New Year, Old Year

New Year, Old Year

And so the question comes around again,

About hopes and wishes and resolution,

Determinations for another new year,

Or to simply avoid it – that’d be a solution!

Whether to create new personal targets,

To set oneself up for yet another fall,

Or be more realistic of weaknesses,

And admit that you’ll fail at them all.

As if a New Year creates a new life,

Where things will be different and strange,

Rather than some random point in time,

Invented by humans to mark out a change.

It’s just a certain mark in the calendar,

A cold counting of months and of days,

And to track the moon’s movements,

The lunar waxings and wanings of ways.

Just cast your mind back to last year -

What were all the things you promised you’d do?

No - I can’t remember them either!

All forgotten – isn’t that true?

So what’s the point of doing it all over?

You won’t get any fitter or slimmer,

You probably won’t save any more money -

There isn’t a chance – not a glimmer!

Life will continue the way it always does

The only sure things are death and tax,

So just be a little more practical -

Be at peace with yourself - and relax!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

What Did 2016 Ever Do For Us??

What Did 2016 Ever Do For Us??

Well, it was another quiet twelve months -

Nothing very much to speak of in twenty-sixteen.

I can’t think of very much of note:

In fact there was precious little to be seen.

OK – we lost a few things we wish we hadn’t,

Like common sense out on the American stump,

But you can’t trust the yanks to do anything right:

Which is how they ended up with that idiot Trump.

OK – there was a bit of a constitutional debate:

Where the Great British public behaved as ifit were dumb,

Resulting in a narrow decision for Brexit,

After the vote in the EU Never-endum.

OK – we managed third in the Olympics table

But, after bombing another World Cup,

And a whitewash Test Series in India,

I think we should just decide to give up.

But then Leicester Foxes won the Premiership -

Something the pundits said was an outside bet

And they beat those wallies from Chelsea & Manchester,

How much better could football things get?

Well, not being England manager – obviously,

As proved by “One-game” Sam Allardyce,

Exposed by a sting by the media,

Mired in corruption and vice.

Nor being the Prime Minister, it seems:

Cameron and Gove didn’t seem to find things funny,

So hopped away from the media attention,

To go and spend more time with their money.

And look how many musicians have left us:

The Starman & The Bird On The Wire have quit,

The Artist Formerly known as, the Purple One  -

From Paisley…and The Quo’s Rick Parfitt!

Keith Emerson & Greg Lake have both gone,

So I’ll bet Carl Palmer’s feeling a bit sore,

And it’ll take some major imagination

To do another ELP Reunion Tour!

Then there are those who’ve written their last:

Umberto Eco, Barry Hines & Carla Lane,

Arnold Wesker, Anita Brookner & Harper Lee,

Peter Shaffer & Tony Warren we’ll not see again.

And the Entertainers’ Bench looks a bit empty:

Corbett, and Wogan and Rickman – all of them good,

Jimmy Young, Paul Daniels, Gene Wilder,

Bert Kwouk, Ed “Stewpot” Stewart & Victoria Wood.

  

Hilda Ogden from Corrie’s departed,

Richard Adams in our sight didn’t dither,

And Carrie Fisher, Princess Leia! -

I guess The Force was no longer with her.

Nor was Debbie Reynolds, her mum!

Then there was Nancy Reagan & Howard Marks

George Martin, Sylvia Anderson & Frank Finlay,

And the year expired in a shower of sparks!

Mrs Merton and that waiter Manuel,

Muhammad Ali no longer floats like a butterfly,

And Wham! – George Michael was off!

Oh, why, oh why did they all have to die?

To say nothing of innocent Jo Cox,

Murdered in cold blood whilst doing her best,

And refugees drowned whilst crossing an ocean,

Dreadful images that put our stomachs to the test.

The death and destruction of Aleppo,

Thousands at BHS facing a sacking,

The culling of thousands of badgers,

And, it seems, no way to stop fracking.

…But it’s not the British way to dwell upon such things –

Not when the BBC shows Clarkson the door,

Len Goodman’s time’s over on Strictly,

And the Bloody Bake-Off’s gone to channel Four.

No – we want to hear about Boaty McBoatface,

About how Power ignores the Popular Vote

About Revolution stalking the land,

All over the naming of a bloody small boat!

Or – more Earth-shattering news yet -

How those foreign chocolate-chomping chumps

Could bugger up world-famous Toblerone,

By getting rid of some of its humps!

…..so you see, it’s all been pretty quiet,

On that subject I give you my word,

But apart from those occasional losses ……

Absolutely nothing occurred!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Monkfish with Chorizo, Fennel & Chickpeas

Recipe for: MONKFISH with CHORIZO, FENNEL & CHICKPEAS

Ingredients:

·         250g – 500g monkfish tail, filleted from bone and cut into 8 – 12 pieces

·         50g plain flour, seasoned with salt & pepper

·         75g butter

·         Small head fennel, core removed, very thinly sliced

·         50g – 100g chorizo, cut into very thin slices, or very small dice

·         1 tin chickpeas, drained & rinsed

·         Dash of olive oil

Method:

1.       Roll the monkfish pieces in the seasoned flour to coat

2.       Melt the butter in a frying pan until it almost colours, then gently cook the monkfish pieces for three to five minutes (depending on size & thickness).  Ensure fish is cooked through, and nicely browned on outside.

3.       Remove fish from pan & keep warm in a dish for a few minutes

4.       Add olive oil to the butter in the pan, and sauté the fennel for a few minutes until softened

5.       Remove the fennel and keep warm in another dish

6.       Add the chorizo and cook for a few moments until the fat begins to run

7.       Add the drained chickpeas and warm through

8.       Return the fennel to the pan, and mix everything together

9.       Plate up by spreading the mixture onto two plates

10.    Serve the monkfish fillets on top.

What else you need to know:

1.       This is a really tasty combination, which works really well.

Nativity

Nativity

Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be,

But I can’t help thinking of that day,

Right at the back end of the Fifties,

When I did my first Nativity Play.

We were in the first class of the Infants,

Young and innocent, no more than five or six,

When our teacher announced the production,

And we’d all be thrown into the mix.

There were to be parts for everyone,

Of that fact there should be no doubt,

For the school couldn’t cope with the aggro,

If any of the class were to be left out.

For parents would want to see their darlings,

Deep in the Christmas story engage,

Showing off to their friends and relatives,

Of their first public performance on stage.

None of us knew what to expect,

Because none of us had ever done it before,

But if we couldn’t have a major role,

We decided we didn’t want to play any more.

I didn’t get to play Joseph,

And the role of inn-keeper to me was denied,

I finally ended up as fifth shepherd,

I was so upset that I cried.

My mum thought my skill had been ignored,

And my talent not allowed to shine through,

Which just added to the misery,

But I was only five – what could I do?

Rehearsals were more than chaotic,

The teachers didn’t know how to lead,

And scripts were a complete waste of time,

Since not one of us could read.

So we did it by practising quite hard,

Repeating scenes over and over again,

Learning lines was a complete nightmare,

We were children trying to play men.

There was no proper stage to speak of,

You could see it was heading for a great fall,

So they just draped a large pair of curtains,

Right across one end of the hall.

Costumes were left up to the parents,

For each to interpret as they chose,

With no attempt to co-ordinate,

We ended with an array of odd clothes.

   

The shepherds used sheets and tea-towels,

There were cardboard gold crowns for the kings,

The Angel Gabriel was a fantastic sight,

Dwarfed by a pair of white paper wings.

Moustaches were drawn with burnt cork,

And false beards stuck on that were itchy,

Nobody could really see what they were doing,

And the inn-keeper’s wife turned a touch bitchy.

Joseph wore specs and a belted tunic,

Mary appeared in virginal white,

As they stumbled into Bethlehem,

And inaudibly asked for a room for the night.

The innkeeper, over-awed by the audience,

Forgot his lines and burst into tears.

Lots of shuffling at the edge of the stage,

Then the fulfilment of our worst fears.

The baby donkey, hired for the occasion,

Peed on stage, as we’d all hoped that he would:

A large pool spread between his feet,

And surrounded the cast where they stood.

You couldn’t get away from the squelching,

Though the actors were never in danger,

But most of the dialogue was lost,

As ox and ass waded into the manger.

The gold, the frankincense and myrrh,

Were dropped on to the swaddled-up child,

But the rising smell of fresh urine,

Was driving the audience wild.

At this point, the star fell from its perch,

And knocked the Angel Gabriel out cold.

The girls and boys started wailing,

And mayhem ensued, it has to be told.

The head teacher appeared with bucket and mop,

Halting proceedings with a bilious wince.

That brought an end to my acting career,

And I've hated Christmas ever since!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Post Natal Depression

Post Natal Depression (or thank goodness Christmas is all over)

They’ve all gone back to work,

And the kids are back at school.

Here I am in the middle of all the mess,

Clearing up like a bloody fool.

And as I look around & survey the site,

In the fireplace there’s a fall of soot,

An empty sherry glass & mince-pie crumbs,

And a mark where Santa placed his foot.

The carrots we left for his reindeer,

Have been quite nibbled away,

But the droppings on the carpet,

I think is a price too high to pay.

There’s paper wrap & discarded boxes,

Where presents were pulled out in their haste,

Played with for half an hour,

Before joining the rest of the waste.

There’s food left over in the kitchen,

And I think I’m starting to droop.

If I have to eat one more leftover sprout,

Or face another bowl of turkey soup.

The Christmas tree is looking all forlorn,

As its needles drop upon the floor,

And get blown around the house,

Every time someone opens a door.

We’ve started our own recycling skip,

With empty bottles of every sort.

It’s not just the beer & the mixers,

But the gin, the vodka and port.

We’ve watched all of the Christmas specials

They put on the box this time of the year.

Shame they can’t do it the rest of the season,

Instead of the usual rubbish so drear.

We’ve sent home the old relatives

Those aged wonderful old dears.

Now it’s time to take down the greetings cards,

From people we’ve not seen in years.

We’ll take down the lights that cover the house.

Our neighbours think that we’re soft.

Yes, we’ll pack up the baubles & lights,

And put them all back in the loft.

The sparkle’s all gone from the occasion,

All the drinking & eating & that.

They’ve stopped playing Christmas records on the radio:

At least we can be thankful for that.

  

Now the shops are full of bargains,

The stuff they just couldn’t shift.

Now’s a good time to stock up for next year,

With every possible gift.

I know it’s been quite enjoyable at times,

But now that it’s over for another year,

I’m seeking to get some normality.

So I’ll see you – I’m off down the pub for a beer.

Then I’m off to the dump with the recycling,

But I won’t be coming back in a hurry.

I’m not looking forward to dinner -

It’s turkey & cranberry curry.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016 

Nights of Terror - Turkey Apocalypse

Nights Of Terror

It’s several days now since Christmas,

And the danger’s quite close at hand,

For the turkey’s carcase still lives here,

And great fear is stalking the land.

The great beast sits there in the fridge,

And has provided for several meals,

But its body continues to shed flesh -

It goes on and on – that’s how it feels!

The cold sandwiches with stuffing

Were acceptable on Christmas night,

But then the cold cuts on Boxing Day

Weren’t the most welcome sight.

And we just kept on carving and slicing,

Big slices of breast meat, and some of the leg,

But we need relief now from this poultry -

The children, poor mites, have started to beg.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have bought such a big bird,

Been more considered, in less of a hurry,

Then we wouldn’t have spent the next five days,

Eating so many portions of turkey curry.

We’ve had quite enough of it now,

The pleasure has really started to pall,

And even with bowls-full of turkey soup,

We still can’t get rid of it all!

There’s only the bones and skin that are left -

It’s a sight that makes us all queasy.

We’d really like to get rid of the thing,

But it’s a task that’s certainly not easy.

For it’s taken up residence in the fridge,

And at my conscience it worries and nips,

And now I’m starting to have nightmares -

Is this the start of a turkey apocalypse?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Interview For Job Of Santa Claus

Interview For Job Of Santa Claus

Welcome to our store, dear gentlemen,

If you could please form an orderly queue.

We’ve lots of interviews scheduled,

But we’ll get round to talk to all of you.

Please hand in your Curricu-Claus Vitae,

As you enter the room through the doors,

And we’ll get on with the process

Of picking this Christmas’s Santa Claus.

Of course there’ll be lots of questions,

We have to be careful who we employ,

For we’ve found it’s not just anyone,

That can spread tidings of comfort and joy.

The job description’s a bit wider this year,

As the recession continues to bite:

We’re expecting much more from our Santa -

We’re determined to get our choice right.

So there’ll be lots of questions to answer,

As we try to get right to the root,

Of who’s the very best candidate,

And before we hand over the fat suit.

For example: do you have experience

Of being seated for many long hours?

Are you possessed of rosy-cheekedness?

And is cheerfulness within your powers?

It’s more than just being good with children,

And dealing with all those little cuties,

For you’ll have to muck out the reindeer,

And carry out Elf liaison duties.

You’ll be working with height-challenged workers,

Cos Elf & Safety’s a modern-day fact,

And seasonal work isn’t much of a perk,

For it’s only a limited contract.

You’ll need “Toddler Expectation Management”,

Cos some of their parents can be real rough!

Do you have a current sleigh-driving licence?

Otherwise this role’s gonna be real tough.

For, dealing with demanding children,

You must be brave and not be a-feared.

Do you have enough roly-poly-ness,

And do you think you could grow your own beard?

  

We’ll need your face crinkling, and your eyes twinkling,

A constant yo-ho-ho you’ll have to do.

You can’t have a bad back, if you’re to carry that sack,

And do red-and-white colours suit you?

You’ll be part of the retail experience,

Thus extracting the parental dime,

And there’s through-put targets to be met,

So each child gets limited knee-time.

You’ve got to be endlessly cheerful,

But work-place sobriety  is our motto -

You can’t go out and get yourself beer-full -

Nobody gets blotto in our grotto!

Cos though there’s many temptations,

From all the bottles and beer barrels,

You’ll have to find another way to block out

The endless loop-tape of Christmas carols.

They say “don’t work with animals and children” -

Normally we’d endorse this as a rule,

But if one of you doesn’t take this job,

Nobody’s gonna have much of a Yule.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

How We Know It's Nearly Christmas

How We Know It’s Nearly Christmas

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

Advent calendars and all of that -

The turkeys are getting very nervous,

And the ducks and geese are getting fat.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

Sudden sightings of Santa and his pals,

In every shop and department store,

And sightings of elves walking round the malls.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

Markets flooded with celebrity tomes,

Men disappearing into their lofts,

And putting light-bulbs on the outside of homes.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

A frantic, nervous spirit intervenes,

And though the weather’s overcast and grey,

The store displays show only snowy scenes.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

There’s a wealth of special treats and sights,

A sudden burst of German markets,

And D-List celebs switching on a few lights.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

For the non-religious it’s slim pickings,

A bizarre interest in ghost stories,

And everything dressed up to look like Dickens!

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

Transport timetables fall into a mess:

They’re offering special bargains,

And there’s a discount sale at DFS!

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

We’re told that children are all a-glow,

There’s a nasty outbreak of tinsel,

And everything’s covered up in fake snow.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

Of comfort and joy there must be tiding,

We’re on constant loop tapes of Slade,

And men called Noel are going in to hiding.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

There’s lots false jollity and ho-ho-ho,

There’s satsumas and brazil nuts everywhere,

A man dressed as Santa sits in his grotto.

  

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

TV channels devoted to hard-sell,

Closing and posting times are all different,

Every ad is accompanied by sleigh-bells.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

We’re all exhorted to be of good cheer,

Everyone’s searching for good presents,

And check-out girls wear reindeer headgear.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

Trees on the pavement, discounted games,

Book early for your Summer holiday,

And men wearing make-up, dressed up as dames.

How we know it’s nearly Christmas?

The Marketing machine’s telling its tale.

Anyway – I’m off round to Tesco’s:

Their Easter eggs have just gone on sale.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Icing On The Cake

The Icing On The Cake

It was Christmas Eve in the kitchen,

Everything prepared, everything nice.

The turkey was stuffed and the veggies peeled,

So there was only the cake left to ice.

But I’d left it to the last minute,

And there wasn’t time to nip to the shop.

It was easy enough to make icing,

But nothing to decorate the top.

So my husband went out to his shed,

To see what he might be able to find,

And came back with a jar of ball-bearings,

Saying: “who’s to know? Nobody will mind.”

So I washed them and polished them bright,

Though it was all a bit of a fiddle,

And I placed them right round the edges,

With a sprig of holly in the middle.

Well, it looked proper champion,

With the large silver balls catching the light.

When my mother-in-law came the next day,

She’d be bound to admire the sight.

Well, Christmas Day came, and lovely it was,

We had our dinner, and a good drink,

Then mother-in-law eyed up the cake,

And said: “I’ll have a piece of that I think”.

So we both looked, and smothered a smile,

And with a knife I cut her a large slice.

She ate it up quickly and smacked her lips,

Saying: “that was really quite nice!”

“I’ll have another piece if you please!”

And that disappeared as fast as the first,

And then we all had a few more drinks,

As we’d all developed a thirst.

At this stage we were all stuffed to the gills.

The fire in the grate had burned down quite low,

So mother-in-law picked up the poker,

To stir it around and build up a glow.

Now we’d been eating and drinking all day:

Stuffing, and sprouts, and peas that were tinned,

And what with the turkey and the beer,

Well, it were bound to give the girl wind.

  

As she leaned and bent herself forward,

And, bearing in mind that she were quite fat,

She farted out bearings with incredible force,

And loudly assassinated the cat.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A New Christmas Carol

A New Christmas Carol

Christmas comes but once a year,

So let’s thank the Lord for that.

The turkeys are becoming nervous,

And the geese are getting fat.

There’s fake snow everywhere,

And decorations that look tired.

Whilst down at the Job Centre

Some Santas are getting hired.

For it’s that season of good cheer,

With yuletide adverts day & night,

But with early carol-singers

It’s hard to get a Silent Night.

The season starts sooner every year:

In the shops they’re already selling holly.

But with all these xmas jingles about,

I’m finding it hard to keep things jolly.

In the gloomy shopping precinct,

They’ve put up the civic lights.

But it’s hard to start getting all yo-ho-ho,

When there’s still some weeks till holy night.

And in the shops they’ve got yuletide offers,

With Santa sitting in his grotto,

Selling booze at half the price,

With the promise that we’ll all get blotto.

With new ideas for Christmas gifts,

Re-packaging of every blessed thing,

And people buying presents -

Hark! - the herald cash-tills sing.

But Yule can be a lonely time,

Especially for those still single,

Serving to remind them of their state,

With every irritating jingle.

TV adverts showing happy families,

Like some cosy scene in Dickens,

Gathered round a roaring fire,

Whilst we shop online like headless chickens.

Once in Bristol’s Royal City,

You could hear a festive carol.

The prices have gone up till January:

They’ve got us over a barrel.

So deck the halls with boughs of holly,

And ding-dong merrily on high.

When you’ve spent more than you can afford,

It’s getting time to question why.

Good King Wenceslas didn’t have to go shopping,

Even on the Feast of Stephen.

So why do we have to try so hard,

When we’re fighting to break even?

  

It’s all got very mixed up these days:

I think there’s quite a danger

Of having three TV pundits

Voting to put reindeer in the manger.

You can’t make a snowman out of rain or sleet,

Nor find three wise men to employ.

There’s no good reason to be cheerful,

Nothing to bring tidings of comfort & joy.

God rest ye merry gentlemen,

But you know it’s not very funny.

It’s no longer a celebration,

It’s just about the money.

And “do they know it’s Christmas?”

Is a song you’ll probably sing.

But it’s not just about Africa

Do we really know what we’re doing?

But I suppose I should have greater cheer,

And stop with all this huffing,

So now I’ll just say “Bah humbug!”

And “could you pass the stuffing?”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Crash In The Woods

A Crash In The Woods

Sometime late, deep in the middle of the night,

Something woke me from slumber’s deep delight:

A whoosh, a wallop, a screech and a big loud bang,

Thunder and lightning, and an almighty clang,

Then a pause, silence, almost nothing at all,

Followed by an explosion, a boom, a fireball -

It sounded like the crash of an airplane,

Crack, then all quiet, then crack all over again.

I ran to the window, and looked into the dark -

It was cold, and starlit, and all of that lark.

It was hard to make out, I couldn’t see all that good,

But it seemed as if something had come down in the wood,

Something was burning, a great tower of flame -

I needed to get out there, this wasn’t no game,

So I pulled on my clothes, and made for the scene -

It was an emergency, you know what I mean?

The site of the accident was pretty easy to find,

A scene of destruction of every possible kind.

It was hard to know where I should start,

But in the midst was what remained of a cart,

Blown to bits, scattered every which way,

What could only be described as the remains of a sleigh,

With smoking and burning bits of debris -

A helluva smash had occurred, it was easy to see.

The bloke that had been driving was stuck up a tree,

And from his red & white outfit he struggled to get free,

So I helped to get him down, along with his sack.

His face and beard were all burnt nearly black,

He smouldered and sizzled, he was in a right state

Berating his rotten luck and cursing his fate,

His looks and his temper were really not sweet,

And his language was far too foul to repeat.

There was fear and panic written all over his face,

And barbecued reindeer running all over the place,

There were parcels and packages spread all about,

And small green elves, crying, and starting to shout -

A small-scale disaster so deep in the woods,

Meant that Santa would fail to deliver his goods,

So I asked if there was anything I could possibly do,

To which Santa replied “I think I’m buggered, don’t you?”

I thought he was worried about the waiting girls and boys,

If he didn’t turn up at their houses to deliver their toys,

But he said that was the least of his worries,

It was bound to happen to a chap that always hurries.
He’d be in big trouble with the delivery firm -

They’d be sure to bring his contract to term:

To his sacking this situation was obviously leading,

And the police’d figure out he’d been speeding.

   

“It’s this zero-hours contract that’s to blame:

Too many deliveries to make – it’s a loser’s game!

I’ve got to do every blessed thing, all in one day,

And all they give me is eight-reindeer-power sleigh!

It’s relentless, and there’s no breaks for meals!

It’s simply awful – you’ve no idea how it feels!

Now they’re gonna catch me all bang to rights,

I just knew it would happen one of these Christmas nights!”

I felt sorry for him – he was pitiful and very forlorn,

And I couldn’t do much to help him, but I was torn -

He was a victim of our modern capitalist culture,

Working for a firm that was an asset-stripping vulture,

So I helped him round up the reindeer and the elves,

Told them to grab what they wanted, just help themselves,

Then I took him back to my place that was close by,

And gave him a sherry and a mince pie.

Now I’m not relating all this just for some fun,

But don’t worry – my tale’s almost over and done,

There’s a happy ending to this miserable verse!

You know – things could have been much worse –

They cleared up the crash, and Santa’s out on probation.

He took it easy for a while, then had a vacation,

Got himself sorted out and jumped back on the horse,

And now he’s a delivery driver for ParcelForce!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Joy of Christmas

The Joy of Christmas

It’s that festive time of year again

For pouring your cash straight down the drain

When the Western portion of humanity

Seems to engage in a temporary insanity

Firstly, what’s all this with the “mulled” wine?

It just spoils a drink that was perfectly fine

And I find myself wondering, as an outsider

Why would you want to bugger up cider?

But if you want to know how badly I really feel

Let’s discuss that big 6000 calorie meal

The one where your trousers start off perfectly loose

Before gorging on large portions of turkey or goose

The bird’s probably dry and overcooked

But it’s the veggies that cannot be overlooked

Because – and of this there can be no doubt –

The worst aspect is the wind of the sprout

Plates overloaded with parsnips and peas

And stuffing and roasties, if you please,

With lashings and lashings of giblet gravy

Enough for floating the whole British navy.

Choosing the festive wardrobe is incredibly tough

And, as if wearing Christmas jumpers weren’t stupid enough

By sporting over-sized ill-fitting paper hats

We make ourselves look like a right set of twats

And let’s discuss something else that gets on my knackers,

And that’s the nonsense of pulling crackers

They’re a complete waste of anyone’s money

And jokes – ever had one that was funny?

Then there’s the usual high-pitched cry

Who let the steaming pan boil itself dry?

And onto the table the cannon-ball’s thudding

Introducing itself as a Christmas pudding.

And we’re all treated to the tedious sight

Of dad failing to get the brandy to light

Using matches, his lighter, and whatever he can

So mum warms the stuff up in a pan

This raises what’s known as the liquid’s flashpoint

The resulting conflagration will then anoint

All of us with a home-made version of napalm

Taking ages before the restoration of calm

  

Then, though we’re already well replete

We’ll still tuck in to several more treats

When your belly’s not as big as your eyes

There’s nuts, dates, satsumas and mince pies!

Topped off with some beer or some shandy

Or a nice drop of port or some brandy

And when with these foodstuffs you’ve sinned

There follows the gaseous attack of the wind

There’s mess everywhere – that’s easy to see

And thousands of needles that fall from the tree

The pile of presents that gently mocks

Meaning you’ve been bought thirteen pairs of socks

Everyone’s asleep through the Queen’s speech

And fractious children are starting to screech

And as the booze through the day starts biting

The in-laws and out-laws fall to their fighting.

Oh who will get me out of this version of hell?

When will I start again to feel well?

And there’s one thing more that’s worse I can say –

We’ve got to do it all again – on Boxing Day!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016