Fracking Hell

Fracking Hell

The search for cheap energy goes on,

A quest that’s certainly got my backing,

But now they’ve come up with a new wheeze,

That involves a fine process called fracking.

Now I’m not so sure this is a good ploy -

Bad consequences may come to pass,

As they begin to hack open the Earth,

In the relentless pursuit of cheap gas.

They dig down deep into the planet,

Seeking deposits that lie under the ground,

Pumping in chemicals under great pressure,

Forcing out the shale gas that they’ve found.

Now this scheme sounds too good to be true.

And there’s no environmental free ride -

There’s bound to be a cost to be paid somewhere,

And we should consider the possible down-side.

There’s arguments and evidence on both sides,

The scientists are not sure how they should guide us,

But the energy firms frack on regardless,

Of the strong feelings that divide us.

Cuadrilla seem to be riding rough-shod

Over protests, and giving no quarter,

But how do we know what goes on beneath?

And that they’re not polluting the water?

And what about earth-tremors we’re feeling?

Is it an earthquake they’ve left in their wake?

With their drilling, and splitting, and pumping,

Is it more than the geology can take?

And isn’t fossil fuels all over again?

Like the coal and oil story repeated,

Putting off the inevitable day,

When the resource will be finally depleted?

We can’t go on like this forever,

Stealing from future generations,

When the planet is finally exhausted,

And goes on to Emergency Stations.

  

No, I’m afraid that this fracking,

This cracking and hacking,

The future it’s hijacking,

And the gas that it’s ransacking,

Cannot continue.

It’s them, not the Earth, we should send packing,

The exploiters we should be sacking,

And looking what else we could do.

We must cease all the toil,

Going on under the soil,

Stop making the ground boil,

And the landscape to despoil.

This breaking and taking can’t last for ever:

Fracking’s just more exploitation.

I’m not sure what it’s doing to the planet,

But it’s clearly splitting the nation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Afternoon in Imber

Afternoon In Imber

The path peters into nothing

Disappears into tangled undergrowth

Overgrown and testament to long neglect

Towards the shattered shells of houses

Their windows standing empty

Gouged eye-sockets stare unblinking

Towards the tiny church

Its dark, crumbling stones

Preserve still the fabric of a building

Its dark tower sheltering bells un-rung

No longer consecrated

Its congregation long departed

The sparseness of the village street

Deserted and unkempt

Eerily quiet in mid-afternoon

Once peopled long ago

Before the khaki-clad Army came

Ushering them quickly away

A forced evacuation

To leave a realistic playground

Where they could practice combat

Throw some ordnance around

Unopposed and unobserved

Deep within this hidden fold

Did we see the faces of the missing

Peering round the corner

Where the bakery used to stand?

And are there ghosts among the grass

Picking their way between the holes

Dug out by the detonations?

And are there any spirits here

Walking between the wire and the fences?

And are there any still alive

Of those displaced

Who remember Imber as it was

And might return one day

To dwell here once again?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Fatberg

Fatberg

We got the emergency call at night,

And we headed out there at first light

He’d said “there seems to be a blockage I think –

We were alerted by the terrible stink”.

Our brave men soon climbed under the ground,

And were frankly amazed at what they soon found:

The sewage had swelled up into a great ball,

Went right up to the ceiling and wall-to-wall.

It was the biggest obstruction we’d seen,

And to tackle it, nobody was keen.

It looked like the worst project from hell,

And that doesn’t even cover the smell.

We named it the fatberg – just for a joke -

But it weren’t funny when we started to poke,

To discover of what it was made,

And tried to dislodge it with a sharp spade.

It consisted of fat and congealed grease,

Then wetwipes and nappies were the next piece.

Sanitary towels was one of the thirds,

And the rest was an assortment of turds.

You see, people go to the loo in a rush,

And give not a care to whatever they flush.

It’s a general waste disposal can:

They tend to forget once it’s gone down the pan.

But I digress, for disposal was now the task.

How did we shift it? I’m hearing you ask.

Well, lend an ear and don’t be too gobby,

And I’ll tell you how we shifted that jobbie.

The thing was enormous that was for sure:

We had to get on top to effect a cure.

A man had to ascend, using crampons,

And ropes to clamber over the tampons.

We pulled and tugged it from the crown,

And even considered melting it down.

We used hammers and drills of all types,

And attacked it with axes and hosepipes.

The thing wouldn’t yield, resisted the assault.

We tried everything, but it wasn’t our fault,

And we realised the thing was stuck tight,

So then we resorted to dynamite.

  

It was only meant to be a small blast,

But once we’d started, the die it was cast.

We weren’t sure how far off we should walk,

But it was like a bottle blowing its cork.

You see the sewer’s narrow like a funnel,

So all of the debris shot down the tunnel.

We were in the way – that’s the truth of it;

Not surprising that we got covered in shit.

We were well messy, if you get my drift,

But at least it was in blocks we could shift.

As a workforce we looked sad and sorry,

But we loaded it all up on a lorry.

So next time you think you might go for a piss,

Listen closely and reflect upon this:

It’s a nice moral I think that you’ll find:

Out of sight ain’t the same as out of mind.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Zero Hour

Zero Hour

I’m the man that keeps the country going,

I’m a flexible little hero:

I work for every Corporation,

But my contract says only zero.

The company controls everything I do:

In fact they make my life impossibly hard.

I’d really like to argue with them,

But they’re holding every card.

They demand to command my loyalty,

And would like to have my gratitude,

But I need the minimum wage they’re paying,

If I’m to pay for fuel and food.

I stack your supermarket shelves,

With cornflakes, baked beans and cans of beer-o,

And many other things I can’t afford,

But they still treat me like a zero.

Shifts are week-to-week and month-to-month:

I never know when there’ll be some work -

I’ve no sick-time off and there’s a pay-freeze:

In fact they treat me like a jerk.

Some folks call it exploitation -

That’s only one expression I’ve heard.

They have all the powers over my hours,

So slavery’s probably a better word.

I get no holidays that are paid for,

But I’m meant to be of good cheer-o.

My open contract means I can be sacked:

I’m not a person, merely a zero.

I serve out your burgers and your fries,

Yet I’m usually totally ignored:

The smell of the grease will never cease -

All this for so little reward.

I can’t complain or blow the whistle,

They’d just turn round and laugh,

And next week there’d be no hours to work

I’d no longer be part of the staff.

I clean your offices all through the night,

Using chemicals – I’ve got all the gear-o:

That’s how I labour, me and my neighbour:

I’m just a resource, I’m just a zero.

   

There’s nowt I can do – it’s Catch-22,

And it eats away at your soul:

You just can’t beat The Company,

They’ve got me completely under control.

I’m no longer a person, I’m a mere cipher,

They’ve made my life a complete bitch:

They only call me when they want me,

As if I’ve got some sort of on/off switch.

It’s a bind or a devil’s bargain,

And I’m reduced to living in fear-o:

This is the curse of modern commerce -

No longer a human, but a mere zero.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Burger Anyone?

Burger Anyone?

Roll up, roll up, come see what they’ve got,

Come to the front and take up your seat -

It’s time for a taste of their new burger,

And to see if it’s anything like meat!

They’ve used the best of technology

To create this small in vitro patty.

Research in advanced forms of biology,

And the result, they think, looks quite natty.

It was all grown in the test-tube,

From a culture of harvested stem-cells.

They had a great pile, and kept them all sterile,

In a mix of antibiotics and gels.

And when they had enough to get hold of,

They added flavourings to give it some taste,

And colourings and other additives,

To produce a pink, soft-textured paste.

They moulded it and pressed it into its shape,

Until it was ready for them to bake:

Just the one, single burger, you know,

That cost two hundred thousand to make.

The problem is - it don’t seem too appetizing,

Which could be a bit of an issue -

They need to add some fat and some blood,

And a bit more connective tissue.

Nor does it look very attractive,

Despite all the science that’s occurred:

It’s small, and wrinkled and brown,

With every appearance of a small turd.

But they have to get over that drawback,

To produce something less dingy and curled,

And think of the nutritional benefits ,

If we are ever going to feed the World.

We’ve moved from science-fiction to fact,

But we have to think through its release,

Cos tho’ half the planet seems to be starving,

The other half seems to be obese.

Is technology really the answer here?

Don’t we need nation to speak unto nation?

To sort out production and distribution,

More than this Frankenstein creation?

  

Do we really want food that’s grown in a lab?

Is that really what we would wish?

By men in white coats with their clipboards,

Staring intently at a Petrie dish?

So next time you’re pining for protein,

And you’re panting for something that’s bovine,

Don’t be wishing away animals and farms -

Just think about how you’d like to dine.

Of course you can take a different track,

By doing something that’s novel and edgy:

Just give up eating meat altogether,

And accept it’s time to turn veggie.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Half-way There

Half-way There

I confess it brought me up short

When I was forced to stop

And think hard about it

But I suppose I should not have been surprised

That even at my modest middle age

I was more than half-way along

Beyond some unnoticed landmark

Some signpost in the fog

Already past the highest peak

And The Great Divide

How many more heartbeats

To pump the blood along?

How many more times to fill the lungs

Or exhale once again?

To blink, to dream, to sleep?

And is the onward journey

The steps that still remain

On a gentle downhill slope

Towards a comfortable night

Where I can take my rest?

Or more a rapid tumble downwards

A sudden undignified descent

Of a craggy hillside full of stones

Falling, tumbling ever-faster

Towards a sudden painful end?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

When I'm Runnin' Windows

When I’m Running Windows

Now I go runnin’ Windows

To earn an honest bob
For a home-based worker

It helps me in my job

Now it's a job that just suits me
But you’d be just as mad as me
If you could see what I can see
When I'm runnin’ Windows

The software runs at quite a dash
And it costs me lots of cash
But it always seems to crash
When I'm runnin' Windows

In my profession I'll work hard
And I'll never stop
I'll beat this blinkin’ system
Even if I have to drop

I’ve got my office up in the loft
It’s not the dust that makes me cough
It’s just me cursin’ Microsoft
When I'm runnin Windows

There’s some functions that I lack
Seems I need an upgrade pack
Think I’ll get myself a Mac
When I'm runnin’ Windows

The Operatin’ System’s poor
I’d like to show it to the door
Stop me rollin’ on the floor
When I'm runnin’ Windows

In my profession I'll work hard
And I'll never stop
I'll beat this blinkin’ system
Even if I have to drop

These programs I simply hates
And now I’ve lost all my mates
It’s all because of that Bill Gates
When I'm runnin' Windows

------ banjo ------

Outlook is built to tire us
No-one would ever hire us
Best way to spread a virus
When I'm runnin' Windows

Excel’s a bugger to run
It takes away all the fun
And the sums are never done
When I'm runnin' Windows

In my profession I'll work hard

And I'll never stop
I'll beat this blinkin’ system
Even if I have to drop

The software’s slow and not brisk
Why would I want to take the risk?
It might mangle my hard disk
When I'm runnin’ Windows

Now they’re sellin’ Windows Eight

It’s put me into quite a state

It’s the version I love to hate

When I’m runnin’ Windows!

When I'm runnin’ Windows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Peach Knickerbocker Glory

Recipe for: PEACH KNICKERBOCKER GLORY

Ingredients:

• 300g raspberries, or other soft fruit
• 50g caster sugar
• 200ml double cream
• 4 ripe peaches or nectarines, halved & stones removed
• 8 scoops good quality ice-cream
• Handful flaked almonds

 Method:

1. blitz the raspberries with half the sugar & a splash of water to make a fruit sauce, and tip into a bowl
2. in a separate bowl whisk the cream with the remaining sugar until stiff & spoonable
3. thinly slice the peaches/ nectarines
4. in tall sundae glasses, layer the sliced peaches, the raspberries & the raspberry sauce
5. top each glass with two scoops of ice cream, then some whipped cream, then a few flaked almonds

 What else you need to know:

1. if you can’t get raspberries, you can use jams or jellies or honeys made with damsons, plums or red/ black-currants, provided it’s of a runny, sauce consistency

Manopause

Manopause

You can see I’m not the youngest of men,

And getting older’s one of Nature’s laws,

But I was amazed to find that this state,

Has a name – and it’s the Andropause!

I thought “bloody hell! It’s named after me!”

And apparently it happens to males,

So here I am in my (ahem) early fifties,

Hanging on to youth by my finger-nails!

I thought I’d better get on and take action,

To counter the loss of libido and sterility,

Between my mid-life and Alzheimers,

And to get back some of my virility.

Now I’m a Man Behaving Badly,

Re-stating what it is to be male -

I’ve started learning guitar and the uke,

And I’m growing my hair for a pony-tail.

The mountain-bike is order,

And, cos I don’t want to look like a Charley

I’m going to get me a motor-bike,

Which, of course, will be a Harley.

That’s what I’ll ride in good weather,

But I’ll need something cooler of course,

So I’ve been round to the dealers,

I’ll soon take delivery of my new Porsche.

I’m having my ear piercing tomorrow,

To show you all that I’m one of the few

And, to complete the picture, next week,

I’m going in for my very first tattoo.

Then I’ll wear my baseball cap with pride,

Pulling it down low over my eyelids.

I might have to have some work done there,

But I’m determined to get down with the kids.

You see it’s not all testosterone and Viagra,

And I say this without any compunction,

There’s more ways than hormone treatment

To ward off erectile dysfunction.

No – the hot flushes and flashes,

The irritability and sterility can wait -

There’s a lot more to be worried about,

Such as the state of my prostate.

  

I may be losing my hair and my marbles,

Gradual decline may be a part of the story,

But I’m determined to hang on to my manhood,

And go out in a grand blaze of glory.

You see some of it may be biological,

But it’s psychological, to tell you the truth,

I’m a grumpy old man, sporting a fake tan,

And I’m trying to hang on to my youth.

So you can all look at me and laugh,

As you sit there with your slack jaws,

But I won’t be the one who’s declining -

I’m off to defeat the Manopause.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Horseshoe

Horseshoe

The spade bit harshly through the surface

Turning back the earth-dry crust

Revealing a peatier blackness beneath

The gash growing wider as I worked the ground

I hit the damned thing hard enough

A sudden clang of metal hitting metal

A solid and unyielding object

Jarring wrist and knee

Provoking curses

Dirt-encrusted, I pulled it up

Disengaged it from the soil

That had clasped it close interred

Abandoned, or lost, long ago

The jagged, rusted surface harsh against my fingers

Bent out of shape, nail-impaled

The holes clogged and solid

Yet still a horseshoe

And I thought about the foot that had held it

The living flesh upon the hoof

The toe, the quarter, the heel

The weight borne upon the limb

The tendons, ligaments and tissues

The keratin structure that had met the metal

The cornified material that meant that man

Might ride upon his back

Or give him the grip required

To let him pull the cart or plough

And how he must have worked upon this ground

Toiled to earn his daily oats

And I saw the farrier in the blacksmith’s yard

The hot-bellowed forge-fire behind him

The anvil, the pincers and the hammer

The nippers and the knife

The clincher and the rasp

His protective leather apron

Spread between his legs

And the sweat beaded upon his brow

The spread of his mighty shoulders

As he sought to pull the horse

To where he wanted him

But now this long-buried artefact

This damaged, crumpled crescent

Is but a modern curiosity

Residue of a different world

An age of hard rustic labour

An old talismanic, folkloric object

That might symbolise good luck

Or at least provide a welcome break

From the back-breaking task of digging

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Watchers Of The Skies

Watchers Of The Skies

Someone, somewhere wants to know

What we’re getting up to

Our access, our codes and security

Our secrets and confidences

The bits and the bytes and the bleeps

The residue that gives us away

Tracking us through online DNA

To follow the digital trail

Of our electronic footprints

Through the blizzard of data

They’re tapping and taping

Wireless communications

Intercepting the signals

Listening to the chaff and the chatter

Clocking our clicks

Scraping our screens

And capturing our keystrokes

Deep-mining the datasets

Following our every move

Wherever we go

Our emails and calls

Our texts and our tweets

Interested in whatever we do

Whatever we’re looking at

Whichever the websites

And whoever we’re talking to

And who are these spooks and these spies

In their dubious agencies

And non-existent departments

Focusing their prism upon our lives

With their online surveillance?

What is the intelligence they seek?

The knowledge they need to keep us all safe?

The mandate they work to?

And who are the masters they answer to

So unaccountable and unreachable?

Are these the same people

Who seek to calm us with platitudes

And tell us that we have nothing to fear?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Sunday 12th March 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 12^th March 2017

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

                                                    

1.      Serious faces in the Parish Council on Thursday when the Treasurer, Phil ‘Spreadsheet’ Hamandeggs, presented his first annual budget to the Council.  There were cries of disMay when he announced that there was only £3.27p on deposit at the Bromham Bank.  New spending plans, including the High Speed Tractor Route (HS2), and the need to save up a bit of cash in case the withdrawal from Wiltshire Council costs a lot more than everybody had thought, meant that the self-employed carrot-pickers would have to pay higher tractor taxes.  The treasurer explained, despite howls of anguish from a dog that had got its foot caught in a door, that he was merely levelling the picking field between the self-employed, the employed, and those random individuals who just picked a few carrots for their tea when they happened to be walking past the fields.

2.      And there was outrage on Friday when that woman who lives in the big house on the High Street officially opened the Memorial to commemorate those who lost their lives in Parsnip Wars of 1985 and the Brassica Battles of the 1990s.  Several members of the bereaved families had not been invited (a situation described as “absolutely courgettes” by one of their number).  There was also an outbreak of protesters throwing dirty cauliflower in protest against the presence of the ex-leader of the Parish Council, Toady Bleugh, a man that many still hold responsible for sending many local young men to an early death in the picking fields.

3.      For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Hesitation

Hestitation

Some chaps find it hard to speak straight:

Their listeners just have to wait.

Their speech is a mess,

They start to digress,

Then it’s all stop, start and…. hesitate.

I don’t think it’s cos they’re stupid or dumb,

More like their minds have simply turned numb.

They become all unsure,

It’s so hard to endure,

When all they can come up with is ……“um”.

This problem can make them feel sick,

As they battle with their verbal tic.

They might come out with an …..“ah”,

And they don’t get very far,

I’m sorry – I’m not taking the mick!

Don’t mock – it could happen to you, man -

Bet you wouldn’t know what to do, man.

So don’t be uncertain,

Nor go for a burton,

After all – they say “to ‘er is human”.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Gooseberry & Elderflower Semifreddo

Recipe for: GOOSEBERRY & ELDERFLOWER SEMIFREDDO

Ingredients:

• 100g blanched whole almonds
• 650g gooseberries, topped & tailed
• 125g golden caster sugar
• 100ml elderflower cordial
• 2 eggs separated
• 300ml double cream

 Method:

1. chill an 800ml serving dish in the freezer (round is OK, but a loaf-tin is better)
2. preheat the oven to 190C/ 175C fan/ gas 5
3. toast the almonds on a baking tray for 10 minutes, shaking half-way through.  When they are done, chop roughly
4. meanwhile cook the gooseberries – put them in a pan with 75g of the sugar & 2 tblsps of water.  Simmer briefly, just enough to dissolve the sugar and to soften the berries, whilst leaving them whole
5. stir in the elderflower cordial, then split into two bowls.  Leave one lot whole, and puree the other lot with a blender.  Set both aside to cool.
6. take three bowls:
1. in the first whisk the egg yolks with the remaining 50g sugar
2. in the second whisk the cream until it forms soft peaks
3. in the third whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until they form stiff peaks
7. in a large bowl combine the cooled puree and egg-yolk mix
8. fold in the whipped cream, then the egg whites and finally the chopped nuts
9. pour the whole lot into the chilled dish, cover with clingfilm, and freeze for at least 4 hours, but preferably longer or overnight
10. to serve: remove from freezer 20 minutes before eating to soften a little.  Cut a wedge or slice for each serving, then spoon over some of the reserved whole gooseberries

 What else you need to know:

1. this will keep in the freezer OK for days, but keep it covered to prevent a build-up of ice-crystals
2. it does go rock-hard, so some time to melt a little before cutting is a good idea
3. the loaf shape is better, as it’s easier to cut a slice off one end, rather than a round cake-shape
4. the fruit content can be changed completely e.g. to raspberries

Wether (spoons) Or Not

Wether(spoons) or Not

To the weary traveller who turns up at night,

Through the gloom there’s beckoning light,

My hostelries are a welcoming sight.

Push past my bouncers of great height,

And after you’ve had a meal or a light bite,

You can get yourself as high as a kite,

And (in Trowbridge) involved in a fight!

Yes – come Hell or High Noon,

I’m your Mister Wetherspoon.

I’m there on every High Street,

In every town and great city,

And some occupy elegant buildings,

And others that are far less than pretty.

My floor-coverings are sticky and gritty,

And some are positively shitty,

But you don’t need much in the kitty,

To buy drinks that are cloudy and bitty,

And though our menus attempt be witty,

You’ll be served by a barmaid who’s snitty,

Or a youth who’s positively zitty -

I might employ the lowliest goon,

But I’m still your Mister Wetherspoon.

So all hail my family-friendly chain,

A calm refuge that’s out of the rain,

My all-day serving meal deals,

Where grease on the tables congeals,

My establishment for the crap-lager man,

That sells alcohol as cheap as it can,

But my lurid advertising never fails,

To offer a wide range of ciders and ales.

For the all-day drinker it’s life’s greatest boon,

To have a house named Wetherspoon.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Ten A Day

Ten A Day

I like to count myself an upright citizen,

Conscientious in all I do and say,

To follow the rules and the guidelines,

To live my life in an exemplary way.

I always look before I leap,

To make sure that I thrive.

I make sure that I fasten my seat-belt.

And I never drink if I drive.

I wait for the green man before starting to cross,

And always give up my seat on the bus,

But this latest health advice is hard to take,

And it’s left me totally non-plussed.

See - I try to eat a balanced diet,

Avoiding too much saturated fat,

Taking in me nutrients and vitamins,

The carbs and the protein and all that.

But how do I cope with this new guidance?

Stop my nerves from starting to fray,

To intake all ten of these portions,

When I’m already struggling with my five a day?

There’s only so many veggies and fruits,

That one man can be expected to take,

Only so many different ways to eat,

Only so many sacrifices that he can make.

I’ve tried chopping them up, and stir-frying,

Baking them, boiling them and steaming,

Liquidising, juicing and spiralising,

I’ve drunk smoothies till I’m ready for screaming.

Where do people find enough time to do this?

To force that much down without a fight?

Who’s got this kind of digestion?

To say nothing of the requisite appetite?

Now I don’t mean to sound indelicate,

But whether fresh, frozen or tinned,

Vegetables do have certain qualities,

And roughage like that just creates wind.

So I’m off to the pub for a few pints -

I think I’ve still got time if I hurry.

All this worry’s making me hungry,

So I might have to go for a curry!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Toast Rack

Toast Rack

Breakfast’s the laziest meal of the day,

A quite casual repast as a rule -
It’s not something so organised

That you need to watch the toast cool.

No - straight from the toaster and onto the plate,

Horizontal and any which way -

Whack on the butter and marmalade:

A sloppy approach to the start of the day.

The idea of it all in a line,

All vertical and serried in ranks,

It’s just too orderly for my taste,

We don’t need it on parade – no thanks!

Life’s too regimented as it is,

Without starting the day so formal,

So keep the toast-rack in the cupboard,

Chill out, and carry on just as normal!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

An Angel On The Bus

An Angel On The Bus

We were getting worried about Grandma,

A widow, she’d long been left all alone,

She was getting more and more forgetful,

She seemed to be in a world of her own.

But she was a determined old lady -

We didn’t want her being put out to grass.

Then one day a new vista opened up,

When she got hold of her first bus pass.

She took to it like a duck to the water,

She became known as the “Off-peak Rover”;

Soon she was a frequent traveller,

And used it to voyage about all over.

Her confidence picked up, we noticed,

And she became increasingly keen.

When we asked her to tell us about it,

Her features became calm and serene.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve had an encounter,

About which it’s not seemly to boast,

But on the Ninety-Seven last week,

I ran into one of the Heavenly Host.”

Now we thought this was pretty unlikely,

And knew that Grandma was liable

To be somewhat over-impressed,

By things she’d read in the Bible.

We asked her what she was talking about,

What on earth was making her so happy,

And, suspecting that we doubted her word,

She became all defensive and snappy.

She said she’d seen an Angel on the bus,

A Close Encounter, of the heavenly kind,

He was just sitting there all on his own,

And she’d been so near, on the seat just behind.

She could have reached out and touched him;

To his collar and the hairs on his neck,

And she trembled in her joy and elation,

As she sat there, high up on the top deck.

His figure was picked out in silhouette,

And about him there was a sunny aura,

At least that’s how it looked at the time,

As she’d remarked to her friend Dora.

  

He had a special and ghostly presence,

His aroma made her feel slightly faint,

But there was one further thing that clinched it,

The proof that he was truly a saint.

She was a woman of faith and belief,

She didn’t need to have her flames fanned,

But it was right there in front of her,

Truly this Angel sat at God’s right hand.

She knew that she would have missed this vision,

If she’d been travelling by cycle

But there it was clearly, on the label,

In bold, curly letters – “Saint Michael”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 5th March 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 5^th March 2017

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

                                                    

1.      Red faces all round at last Sunday’s BAFTA (Bromham Area Farming and Tractor Awards) ceremony when the name of the wrong vegetable was announced as the winner.  The crew of “Parsnip Pickers” were already half-way through their acceptance speeches before the error was discovered, and the award for Best Field Vegetable went to the “Carrot Collective”.  An investigation has been launched into how such an error could have been made by the firm of highly-paid consultants.  All seven votes that had been cast had to be subjected to a recount.  The awards for Best Small Vegetable went to “Sprout”, for Leading Legume to “Cauliflower” and for Best Foreign-Sounding Vegetable to “Courgette”.

2.      And in a shock result in a ward of the Parish Council, a chap who was expected to win didn’t.  Another chap who wasn’t expected to win did.  Two others who were in the middle did better than they thought they would, and two others were a bit disappointed.  The swing from one to the other candidate was not huge.  The winning majority was moderate.  The turn-out was fair-to-middling.  The press interest and analysis was enormous.  Voter apathy was absolutely vast.

3.      For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Beneath The Surface

Beneath The Surface

There! Near the reeds, on the far bank

A sinuous, slow movement

Languid and lazy

A suggestion of a dark shape, a shadow

Beneath the silvered surface

The shimmering pond-water

Implacable, cold, lily-covered

Under a slow-warming sun

Its midge-infested meniscus

Disturbed by the easy-rising minnows

Conceals a waiting presence

Snout, and focused steady eye

Belie the beating gills and waving tail

Needled fins and razored teeth

Lie in silent patient deadly wait

Inside a green and grassy cover

Until it is time to strike

To kill and eat

Before disappearing

Back into the depth

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Birthday Boy

Birthday Boy (reflections on being yet another year older, otherwise known as my take on “existential angst”)

It’s funny how things can easily change,

How your view on life drops through the gears,

But your perspective can turn right around,

When you find yourself advancing in years.

I remember the early excitement,

When I was just a very young boy.

The anticipation of birthdays,

Would bring weeks of advancing joy.

How many cards and presents would there be?

When would my mother begin to bake?

How big and what kind of icing,

On top of my own birthday cake?

Would there be a party and some treats?

With games and plenty of laughter,

A day that would stick in the mind,

And provide memories for long after?

But things are all different now,

And I find my trepidation mounting.

After I’d got as far as sixty,

That’s when I really stopped counting.

There’s no special cake I’m having today,

But if bought from a shop you’d need handles.

It would have to be a massive confection,

If there was to be room for all of the candles.

They’d make up a blazing conflagration,

Of that you should have very little doubt,

And I don’t think I’d have the breath these days,

To blow every one of them out.

I’m no longer sure that the day’s all that special.

Why make such a fuss of one single day?

Yesterday had no unique features,

And tomorrow’s just an ordinary day.

The few cards I get from those that remember,

Fall limply through my letter-box.

There isn’t enough of them to make up a pile,

And my birthday hopes are all mocked.

I don’t want to make any bother or fuss:

It would be good to get a nice present,

For I don’t want to be forgotten quite yet,

Or just seen as an ancient monument.

Once I hoped I’d die before I got old,

But you can see I’m not getting younger,

I’ve still got a great zest for life, though,

And for new things I continue to hunger.

And as I reflect on this anniversary,

And I head towards some veneration,

I begin to think about my own children,

Cos I’m talkin’ ‘bout my generation.

So don’t give up on me too soon,

Just because I’m advancing in years.

I shall still go down to the pub most nights,

Yes, I can still sink a few beers!

And as I enter my seventh decade,

I’ve vowed to remain healthy and fit,

I’ll annoy all my friends & family,

And just become a miserable old git.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Pan Haggerty

Recipe for: PAN HAGGERTY

Ingredients:

• 900g maincrop potatoes (King Edward, Maris Piper, Desiree)
• 50g unsalted butter
• 2 onions, peeled & finely chopped
• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• Sea salt & black pepper
• 100g gruyere or emmenthal, grated

 Method:

1. boil the potatoes in their skins for 20-25 minutes until tender
2. drain & leave to steam for a few minutes
3. peel whilst hot, then grate coarsely
4. heat the oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
5. melt a third of the butter in a flame-proof non-stick frying pan, over a gentle heat & sweat the onions for 5 minutes until beginning to colour
6. tip the onions into the grated potato & mix gently
7. in the empty pan, melt another third of the butter & the oil
8. scatter half the onion/ potato mix into the pan & season
9. scatter over the grated cheese
10. finish with the rest of the onion/ potato mixture
11. season again, and gently press down
12. put the pan in the oven & bake for 10 minutes
13. loosen the haggerty, place a baking tray over the top of the pan and carefully invert the cake onto it
14. melt the remaining butter in the hot pan
15. carefully slide the haggerty back into the pan from the tray to brown the other side
16. return the haggerty to the oven for another 15-20 minutes until golden on top
17. slide onto a warm plate, cut into wedges & serve

One Way Ticket (To Mars)

One-Way Ticket (to Mars)

I was looking for a new challenge:

Something to banish senility’s fears,

When I spotted the advertisement,

A good way to spend my retirement years.

It said they were looking for astronauts,

To head on out into deep space,

So I signed myself up for the training,

And made my entry into the space race.

They had a great vision for mankind:

It was a mission to colonise Mars!

We’d be blasting off from the Earth,

And journeying towards the stars.

Yes, we were setting off for the Red Planet,

To establish a colony, or a base-camp,

Like the pioneers in the days of old,

I felt like Columbus as I mounted the ramp.

The blast-off was truly spectacular,

As our rocket rose towards the night sky,

And Mission Control raised a big cheer,

As they sadly waved us good-bye.

Then we pulled out of Earth’s gravity,

And, as we carefully avoided The Moon,

It hadn’t yet even occurred to me,

That I’d become a hostage to fortune.

You see, when a man settles down for a while,

And there’s no alcohol on board, no drinking,

His thoughts turn to existential matters,

And that’s when I got round to some thinking.

If we’ve dropped all of our boosters,

And we’re voyaging in this tin can,

How are we going to get back from Mars?

Won’t we be stuck there, to a man?

I voiced my concerns to the captain,

And mentioned it to the rest of the crew,

But they all just fell about in their laughter,

And said that they thought that I knew!

It turns out that this is a one-way journey!

I’ve been issued with a single ticket!

There’s no possible way to return -

Well – I mean – that’s simply not cricket!

  

I knew that it would take a long time,

If mankind was to make his mark,

But I didn’t realise just how final,

That day when I’d turned up to embark.

We’re to be the first of our species,

To land on Mars – that is our fate,

And if we survive our arrival,

Our next job will be to pro-create!

Now I’ve had a look round at the rest of the crew,

And there’s none I’d want go out with on a date,

So it could be a long, lonely existence,

If I’m the only one not taking a mate.

There’s one girl who’s been looking at me,

And paying me lots of attention,

I think I know what’s on her agenda,

I think I can spot her intention!

So here I am, trapped in this spaceship,

With only the Sun’s gravity to tow it,

Heading off to a fate worse than death –

It’s space, Jim, but not as we know it.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017