Completely Under Control

(Everything Is) Completely Under Control

Everything here is completely under control

So you mustn’t panic or worry

There’s no need to rush or to hurry

No need to get into a flurry

In fact I’d like to contradict the allegation

That there even is any “situation”

I’ve been very careful myself

So I’ve put my medicines on a very high shelf

Out of the reach of children

And kept the plastic bags away from the babies

So there is no danger of suffocation

Or imminent self-immolation

From the use of flammable materials

(Not that it’s at all immaterial)

I’ve read the warnings on the packet

About allergens and side effects and all of that racket

I’ve read through all the instructions

Before commencing construction

I’ve turned off the power before disconnecting

And done a risk assessment before erecting

I’ve removed any possible confusion

And avoided the risk of electrocution

I’ve used the contents before the Best-By-Date

And so that I wouldn’t become late

I kept the contents sufficiently cool

(You can’t take me for a fool)

And consumed within two days of opening

I’ve kept up my mortgage repayments

It has to be confessed

So my home has not been repossessed

I’ve declared everything I had to do

That to the best of my knowledge is true

As a false statement could de-bar

Any future claims on the car

To retain my complete safety is my goal

I don’t want to end up in a hole

Mister Health & Safety’s my role

Yes, everything here is completely under control

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

I Remember

Recorded earlier this year at the Village Pump Festival by Terry Helyar in "Songs From The Caravan", this is me "live" with "I Remember".


https://youtu.be/h8ESPgiCSG0

Gooseberries

Gooseberries

Asking every time I go to her house

To find out whether the time is right

If the season has yet come round

When we can start the picking

Grandma cautious of the damage

That may be done to little hands

Finds the fabric gloves inside the shed

And finally gives the go-ahead

The thrill of impending danger

From the vicious scratching thorns

Hiding beneath the leaves of shiny green

To find and pluck the precious fruits

The light-green downy orbs

To fill the waiting basket

And emerge triumphant

Unscathed and only slightly scratched

Then Grandma hard at work

To top and tail the little beauties

Dredged in caster sugar

And hidden beneath the pastry crust

Of the pie we shall have tonight for tea

Then to commit the rest to jars and jams

That we might enjoy them longer

Bursts of luscious fruit in deep mid-winter

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Grandad's Garden

Grandad’s Garden

Past the bilberry bushes at the side

Along the narrow path that he has flagged himself

With rough-hewn Yorkshire stone

And up three steps between the rocky flower-beds

Into the larger upper garden

Where he rules his undisputed empire

Out of sight of Grandma

And out of hearing, when it’s time for tea

There stands the bunker of his green-house

Heavy-built of brick and iron and glass

Heated by the sun in summer

And by the stove in cooler seasons

With its shed-like little office

The filing done in a dozen pigeon-holes

In tobacco tins and sweet-boxes

Housing his horticultural paraphernalia

Of labels, seeds and bits of string

And, there, hanging limply on one wall

The old certificates, faded firsts

From garden shows of decades ago

And down the length of this glass cathedral

Along the apex, twisting through the cross-ties

A grape-vine of indeterminate age

Its curling foliage providing shade for more tender plants

Which every autumn shyly presents

Its modest crop of bunched black fruits

Now focussed on his bedding plants

Which he sells to earn a few bob

Just to maintain his life-long hobby

Chatting with his mates, sipping tea

Chomping on his unlit pipe

Then fussing with the water-hungry tomatoes

And, finally, his pride and joy

The prize-winning chrysanthemums

Reds and pinks and whites

Which even Grandma admits she likes

Before she complains about the muck

She says he trails into the house

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Men In Suits

Men In Suits

Though I’ve been accused of being a shirker

I’ve never felt threatened by a woman wearing a burkha

Or accused of being a blue meanie

By a girl sporting a burkini

And though some say that the hijab, or a niqab

May appear unappealing and drab

Or that there’s not much going for

Those confined to a chador

That something may be lax

For those in yashmaks

That nuns wearing wimples

May be hiding their dimples

Or even a bad case of pimples

I simply don’t get the thing about terror

I think it’s more of a social error

You see - there’s no airs and graces

With those choosing to cover their faces

And I have to report sadly

That none of them treated me as badly

As those who dress up in posh suits

With nice knotted ties, and shiny boots

Like those politicians – the wankers

The City institutions and bankers

Who caused me distress an’

Presided over major recession

Caused mayhem and civil dissension

And thoroughly buggered up my pension

Or turned me straight down for a loan

And talked to me with condescending tone

Or lied to the nation over the despatch box

Then never forced to stand in the dock

With intelligence that he swore

Forced us to go immediately to war

No – the real baddies are in plain sight

And take particular delight

In exercising their power by law

Using the system – that’s what it’s for!

So let’s fight back using a different route

Show the buggers that we do give a hoot

Relieve them of their ill-gotten loot

Let’s reform things, branch and root

And ban anyone who’s wearing a suit!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 25th September 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 25^th September 2016

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

                                                        

1.       In a shock result this week, Jezza “Cor” Bean won a popularity contest, against some other bloke we’ve never heard of by the massive majority of two votes to one.  The turnout of three voters, was 0.000001%, a figure much higher than that in the recent Parish Council elections.  Jezza decided to celebrate with a cup of tea and a piece of shortbread, although he was keen to stress that he was “ideologically” opposed to the capitalist concepts of “sugar” and “biscuits”.  Jezza’s house is easy to find in the village – it’s on the left.  Keep going left, turn left, then left some more, and it’s just there on the left.

2.       The regulars at the Bromham Food Bank, who live on state benefits and charity handouts, sometimes sleeping rough on the streets, in alleyways and doorways, mostly homeless and penniless, have clubbed together to send a message of condolence to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie who have just announced the break-up of their marriage.  “First it was the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) losing Bake-Off, then it was Ed Balls being a total cockwomble on Strictly – and now this!  It’s hard to take.  Some of us are absolutely devastated.  We’re not sure how we’re going to get through it, but we’ll try and stick together, as a really desperate group of people, and hope that we survive.”

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

Cathedral Green

Cathedral Green

I lay abed that morning

First night away from home

Restless and long awake

The covers still unfamiliar

Watching the light breaking through the curtains

Making new criss-cross patterns

On different walls and furniture

In a room I did not recognise

And I heard the heavy bells

Deep and penetrating

Striking every quarter hour

In that early part of day

And I crept across the floor

To peer through cloudy windows

And the rain-streaked panes

At the freshness of the green

The cultivated square

That was the cathedral lawn

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Waiting At The Doctor's

Waiting At The Doctor’s

Seven already in the queue, though we got there early

Gathered in the darkness and the early evening fog

Forced to stand upon the pathway flags and stamp our feet

Muffled up in jumpers, gloves and coat, scarf and hat

My barking cough and wheezing chest

Not helped by the dampness in the air

There’s a lot of it about at the minute

Says one local busybody

Winter’s already setting in, going to be a hard one

Offers another weather-watcher

Everyone hoping that the Witch will open early

And take a little pity on us poor souls locked outside

But it’s bang on six o’clock when the bolt at last slides back

And the key is finally turned within the hefty lock

The feeble outside light grudgingly illuminated

As if we’re all there under sufferance

Before we trundle inside, grateful for the meagre warmth

To see the fire’s only just been lit

And smoulders fitfully in the grate

Struggling to gain some purchase

On the paltry lumps of coal

Then forced to queue again before the desk

To let the Witch write down our names and ages

So the doctor will see us all in order

Before sitting down on hardened chairs and benches

No concessions to comfort

In the stuffy, gloomy room of illnesses

Cheerless and charmless

The naked lightbulb adding to the misery

To wait the doctor’s eventual arrival

Among the coughing and the sneezing

Then the late arrivals edging through the door

Their eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise

At the over-crowded waiting room

Then turned away until tomorrow

Because the list’s already full

Followed out by the smirks of those who will be seen tonight

Then the doctor quickly sweeping in, his coat undone

His bag loose-handled, trailing in his wake

A worried frown upon his face

Hurried past the patients, into his consulting room

The door briefly closed for him to catch his breath

The Witch gathering up the patients’ files

And, privileged, squeezing herself inside

For the briefest conversation

Before the first name is shouted out

And the patient shambles forward

Leaving the rest of us to speculate upon his likely ailment

Then to shuffle up one place

And to keep an eye upon the others

To check that no-one gets to jump the queue

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Curried Black-Eyed Peas

Recipe for: CURRY – BLACK-EYED PEAS/ BEANS

Ingredients:

• 4 tblsp sunflower oil
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 tsp cumin seeds
• 2 green chillies, slit & left whole
• 1 medium onion, peeled & chopped
• 17g fresh ginger, peeled
• 5 cloves garlic, peeled
• ½ tsp turmeric
• ½ tsp chilli powder
• 1 tblsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp garam masala
• Salt, to taste
• 3 large tomatoes, pureed
• 2 tins black-eyed peas/ beans, drained & rinsed
• Handful fresh coriander leaves & stalks, chopped

 Method:

1. heat oil, add bay leaves & cumin seeds & fry till they sizzle – 30 seconds
2. add green chillies & onions, cooking until well browned
3. meanwhile, using a blender, make a paste of the ginger & garlic with a splash of water
4. stir the paste into the mixture in the pan, and cook for a couple of minutes
5. add the powdered spices & salt, and cook for another 30 seconds
6. add the tomatoes, cooking over a medium heat until the oil in the masala begins to separate – about 12 to 15 minutes
7. add the peas/ beans & mix well
8. cook for 2 minutes, then add 250ml water
9. bring to the boil & simmer for 8-10 minutes
10. remove 2 tblsp of the beans from the gravy, mash well, then stir back in
11. stir in the fresh coriander & serve

 What else you need to know:

1. comforting & chunky in flavour
2. freezes well

Don't Ever Have A Cat

Don’t Ever Have A Cat

Don’t ever have a cat!

But why do I say that?

Well the reasons are really quite plain

Assuming that you’d like to remain sane

For they live their lives in their own way

And though sometimes they like to play

Or weave round your legs when they want feeding

(Or for anything else that they’re needing)

And they’ll sit on your lap and they’ll purr

And they’ll let you fondle their soft fur

I’m afraid I have to tell you this straight

They have some less appealing traits

Like when they wander off from the house

And come back dragging a mouse

Or sometimes it’s a shrew

Which they torment and they chew

And there’s nothing you can do

Or the bloody, headless rabbit on the mat

That’s what you get with a cat

Or else they come and collapse on the floor

After fighting the tom from next door

They don’t take up too much space

And you get used to having them about the place

But then one day they get into a mood

Fall ill, and go right off their food

Then there’s the long trips to the vet

With a feline that’s what you get

Before you know it they’re just wasting away

And finally they pass on one terrible day

It’s only then that you realise to your cost

Just how much you’ve lost

How you miss them being around

And their particular sound

How their affection had crept into your heart

How your world’s been torn apart

How the sense of loss can steal

All of the love you’d started to feel

It’s not worth it to have all of that

So don’t ever have a cat

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Summer? What Summer?

Summer?  What Summer?

There’s a nip in the air this morning,

And is that a thicker dew upon the grass?

Everything today feels so much damper,

Has the Summer already come to pass?

It’s time to put away the Barbecue,

And to stack away those garden chairs,

To throw away discarded flip-flops,

Specially those that don’t add up to pairs.

The sun is lower in the skies I see,

Migrating birds are parting on their ways,

And so the nights are drawing slowly in,

And we notice those much-shorter days.

The Last Night Of The Proms has been and gone,

And, in a twist that’s surely cruel,

It’s back to Strictly and The X-Factor,

And the BBC’s Autumn schedule.

The plants and flowers have all gone over,

And of the veggie glut I’m starting to tire.

There’s a drifting smell of rotting vegetation,

As I pile the waste upon the bonfire.

The early leaves blow around the garden,

And lower temperatures we’re meeting.

It’s time to think about storing logs and oil,

And turning on the central heating.

It’s the seasonal cycle of low pressure,

And now a chilly wind begins to blow,

As we button up our thicker jackets,

And hope that it doesn’t start to snow.

It’ll soon be time to put the clocks back,

And that’s the clearest end of summer,

Hallowe’en, Bonfire Night and “the C-word”,

It’s all over now – what a bummer!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Masquerade

Masquerade

We may all be strangers here

But one can never know

The depths of dissimulation

A hint of assignation

The facial features behind the masks

The true expressions

The subtle nuance

The slight inflexions

Which may imply

A hidden meaning

To detect something real

Betrayed by flashing eyes

A curling of the lip

A movement of the mouth

Concealing private coldness

While expressing something warmer

In this all-too-public fancy dress

A costumed charade

A pretence of better feelings

But secrets held within

This phoney masquerade

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 18th September 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 18^th September 2016

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

                                                        

1.       In a blow to the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), the rights to screen the unexpected hit series “Great Bromham Take-Off” have been lost to a rival channel, which bid more money.  The programme involves some people filming other people trying to imitate other people, whilst being interviewed by some other people, and then judged by some different people.  In the future there will be some different people again doing the filming.  No animals were harmed in the making of this programme.

2.       And in a surprise move the former leader of the Parish Council, Dave Campervan, has announced that he will no longer be a parish councillor, following the advent  to power of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP)’s new leader, Theresa Green.  He said it had nothing to do with losing the recent vote on Bromham’s exit from the Wiltshire Community (Brexit), or with the plan to introduce education to village yokels, or his mates George “Porgy” Horsebrawn and Michael “Specs” Groove losing their jobs, but that he simply wanted to spend more time with his money.

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

Elizabeth

Elizabeth

She walks and talks at the same time

usually muttering to herself

or shouting her opinions

at anyone who cares to listen

Her shambling gait

and aimless wandering

daily through the precinct

an habitual routine

a normal fixture

and commuter landmark

for regular travellers

Dirty and dishevelled

unkempt and unwashed

her florid face still lit with a smile

remnant of a faded beauty

Swaddled now in layers of clothing

thick coat and floppy hat

cardigans and jumpers

skirts and tights

gloved hands and fingers

gripping, grasping tightly

the string-crossed bags

which she carries with her

wherever she goes

She asks for nothing

demanding only time to listen

never seeking shelter

but slides off somewhere every night

living by her own her lights

by her logic and on her wits

A modern crazy lady

seemingly not unhappy

but sometimes over-loud

creating an awkward nuisance

which passers-by would ignore

if only she did not make them feel

so much more uncomfortable

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

High Wire

High Wire

To step out into the void

The wire shivering as it takes the strain

Of my weight upon it

Is to walk into an unknown

An empty darkness

The first few paces of the downward stretch

Towards the disappearing centre

High above the watchers who hold their breath

Their eyes pinned upon my every tremble

Until I establish balance

An equilibrium of mind and body

The deadly drop beneath my out-stretched arms

Fingers tautly pointing

With limbered legs

And the distance to the hardened Earth

Are of no immediate concern

Nor any aid to concentration

The only point of focus

Being one foot in front of another

Eyes upon the destination

Crowds and lights both disappear

Into a faded emptiness

Below my fragile body

As it seems to float along the rope

Blood pumping in my ears

The silence of air

The clarity of perfect quiet

Alone above the world

Determined not to tumble

Into the arms of death below

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Pondering Peacocks

Pondering Peacocks

Rousing slowly from the mist and murk

Of a drowsing sleep

Morning light intruding itself

Creeping unbidden under eyelids

At the very edge of dawn

Faint and frowsing

As the last lingering strands

Of dreams and rambling nightmares

Stretch out longer and longer

Snapping the final threads of contact

With night-time places

Which then recede and fade

Among the tangled bedclothes

The day ahead intrudes itself

Grey, mundane, heavy

Insidiously mutters

About tedious tasks and dreary chores

Things that must be done

People to be met, appointments kept

The detritus of relationships

Demanded by one’s daily life

Prompted by the relentless movement

Of digits on the bed-side clock

But reluctant yet to make a start

And time, being only relative

The sheets and pillows still warm

Cling womb-like and calmly claim

The tired restless body

While the hour is cock-crow early

There is still a fleeting chance

To conserve precious energy

And preserve mindful meanderings

To postpone the inevitable

And hold the last few moments

Of some happiness within

By thinking of better things

Before floating back to vivid colour

And pondering perhaps

Upon peacocks

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Franken-furter

Franken-Furter (or The Monster of Frankenstein food)

What end is there to man’s ingenuity?

His ability, when he’s in the mood,

To engineer our daily intake,

And bugger about with our food.

You’ve just got to read a few labels,

Although the print’s incredibly small,

To discover what it is they’re up to,

And find out how they’re conning us all.

Don’t get me started on sausages:

They use lots of the skin, sinew and some bristle,

Rusk, knuckle, a blizzard of gizzard,

And then add in plenty of gristle.

From slurry, and factory-floor sweepings,

And bits left over I’ve discovered,

“Chopped and shaped”, and certain “selected cuts”,

And also “mechanically-recovered”.

Then to make it frozen, or microwaveable,

You’d be surprised at what they have to do:

Colourings, flavourings and texturings,

With modified starch and other bits of goo.

Then they add extra sugar and some salt,

Followed by several e-numbers,

Preservatives and acidity agents,

And God knows what they’ve done to cucumbers.

There’s modifiers and regulators,

Emulsifiers and some thickeners,

Stabilisers and other weird stuff -

It’s a wonder it don’t sicken us!

They hide the grams of saturated fat -

They don’t like their product to look flaccid,

So they pump in fructose and glucose syrup,

Topped up by di-glycerides of fatty acid.

Glazing agents and flavour enhancers,

All the things that we’re supposed to hate:

Add a dash of something not natural,

Plus monosodium glutamate.

It all goes in to our processed foods,

Not just Cheesy Wotsits and Turkey Twizzlers,

But chicken nuggets, and ready dinners,

Pizzas, pies and those meaty sizzlers.

But they make it sound so attractive:

Branding family members sounds less messy:

John West, Mother’s Pride and Daddie’s Sauce,

Then there’s Uncle Ben and Auntie Bessie!

These packagers have a lot to answer for:

Food scientists mucking about with our cheese,

Selling heart-attacks on a plate,

Hiding the grease and making us highly obese.

Never mind the Scots loving fried Mars Bars,

Or cream teas, chocolate or late-night kebab,

They’re pumping too much gunk into our food,

And slowly turning us all into flab.

So we’ve all got to wise up a bit,

About calories and carbs – it’s not too late -

Just look out for their “serving suggestions”,

And avoid anything “made from concentrate”.

Avoid chicken masala-type pizza,

Don’t eat Dogburgers, unless you’re bent,

And look out for the magic words on labels:

“Beware: May Contain Nourishment”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Dull

Dull

Dull

Lonely

Unwanted

Never picked

Left sitting on the wall

Till the very last choice

Then reluctantly taken

Like the useless booby prize

Told to keep away from any action

Too plain to be noticed

Too dull to talk to

Too boring to worry about

Melting into the crowd

Indistinguishable from the others

Without feature in a grey world

Totally unremarkable

Lifeless and uninspired

Never invited

Nor sought after

Always passed over

And forgotten

Awkward

Unimaginative

Unsure how to talk to others

Or what to talk about

Unable to understand

What might be on their minds

No conversation or social graces

Too vacuous to be original

Empty and without pattern

Not seen as anyone special

Or different enough

To be become anyone’s friend

To merit the slightest attention

Or to be talked about

But easily overlooked

Un-noticed and ignored

Totally unexceptionable

Never missed

Always alone

Lonely

Dull

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Old Lady

Old Lady

Under shady branches

Gnarled and knuckled

Scabbed and twisting

Lie windfalls softly cradled

Grass-cushioned in the dew

Bruised and slowly browning

In the morning-hazy sunshine

Sweet juices fermenting

Into heady cider

Intoxicating the lazy wasps

And the bickering blackbirds

Which feed upon the crop

Sipping at this late abundant nectar

Hobbled, she leans slightly to one side

Her trunk bent beneath the weight

Of aged limbs

Of twigs and leaves and fruits

Weathered, wind-buffeted

Her bark rough and leathery

Skin rotted and cankered

Her shape crooked and disfigured

Diseased, hard and broken

By the passing seasons

Yet still the sap rises within her

Re-awakened every Spring

To produce abundant blossom

Pulling in the pollinators

To create a canopy-full

Fertile with hard and heavy fruits

Of such acid sharpness

Silhouetted in her twilight years

Still fiercely rooted

She stands defiantly alone

Never part of any orchard

Crabbed in her corner of the garden

But still verdant, fruitful, useful

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016