twat's Guide To Real Ale

Twattery (the guide to Real Ale)

Welcome to this Real Ale hostelry,

With sixteen hand-pumps covering the bar.

All the beers are from local breweries,

The town’s biggest selection by far.

We’ve got none of your mass-produced stuff here,

Your taste-buds we’d hate to traduce -

There’s no alcopops or fizzy lagers,

Nor ciders, which we refer to as “tramp juice”.

No it’s all hand-made in back-street facilities,

By dedicated brewers with a passion,

Using old, weird and arcane recipes,

To meet modern taste and the new fashion.

With a single-minded pursuit of excellence,

Artisanal, unfiltered and unpasteurised,

Producing ales of such esoteric taste,

That as beer it’s hardly recognised.

They only use the best of ingredients -

Water, barley, hops and some yeast -

To create flavours that range from the gentle,

Via strong, right through to some beasts.

Take Bodgington’s Skull-Cracker for example:

It comes out as eight percent ABV -

A few pints of that and I promise you,

Next day you’ll hardly be able to see.

Or that Death-Rattle IPA:

So strong you have to drink it in shots.

It’s pure, unrefined and organic,

And in the morning it gives you the trots.

There’s Wazzington’s latest offering:

It’s a double-mocha coffee-infused porter -

Drink three pints of this wonderful brew,

And your legs won’t work like they oughter.

I could go on wittering, about methods of bittering,

Of Black Stouts, and Pale, Red and Brown Ales,

Of secondary in-cask fermentation,

Which makes natural gas without fail.

About top, bottom and late hopping,

How it sings on the palate and amuses the nose,

Its aroma can induce a coma,

But sometimes that’s the way that it goes.

  

Then, of course, there’s Futtocks’ Dog-Beater,

A session ale that goes down rather well -

It’s a bloody good beer, that makes you feel queer,

And gives you the hangover from Hell.

My favourite, though, is Bowel-Wrecker:

It’s subtle, amusing, and quite Gluten-Free,

But it does smell like a wrestler’s armpit,

And, if not kept well, tastes of stale pee.

Last night we had a bit of a lock-in,

Tried our best to drink the place dry:

I must have had sixteen pints to my name -

I’m not feeling too good – can’t understand why.

So don’t tell me I don’t know about Real Ale -

I’ll drink anything that calls itself “craft”,

I won’t touch water or soft drinks -

No thanks – d’you think that I’m daft?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 17th July 2016

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

                                             

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

                                                        

1.       Life is returning to normal on the street of Bromham this morning after the failure of an attempted coup by Seend Separatist fighters.  Tractors and muck-spreaders were seen in the lanes as villagers came out in a show of support and solidarity for the ruling Parish Council.  Sporadic gunfire was heard, but that might have been Jez Piglet doing a spot of poaching in the lower meadow, and the occasional rick was set ablaze, but we cannot rule out Saturday night high jinx from the village Yoof.  The new leader of the PC, Teresa Green, has promised a swift and severe clamp-down on unruly elements.  She said the she would deal very severely with leaders of the coup too.

2.       The new Parish Councillor for non-Bromham relations, Boris “Bojo” Piglet has laid out the main aspects of his foreign policy.  In a speech yesterday he said, ‘Crikey! Well, me hearties, look here, we’re going to have to speak to Johnny Foreigner in firm tones, don’t you know?  Cripes!  But it’s nothing a stiff course in Whiff-whaff won’t sort out, of course, but can’t be too careful with these non-Bromham sorts.  Huzzah!’  Several foreign legations welcomed the speech in principle, but have asked for a clear translation before commenting further.

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

Back To The Future

Back To The Future

So the people have cast their votes,

And have said that they’d rather leave -

It’s not for us to question their wisdom,

Nor for us to weep, and wail, and grieve.

It’s all about moving forward,

About carrying on and doing our best,

On our lonesome journey onwards,

As the Sun sets out there in the West.

A farewell to France – Au Revoir!

To Germany – Auf Wiedersehen, pet!

And it’s Arrivederci, Roma!

Our backwards course is surely set.

We’re filling in the Channel Tunnel,

Re-instating Britain as a separate nation:

The new borders will begin at Dover,

As we clamp down on all that immigration.

So we’re going back to Peak Britannia,

To a nostalgic land that time forgot,

Where There’ll Always Be An England,

And an Englishman was happy with his lot.

The land of Shakespeare, Milton and Dickens,

Nelson, Wellington, Churchill and Blake,

Turner, the Brontes and Donald Campbell,

And Barnes Wallis’s bombs bouncing across the lake.

John Logie Baird, Baden-Powell and his scouts,

Danny Blanchflower and Bobby Moore,

When England were still good at football,

And Geoff Hurst still knew how to score!

Let’s get back to Colman’s Mustard, Double Diamond, Brylcreme, Berni Inns, Bisto and Bovril!

Cream teas, scones and jam, kippers, and pork pies,

Let’s re-discover Bournevita, Ovaltine and Cocoa,

And Guinness Is Good For You, and all those other lies.

A land of country lanes and ivy-covered cottages,

Of Henley, Wimbledon, Ascot and Aintree,

Bowler hats, and furled umbrellas and Land Rovers,

Of the WI, and Jam & Jerusalem as far as the eye can see.

But why leave it there, when there’s further still to go?

A return to Public Baths and library tickets,

A land of fog, and flat caps, and fish & chips,

And old diseases, such as polio and rickets.

  

Our national game shall once again be cricket,

There’ll be warm beer, whippets and village fetes,

Decimalisation will be abolished,

And gasometers paid for by the rates.

There’ll be no more Brussels sprouts for us,

But bent cucumbers, and rugger at Twickers,

Bring back flogging and National Service,

Arthritis, false teeth, corsets and big knickers.

Twenty Woodbines and hacking smokers’ coughs,

The National Coal Board and British Steel,

Little boys climbing up our chimneys,

And in the one-and-nines for the Pathe Newsreel.

There’ll be long queues at the Welsh & Scottish borders,

To dismantle the Union would be barmy,

But we’ll enjoy again all those “Carry On” films,

And the endless repeats of Dads’ Army.

Yes, we’re casting off in splendid isolation,

We’re going hunting to see what we might find,

An island nation drifting in the North Atlantic,

We’re all at sea now – but Never Mind!

Then we’ll sit alone in the last outpost of Empire,

Racked by bronchitis and diseases of that kind,

Happy in our Land of Hope And Glory,

John Bull and Never Mind!

Soon they’ll build the Deportation Camps,

And round up every foreigner they can find,

Even if you’ve got a Spanish grand-mother,

Cry Little England, and Never Mind!

Sweep out the Anderson Shelter,

Get the shelves with cans and candles lined,

Let’s hope the toilet paper lasts for many years,

Carry On and Never Mind!

  

At last we’ll “Have Our Country Back”,

For that the Brexiteers have signed,

Roamed by Mad Dogs And Englishmen,

Good-bye Johnny Foreigner but Never Mind!

So let’s get the Union Jack up that flagpole,

And welcome to the nostalgia for which we’ve pined,

Let’s Keep Calm And Carry On,

It’s All Our Yesterdays, but Never Mind!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

I Am A Computer

I Am A Computer

Of course I’m not devoid of emotion

How could you have such a notion?

It’s just that I not sure what I should do,

I’m struggling to interface with you

It’s a situation that’s not very clear

For we’re no longer working peer-to-peer

I find your instructions a distraction

I can’t work with such a transaction

I think we’re both in a rut

I’m struggling for throughput

I don’t have the bandwidth to cater

For crunching through all of your data

I continue to love you, but

There’s too little input/ output

The calculation is completely mine

But I think I need more time offline

I’m no longer feeling alive

I think I’m losing all of my hard drive

My ROM feels like a time-bomb

My RAM’s in a jam

You see - the pattern all fits –

Can’t you see I’m in bits?

I need time for some healing

To process every feeling

I don’t want to be seen

As if I’m just a blue-screen

Our programme’s gone crappy

Our chat’s not snappy

And my software’s not ‘appy

I feel I’ve run out of luck

And I just can’t face Book

I’m feeling rather demented

My memory’s very fragmented

I stare out of the Windows

We ought to do well, we ought to Excel

Haven’t you heard? What is the Word?

Let’s try and find the lost chord

In the letters of our keyboard
I don’t want us to fail

I’m a male and you’re my e-mail

So let’s get off the fence

And use our broad-band of experience

Let’s take a byte out of storage’s root

Let’s try to re-start and re-boot

We don’t want to calculate with some terror

And end up with an Unknown Error!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

"This Toilet Is Out Of Order"

“This Toilet Is Out Of Order”

The note was quite simple, but ambiguous,

A statement of fact, or merely an opinion?

Was it not working, or had it simply gone too far?

Was it un-functional, or had it overstepped the mark?

I knew it was very inconvenient to come to this,

But was it, or was it not, taking the piss?

Had I stepped into a linguistic trap?

Was it not taking, or just giving out, a lot of crap?

Apologies are all very well for having no loo,

But when one’s desperate, what should one do?

Not just number one, but also number two?

Like someone from Eastenders,

It’s easy to say “leave it – it’s not worf it!”

But if bladder and bowels are holding a surfeit

Of matter that needs to be voided,

The lavatory can hardly be avoided!

I had a new thought, and it were this:

It made me wonder what else may be amiss,

What else had failed in ability?

To work well within that facility?

Because you see,

Apart from spending one pee,

It’s not just the WC,

What else could there be?

Had the wash-basin gone down the drain?

Was the bidet running hot and cold?

Was the bath too full of itself?

And as for the shower,

Should we just draw a curtain over that?

I was not a loofah to any of this,

I didn’t want any flannel,

Nor anyone to give me the soft-soap treatment.

I was completely awash with emotions,

As I stood there, outside of the Gents:

I just hated to be flushed with such disappointments!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Poetitis - A Public Health Warning

Poetitis – A Public Health Warning

There’s an epidemic sweeping the nation,

A disease that’s only going to get worse,

Cos of these poetry competitions and slams,

And those that have been exposed to… verse.

It’s a socially-transmitted disease,

And the oral tradition of which I write is

Derived from having unprotected sestets,

And it’s got the medical name of “poetitis”.

Once a rarefied condition suffered only by poets,

But now everyone has deciphered the code,

Through limericks, and haikus, and sonnets,

It’s now as prevalent as The Common Ode.

No longer the preserve of the Bards,

Its causes are certainly not vague,

Its symptoms are debilitating,

And couplets get spread like The Plague.

Public Health England has issued a warning,

That sticking to prose is no longer a barrier:

Once you start worrying about metre,

You’re probably a contagious carrier.

The best treatment is isolation,

But that’s easier done than said.

It only takes a careless quatrain,

For the virus to be much further spread.

For poets tend not to be continent,

With their infectious sense of bad timing -

Before you know it there’s iambic pentameter,

And a constant tendency to rhyming.

So take the right steps and be careful,

Behave, now you know what course the right is,

Avoid those mad, raving rhymesters,

And save yourself from “poetitis”.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Sorry - An All-Purpose Apology

Sorry – An All-Purpose Apology

Ladies and gentlemen – listen to me please:

There’s a reason that I’ve come here today,

And it’s with a very heavy heart,

That I must spit out what it is that I have to say.

I’m deeply sorry for what has happened,

It really should not have occurred.

If there was any way to undo what is done,

I think that’s what I’d have preferred.

But we are, unfortunately, where we are:

I have to speak of something that’s not good -

My only plea in slight mitigation,

Is that I was misunderstood.

My retraction is totally unreserved,

I hope that any bad feelings can be paused,

I’m looking for some forgiveness here,

And I’m sorry for any offence that I caused.

I may have given a false impression,

Of what it was that I really meant.
I suppose that I may have mis-spoken,

That my words came out all tangled and bent.

These situations can cause such ill-feeling,

When one party ends up being offended,

So I hope that we can draw a line under this now,

And that any misunderstanding is ended.

It’s shame-faced that I stand here before you,

I’m not feeling proud you can bet,

And it’s been a great learning experience,

When all I’ve got to express is regret.

So let’s clear the air if we can -

Banish ill-will and things of that guise

I haven’t the foggiest what I’m supposed to have done

But, nevertheless, I’d like to apologise.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Courgette

This poem is dedicated to all those who grow their own.  We've all been there, haven't we?

Courgette

It’s a great life having an allotment,

To get your muscles and sinews to harden -

Your produce can be all fresh and organic,

And you can have your own market garden.

Of course it’s much more than we can possibly eat,

So there’s loads of it left over, you can bet -

In fact there’s simply too many to use -

Could I possibly offer you a courgette?

There’s so many ways that you can use them:

In a flan, or perhaps in a quiche, if you’re in Surrey,

As vegetable wine, or maybe in salad,

Or chopped up small in a nice curry.

No, really, we’ve got absolute sack-fulls,

And I’d be forever in your debt.

Try them hot-roasted, or thinly toasted,

But, please, just take a courgette?

You can’t really moan, they’re completely home-grown,

But I’ll admit that one’s turned into a marrow.

You won’t believe your eyes, it’s of magnificent size,

And it completely fills up a barrow!

We can’t keep up with the harvest, you see,

There’s hundreds of them filling our hut -

All of dubious quality, but such a huge quantity,

You could say that we’re dealing with glut.

We’ve wept and we’ve cried,

We’ve moaned and we’ve sighed:

The recipes we’ve tried, cannot be denied

Some we couldn’t abide,

We’ve even had them fried!

My friend said he’d had some…. but he lied!

Then proceeded to run off and hide,

And his wife shut the door, and pretended he’d died!

Honestly – these critters are lovely as fritters

How persuasive do I have to get?

Go on – you know that you want one -

Just help me out – and have a courgette?

To be honest - the whole patch is over-fruitful:

We’ve got tons of tomatoes, and bundles of beans,

There’s pounds of potatoes, and boxes of beetroot,

We’ve got shed-loads of leeks, and copious carrots,

Plus oodles of onions and pot-loads of peas,

But of all these wonderful veggies,

There’s only one that makes me upset,

So, after all of the seeding and weeding and feeding,

Go on – treat yourself - have a courgette!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 10th July 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 10^th July 2016

                                             

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

                                                        

1.       After an amazing, and frankly ludicrous, week in parish politics we now know one clear thing – the next leader of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP), and therefore Leader of the Parish Council, will be another bumpkin.  After three rounds of pass-the-parcel only two locals were still standing – Tweedle-dee Piglet and Tweedle-dum Piglet.  The names of these two bumpkins will now be put to the wider village electorate.  An attempt to settle the matter by the two candidates fighting each other in a mud-wrestling contest was stopped on the grounds of decency and taste.

2.       After a record-breaking journey of almost 45 minutes, the Bromham deep-Wiltshire road-probe, Tractor 5, was successfully woken from its electronic and mechanical slumber, and is now in steady orbit around the Trowbridge one-way system.  A number of wide orbits will be undertaken in an attempt to discover more about how Trowbridge first came into existence in the dawn of time.  Photographic evidence and elemental samples of traffic film will be sent back to the Command Centre in Bromham, where scientists will scan the materials for any signs of intelligent life.

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

Reynard

Reynard

Emerging through a hole in the fence

Beneath the shadow-harbouring trees

Along a daily-travelled route

He trots confidently into the open

Pausing in his transit of the track-way

To stop and take stock of his world

No creeping, crawling, skulking specimen

Engaged in crepuscular activities

But bold as brass

In broad daylight

A huge dog-fox in full fig

Confident, setting the world at defiance

Unafraid, un-hunted and un-hurried

Muzzle hanging open, panting gently

His eyes glint and flash

Reflecting late afternoon sunlight

Wild, alert, fiercely alive

Nose, ears at full attention

Looking, listening

Appraising useful scents

Carried on the breeze

The direction, the lie of the land

And prospects for further hunting

Scavenging forays

Among local hen-houses

And rabbit-burrows

Which lie within his rural realm

Head turning slowly

His guileless glance moves

Towards the exact point

Where I silently watch

Hardly daring to breathe

His steady stare

Burning into my eyes

Then, hearing the distant vixen

Nursing quarrelsome cubs

Calling to him from the earth

He slips away, back among the trees

With a flamboyant flash of tail

As if he had never been there

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Sunday School

Sunday School

The dead time after Sunday lunch

Lies heavy on the day

As Dad sits reading his paper

Absorbing sordid stories of fights and fornication

Waiting for the house to fall to rest

While Mum does her fussing about

Busy, but pre-occupied

About the coming afternoon alone with Dad

Washing and wiping my face

Polishing my appearance

Dressing me up in Sunday Best

Transforming a rowdy child into a little angel

A reflection of a clean and happy home

Sent off through the silent streets

On my best behaviour

To walk to Sunday School

And receive religious education

With a promise of sweets if I’m good

And possible Hell if I’m bad

But definitely no tea

And early to bed

A Methodist Chapel built in stone

Soot-blackened among the houses

Its grey doors opening into the hall

Of musty smells and dusty floors

Little classrooms with metal-frame windows

Hard chairs and benches

Just like proper school, but less fun

Cheerless and comfortless

To hear stories, miracles and parables

Chapter and verse

Read from a black-backed bible

Of Jesus and Jerusalem

Mary and Joseph

And the meaning of love for one another

Then, topped up with goodness for another week

Running home for some play before tea

To strain the last dregs from the day

And wake Mum and Dad from their afternoon lie-down

No interest in what I’ve been doing

The hymn-singing and prayers

Nor the collection for the missionaries in Africa

But a strained atmosphere at the tea-table

Mum walking on eggshells again

And Dad not speaking, staring hard into the fire

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016