Gigolo

Gigolo

Your back arches slightly

Settling into my confident embrace

As we take our turn around the floor

Dancing late into the night

Under the sparkling necklace

Of deck-lights

Flickering in the breeze

Reflected across the silent sea

Your hand squeezes mine tightly

To tell me that you are happy

With my commanding movement

My manicured appearance

My attentive service

And my obvious devotion

You murmur quietly

That we make a lovely couple

Despite the difference in our ages

Dressed to impress

Our smiling faces

Turned to the world

The envy of others

You tread lightly

Calm and collected

For tonight you may have anything

Whatever you desire

My time is completely yours

To do with as you please

I whisper what you wish to hear

My nightly work

Professional and paid-for

Personal and discreet

Tailored to your requirements

And whatever you can afford

You have your life

And I have mine

We are both content

With the nature of our transaction

But there can only be this evening

And we do not ask each other

Too many questions

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Lonesome Tonight

In memoriam for the sad loss of Lonesome George, the last of the tortoise sub-species Chelonoidis Nigra Abingdoni, who died suddenly in the Galapagos back in July 2012.

Lonesome Tonight

He survived the pirates and whalers,

the seal-hunters and invading goats;

he out-lasted all the invaders,

as they came to Galapagos in boats.

For large tortoises are valuable things,

eaten for food and killed for their oil.

He was the last of his sub-species,

the last one to walk on Santa Cruz soil.

Declared the rarest animal on Earth,

to see him the tourists were attracted.

They came daily in their great hordes,

but this his habitat badly impacted.

They moved him to a new island,

for to study him they wanted to try,

to give him a better chance of mating,

hoping that he wouldn’t be shy.

They brought him females over from Pinta,

but to bachelor habits he seemed wed;

he avoided all of these ladies’ wiles,

and not one did he take to his bed.

Although there was reputedly just one,

a small one that seemed very well-met,

but it was just a case of bad eye-sight:

turned out to be an old German helmet.

Mind you, he weighed over two hundred pounds;

his neck was three foot long and well scrawny,

and with a shell all tattered and beaten,

no wonder the girls didn’t feel horny.

But perhaps he was bored, or infertile,

or there’s a faint chance he was gay -

either way, there was no breeding took place,

so that’s the end of his legacy I’d say.

He was about a hundred years old,

so perhaps he just ran out of steam.

It’s hard being a lonely old reptile,

when there’s no-one else on your team.

No longer will Time be marked in his eyes,

or ten million years that he’s been linked.

This strange evolutionary remnant,

this last of the line, now sadly extinct.

Let’s mourn this sad loss of diversity,

the weirdest that Nature could forge:

good-bye to a conservation icon,

and a fond farewell to old Lonesome George.

It’s another bad sign of the times,

to see the end of George’s life-flight,

But isn’t the truth of the matter that,

it’s really us that’s “lonesome tonight”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Empty House

Empty House

I may have been mistaken

When I heard another door

At the far side of this room quietly closing

At the very second I entered

Leaving someone else’s breath

A feeling of their presence

Within the empty space

Yet there is nothing here

Except this puzzling void

Pregnant with the possibility

That the designer of these rooms

Is inside this labyrinth

And may still be here walking somewhere

Just beyond where I can see

The next door is locked

The handle rattling in my hand

And I must retrace my weary steps

Back from an unexpected cul-de-sac

Only to think that he is now behind me

Yet when I turn to face him

There is no-one there

His elusive presence troubles me

As I seek him out without success

For whilst it may appear

That our paths must have crossed

At some time upon my search

I cannot find any clear sign

That he was ever really here

At times I believe that I am quite alone

Inside this deserted edifice

Yet then I hear faint sounds

Just beyond where I am standing

Which defy all definition

I worry at this illusion in my mind

The elaborate trickery

Or circularity of perception

Turning round upon itself

Allowing me to almost see

Myself disappearing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 28th August 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 28^th August 2016

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

                                                        

1.       Religious sensibilities have been heightened in Bromham this week.  On Monday the Parish Council decided to ban the wearing of baler-twine as a means of holding up men’s trousers, citing the fact that baler-twine can be seen by some sections of village society as an “incitement” to commit violence.  Viewers around the world had been shocked by video footage of Bromham’s policeman, Consternoon Afterble, requesting workers in the fields to remove their baler-twine.   However, on Tuesday, this ban was over-ruled in Bromham’s High Court on the grounds that the whole idea was basically a load of bollocks. 

2.       Bromham residents will be holding their traditional Bank Holiday Olympics this week-end.  This will include the 50m dash (back into the house to avoid the downpours), the 5-mile queue (on the motorway), the long-jump (over the mud and puddles), the men’s hammer (and nails to build the shed), the ladies’ invitation screw-driver (don’t ask), and the floor exercises (post-Disco at the pub).

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

Unanchored

Unanchored

Her leg hangs languidly

Over the side of the lounger

Above long- forgotten drinks

Their ice melted in the heat

On the light-bright surface

Of the blinding polished deck

Amid a tangle of abandoned magazines

Crumpled pages colour-bleached

Lost beneath the relentless, blazing sun

The yacht wallows gently

Shallowed near the shore

Warm water cradled

Swinging slowly round

Shifting position, drifting with the tide

In the heat-baked afternoon

Where nothing stirs

And there is not a breath of air

Nor any breeze to cool the burning day

Suddenly aroused, the girl looks intently

Towards the shimmering island

Alert to its spice-infused aromas

Believes she hears it calling

Feels the bow pull against the chain

Dragging the light anchor

Through the soft white sand

Beneath the gin-clear water

Where acid-blue fish dart

Between shafts of flickering sunlight

She aches to step ashore

To feel the firm-ness of the Earth

Beneath her naked feet

A home to hold on to

A fixed point within her orbit

Un-shifting, unchanging

A steady, stable foundation

Where she could remain

Upon which she might build a life

And feel that she had finally arrived

At some long hoped-for destination

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Waiting

Waiting (to be served at the bar)

I pushed my way through the throng to the bar, my ears assailed by drink-induced sound.

I’d put off it off as long as I could – but it was my turn to get in the next round.

Two lagers, two beers and a Guinness: I knew that this wouldn’t be cheap,

But when I’d found my way to the target, I saw that they were standing three deep.

I waited, I wheedled and I pushed, I wormed my way through with a grunt.

Finally I crawled under their legs, and eventually came up at the front.

They were all shouting and yelling: everyone was giving it a try,

Waving their fivers and their tenners, trying to catch the barmaid’s lazy eye.

She moved with the speed of a retarded sloth on Mogadon, or a backward old tortoise.

Unimpressed by the frenzy of punters, as if life itself held little purpose.

She took several passes, to find the right glasses, to serve out pale ale or strong cider.

She poured gin-and-tonic, in a state catatonic, and for beer, needed an old dog to guide her.

Some ice and a slice were beyond her: optics, mixers and bottles bemused her,

She couldn’t add up for toffee, and the till completely confused her.

All around me were desperate people, yet from serving them quickly she shrunk.

With service at this glacial speed, there wasn’t a chance of getting near drunk.

Empires rose and fell, and Hell froze over in the time it took to serve out one cocktail,

And the period to complete one round was measured on the geological scale.

Nothing seemed to sir this girl up: she was the world’s slowest barmaid:

By the time she served the guy next to me, he’d lately died and his body decayed.

But I hung on in there, pinned up at the front, trying to catch her with a nod and a wink.

I might be several years older now, but I was determined to get me a drink.

Galaxies formed, and faded away, and the Universe fell in disorder,

Till she, at last, asked me what I wanted and, finally, it was my turn to order.

But time had moved on, my memory gone - I must have looked like a proper chump -

I’d forgotten the drinks that I’d come for, and on the bar, my head I started to thump.

I racked my brains for some answers, but there were only “ifs” and “ands” and “buts”,

And that’s why we’re all drinking crème de menthe, to wash down our pork scratchings and nuts.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Courgette Fritters

Recipe for: COURGETTE FRITTERS

Ingredients:

·         500g courgettes, coarsely grated

·         50g plain flour (or gram flour if you want pakoras)

·         4-6 spring onions, finely chopped

·         3 eggs, beaten

·         90g feta cheese, crumbled

·         Small handful mint, finely chopped

·         Small handful flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

·         1 garlic clove, finely minced

·         Zest of one lemon, finely grated

·         Salt & freshly ground pepper

·         Green chillie, finely chopped (optional)

·         Vegetable oil for frying

Method:

1.       Put the grated courgettes in a bowl, and squeeze out as much liquid as you can.  Only the solid matter is required.

2.       Add in all the other ingredients, except for the vegetable oil, mixing thoroughly.  You should end up with a fairly thick batter/ dough.  If it’s too sloppy, add a little more flour.

3.       Heat 3mm of oil in a frying pan, and ensure that it is hot enough by dropping in a small bread cube, which should brown in about 10 seconds.

4.       Ladle in large tablespoons-full of the batter, flattening each fritter with the back of a spoon.

5.       Do not overcrowd the pan – cook the fritters in batches & keep warm.

6.       Cook fritters each side for 3-4 minutes, until nicely browned, then carefully turn over and cook the other side for the same amount of time.

7.       Drain the fritters on kitchen paper and eat immediately.

What else you need to know:

1.       These are really easy to do & delicious

2.       You can vary the ingredients with different herbs, parmesan, more onion etc, or add a little chillie to make a kind of pakora

3.       Great as a vegetable side dish, or on their own with dipping sauces

4.       Best eaten fresh, but you can keep them in the fridge & reheat under the grill or in the toaster

Hail To The Unhealthy

Hail To The Unhealthy

So now that the Olympics are over

And we’ve welcomed back the medal-winners

On their golden-nosed British Airways flight

It’s time to give consideration, to the real heroes of the games

but it’s not the famous names

those who won the bronze, or silver, or gold

who trained hard and were bold

not those of super-human means

not even those behind the scenes

not those who coach and who train

nor those that practised over and over again

nor even the organisers…

no – it should be people like me

think about it – it’s easy to see

why I say this should be….

I never took up an Olympic sport

Never entered a squash or tennis court

Never threw a javelin or a shot putt

Never developed a boxer’s six-pack gut

Never sweated out moisture in litres

Nor raced in a sprint, or the ten thousand meters

Not once did I consider an athletic event…

Can’t you see what this meant?

My decision to go through life with a soft pedal

Gave others far more chance of winning a medal!

So let’s salute those who woke up every morning and said “No!

I can’t be arsed, and won’t go down to the gym”,

Or “I’m way too tired to go for a long swim!”

Let’s pay tribute to those who were brave enough to say:

“Today is definitely not my day!”

To those who gave in to the temptation of chips, and of cheese

To those who were prepared to be simply obese

To those urban warriors who, when it came right down to it,

When it really, really mattered, just couldn’t give a shit

To those who stood on the side-lines of the path to glory

Who couldn’t be bothered to write any different story

Who waved nonchalantly at the efforts of others

The middle-aged men who still live with their mothers

To the sleeping giants that pressed “snooze”

With a lifetime dedicated to fags and to booze

To those with firmly sedentary roles

And who failed to meet even their own low goals

To these dedicated people I say:

“You chose to pursue your own lazy way

Being fit and healthy doesn’t always pay,

So look up, look up, for today is your day!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Steam

Steam

A heavy grinding, churning sound assaults the senses

Blacks out everything around, a skull-shaking

Teeth-rattling, deafening intensity of shuddering

The platform vibrating, juddering asunder

Then, dirty grey, clanking, slowly rumbling past

Spitting waste into a slate-grey sky

Hot, black, sooty smoke blown from chimney-stack

Hissing, wheezing steam escaping valves and joints, orifices

Leaking clouds of white, dripping water dribbling

Down onto cold wet, coal-black tracks beneath

Hot iron’s sound and smell, coal and fire and oil

And the whispering pressure of the boiler

Hard, heavy turning wheels, slow shimmering spokes

Across glittering rails of steel

Its pipes and pistons, rods and linkages

Crank and turn the shining driving gear

Valves and pumps forcing shafts to motion

Via vacuums and vapours, an elemental driving-force

An intricate inter-play of metal, gas and liquid

Fluid dynamics, perfectly synchronised

Harnessed in the creation

Of this dark demonic beast

And when at rest, at journey’s end, the engine

A leviathan hoarsely wheezing, breathing hard

From its great exertions stands hot, glowering

Every aspect of its bulk, its massive motive power

Its kinetic promise and potential, its working force

And energy yet held back, latent

Waiting patiently under the driver’s steady hand

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Scarecrow

Scarecrow

He has no memory of his making

Or how he came to be here

Staked to his fixed position

In the middle of this muddy field

His face set North towards the trees

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do

Or the purpose of his existence

Except to watch and wait

Through the clearest starry nights

The cold and frost biting at his fingers

And the long and lonely days

The Sun burning into his staring eyes

And bleaching pale his tattered clothes

He cannot move, nor look around

But must stand here, arms outstretched

Alone and forever crucified

His ragged hat and jacket

Flapping in the breeze

Silhouetted against the sky

Stark, dark, and solitary

His few unbid companions

Contemptuous of his looming figure

Casting a slowly-moving shadow

Across the fertile furrows

Boldly walk quite close

Huge black birds that croak and squawk

As they gorge themselves

Upon the seeds and shoots

Perhaps, if he had any feelings

He would pity them

In their fight to feed themselves

Scratching out their existence

From upon the earth beneath his feet

The weather slowly wears him down

Rotting the stuffing of his guts

Which slowly falls away

Vermin-nibbled

And is picked and pecked

To form good nesting material

So that other creatures may be warm

And live another day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 21st August 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 21^st August 2016

                                             

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

                                                        

1.       Team GB (Greater Bromham) are celebrating are a record carrot haul in this year’s vegetable-picking championships in Triobridge, thus proving that the idea “home advantage” from when the Games were held in Bromham four years ago is a myth.  This is the team’s best performance in an out-of-village context for over a hundred years.  Lottery funding for “elite” events such as cauli-trimming, potato-digging and celery-topping has clearly hauled our athletes out of mediocrity and into golden mud.

2.       Bromham’s economy is set to take a boost after the launch on Friday of the first all-night tractor service.  Initially this will just be on the High Street and Long Lane routes, but other journeys are expected to come on stream in the Autumn.  Businesses such as the chippie on the High Street, and The Wounded Ferret pub, should see a growth in trade as late-night revellers are encouraged to treat Bromham as “the village that never sleeps”. Those who live near a farm, however, would claim that Bromham has always been like that.

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

Windy Day

Windy Day

Driven inside, the cats hunker down

And sleep their peaceful dreams

In baskets by the stove

Unconcerned by noises in the chimney

And gentle soot-falls gathered in the grate

Every door blow-battered

Gust-clattered windows

Buffeted and blown by the gale outside

Blasting the hedges sideways in its fury

Tattoo-beating spurts of rain

Gravel against the panes

Heavy water droplets driven every which way

Casements banging in the frames

And, above all else

The moaning and groaning

Howling and whistling

Of the storm venting its fury

Against the brick-work of the house

I think I feel the chimneys shaking

Their prominent stacks exposed

At the highest levels of the air

And then the roof-tiles singing

In nailed and slated resistance

To this unwarranted onslaught

Upon their serried ranks

By clinging fast to hold the line

And keep the house together

Unsheltered, the flowers forced flat

Leaning down against the soaking ground

Bushes and trees bending backwards

Revealing the paler underside of leaves

Pressed hard against the creaking fences

And down the lane, new rivers run their courses

Silt and sand driven from out the fields

Beneath the air-borne fusillade

Of twigs and leaves, and scraps of paper

Swept far into the distance

Beneath the blackened skies

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Swallows

Swallows

A hot day among cold, hard stones

Of crumbled Abbey remnants

Whose fallen arches and tumbled walls

Tell monastic tales of a distant past

And stand stark against a dark blue sky

Which threatens later thunder

Yet, still, there are strong shadows

Providing pools of cooler air

Where one may sit a while

And gaze across the finely-razored grass

To watch in frank amazement

The antics of daring aerial acrobats

Swooping down at break-neck speed

Soaring, then wheeling round

Before diving sharply

To skim low above the ground

Twisting and turning

Seeming to stop dead in mid-air

To change direction in a blink

Then banking away again between the ruins

Seconds later re-emerging, jet-like

Black-and-white arrows

Fanning out in formation

Spitfire-winged stuntmen

Trailing sleek, long-forked tails

Chittering, chattering amongst themselves

In high-pitched communication

Co-ordinating their attacks

Upon the lazy insects

And one is left to wonder

If those medieval monkish men

Who once worked and walked here

So many centuries ago

Saw this same dazzling display

And applauded the power of their Creator

To fashion these clever little creatures

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Snow Queen

Recipe for: SNOW QUEEN

Ingredients:

• 500ml double cream
• 1 tbsp caster sugar
• 2 tblsp brandy (or more!)
• 2 tblsp stem ginger, chopped
• 2 tblsp stem ginger syrup
• 150g ready-made meringues, roughly broken
• ½ tsp groundnut oil
• Seasonal fruits to decorate

 Method:

1. whisk cream until stiff peaks form
2. transfer whipped cream to a large bowl to give space to mix in other ingredients
3. gently fold in caster sugar, chopped ginger, ginger syrup
4. when thoroughly mixed, fold in broken meringues
5. line a 570ml pudding bowl/ basin with clingfilm, then oil the clingfilm with the groundout oil
6. spoon in the cream mixture, then smooth the top
7. fold over the clingfilm, then wrap top in foil
8. wrap the whole bowl in a layer of clingfilm
9. freeze for at least 8 hours, preferably over-night
10. when ready to serve:
1. remove bowl from freezer into fridge for about an hour
2. prepare seasonal fruits
3. dip bowl into warm/ hot water for 1 minute to loosen the Snow Queen
4. remove outer layer of clingfilm & the foil
5. place a large plate over the bowl
6. turn the bowl & plate over until the Snow Queen turns out
7. remove the clingfilm lining
8. tip over & around the seasonal fruit
9. place back in fridge for 15 minutes
10. cut in wedges & serve

 What else you need to know:

1. you can also use a loaf tin, instead of a bowl.  This will give you a long brick shape, which can be cut into (more sophisticated) slices, rather than wedges.

The Webs We Weave

My second volume of short stories "The Webs We Weave" has been published, and is now available on Amazon to order as a paperback, or as a Kindle download.  The first volume "Seven Score & Other Tales" is also available.

We're All Drinking For George

We’re All Drinking For George

We chat in measured mumbles

In our twos and in our threes

Balancing thin cups upon their saucers

Sure it was a hard way to go, and everybody knows it

Very hard on his family we’re all thinking

But no-one talks about the real problem

No-one mentions George and his drinking

Everyone thinks about the good times

He was a good sort, and great company

With a quick joke on his lips, or telling a tall tale

Holding court in his favourite corner

Lewd laughter, green eyes twinkling

Ever-ready for another, if we’d set them up,

Another long night of George and his drinking

No mention of the damage he was doing

Destroying his guts from the inside

His liver wet-rotting, blood-pressure bubbling

His florid face and trembling hands

Everyone here knew that he was sinking

But he took a long time over his dying

And that’s what George got for his drinking

Where were these old drinking companions

When he started losing his way?

Down and damaged, calling the odds

Worse for wear, falling down drunk?

In his cups first thing in the morning

Unsavoury, unwashed and stinking

Unable to get served anywhere?

We daren’t join in with George and his drinking

A murmur goes round the black-coated room

This tea and coffee’s meagre stuff for mourning

There’s a move to push off down to the pub

No-one’s looking his family in the eye

Everyone trying not to cause any offence

It’s what he would’ve wanted, did someone say?

A sliding off for something stronger

And admit we’re all drinking for George today

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Lifeline

Lifeline

He knows the effort it costs him

Feels the ache of muscles

The back-breaking work

Naked and exhausted

Rock-cracking and sifting

Lifting loads in the heat, the filth and mud

To find the tiny grains

Small speckles of value

Sparkling precious pieces

That mean so much to him

Just enough to exist, to eat, to carry on

Hunting, scavenging, rat-like

In a diabolic hell-hole

Deep inside the Earth

A dark world of danger

Among the drills and dust

Crawling through flooded shafts

To reach a promising seam

Of grit that holds the glitter of gold

And the faintest gleam of hope

But he cannot trace it any further

Transported, transformed

Refined and purified into heavy ingots

Which sit, unused, in high-security rooms

Reserves of national treasure

To guarantee the currency

And maintain suitable short supply

To keep the prices high enough

Within the global market

Nor see it spun into delicate filaments

Its decorative strands

Worked by artistic hands

To adorn elegant, well-heeled figures

Among the wealthy and well-to-do

Who, in a languid moment

May reach out for their electronica

Slim-line models in brushed-leather cases

To access the latest features

And communicate across the world

By a finger’s touch

Perhaps even to the darkest heart of Africa

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The O-Word

The O-word

My medical was a total disaster: the doctor’s face turned rather grim.

It was a big fail, when I got on the scale, and he said: “you’re not very slim!”

“There’s no good way I can tell you this, although you might get yourself in a sulk,

It seems it’s your fate, to be hugely overweight: you’re the size of The Incredible Hulk.”

“I’ve tried being subtle, I’ve tried being coy, there seems no way I can get through.

Perhaps invective can be more effective?  I don’t know what else I can do!”

Then he let me have it with both barrels:  “You’re big, you’re burly, you’re chubby,

With more avoir-dupois than average, you’re chunky, not hunky, definitely tubby.”

“You’re full-faced, fat, floppy and fleshy, a big lard-arse, and as large as a barge,

You’re not finely honed, not merely big-boned, you’re a roly-poly, a great tub of marge.”

“Your size is….. amplitudinous, a chump with a bump, plus a huge rump,

A chubster, a big rounded tubster, like a partridge, My God but you’re plump!”

Sadly I looked down at my vanishing waist, and said “why do you use words such as these?

Just what is it you’re trying to tell me?  Are you saying that I may be obese?”

The doctor was completely taken aback, so he scowled, and he looked at me hard.

Then he said “you’re not listening, are you?  You king-sized great tub of lard!”

“I’m obviously not making myself clear.  Let’s say that you’re of voluminous size,

Falstaffian, Brobdignagian, it’s quite clear who ate all the pies!”

“Your expansive capaciousness goes beyond any known bound.

You’re beefy and burly, fudgy and pudgy, and it’s years since you last saw the ground!”

“Gargantuan, elephantine and mammoth are three words that may easily vex,

But they hold no candle, to your love handles, or the scale of your Body Mass Index.”

“You must eat less, and exercise more, it’s time to take a clinical stand,

Time to realise that a balanced diet does not mean a burger in each hand!”

“Your massive, mountainous diet must cease: no more chocolate or cream or fruit jellies,

Nor guacamole dips, nor fish and chips, until you’ve got rid of those bellies!”

“It’s calorie-counting from here onwards: you must drain yourself to the dregs.

You can’t make a much thinner omelette, without breaking low-cholesterol eggs!”

At last the light was beginning to dawn: I could see what he was trying to state,

So I just asked him to clarify: “Here - are you saying that I’m over-weight?”

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016