It's The End Of The World On Saturday

It’s The End Of The World On Saturday

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

Can I stay up late the night before?

If we’re all getting fried on the week-end,

There’s no point being a bore.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

The pastor says there’ll be a Great Flood.

There’ll be fires, and earthquakes,

And boils & locusts & rivers of mud.

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

I want to be one of the saved.

It’s what we’ve all waited for,

The ending that we’ve all craved.

There’ll be no time for quips,

We’ll squeak like pips.

It trips off the lips,

As our confidence dips,

When we meet our apocalypse.

Mam, it’s the end f the world on Saturday.

The cataclysm is here.

Judgement Day is coming.

No time for trembling in fear.

For we’ve been groomed,

Our future has loomed.

We’ll all be entombed,

The ending zoomed,

As we prepare to be doomed.

Mam, it’s the end of the world I’m sure.

I don’t want to be one of the sinners -

I want to be lifted to heaven,

I want to be one of the winners.

It said in Ezekiel,

There’ll be no equal,

To the terrors,

And the meek’ll

Inherit the earth.

* * * * * * *

Mam, the earth didn’t end after all;

It’s all been a terrible let-down.

I thought I’d be sitting next to Jesus,

And be one of the stars in His crown.

Mam, it seems it just wasn’t to be:

There wasn’t any of God’s wrath -

It’s all just the same old same old,

There was something wrong with the math.

  

I think I can tell,

All is still well.

There wasn’t a death knell,

No ringing of bells,

No fires of hell.

Mam, it seems the signs & portents were wrong.

The reasons aren’t simple to capture:

The End of Times didn’t come,

And I wasn’t lifted up in the Rapture.

If there’s no Second Coming,

If we’ve all mis-read the code,

I’ll have to take that library book back,

And pay back that fiver I owed.

Mam, the end of the world didn’t come in the end.

There’s no point living in fear.

It’s all so – disappointing,

So Armageddon out of here.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Ham Hock Terrine

Recipe for: TERRINE of Ham Hock (& variations)

Ingredients:

·        2 small/ medium ham hocks, unsmoked, approx. 1kg each

·        Stock:

o   500ml/ 18 fl oz cider

o   2 carrots, peeled & chopped

o   2 sticks celery, chopped

o   1 large onion, chopped

o   2 bay leaves

o   6 sprigs thyme

o   3 star anise

o   6 whole peppercorns

·        2 tblsp wholegrain mustard

·        Handful fresh parsley, finely chopped

·        1 sheet, or sachet, gelatine (enough to set about 1 pt of liquid)

Method:

1.      Cook the meat:

a.      Put the hocks and the stock ingredients into a large pan

b.      Add enough water to just cover the hocks

c.      Bring rapidly to the boil, then reduce heat to a very gentle simmer

d.      Cook for about 2 ½ hours, or until the meat is falling off the bones

e.      Lift the meat out with a slotted spoon into a bowl & allow to cool completely

f.       Reserve the cooking liquor, but also allow to cool

2.      Prepare the terrine ingredients:

a.      Grease a 1-litre terrine mould or loaf tin with a little sunflower oil, then line completely with clingfilm;

b.      Shred to cold meat with your fingers, keeping a few larger chunks, siscarding fat, gristle, sinews & bones;

c.      In a large bowl mix the shredded ham with the mustard & parsley;

3.      Assemble the terrine:

a.      Press the ham mixture firmly into the prepared mould, but don’t squash it down too tightly.  It should be full, with no gaps, but not too tight.  Level the surface with a fork;

b.      Take about one and a half pints of the reserved stock, by straining the pan juices through a very fine sieve into a clean pan, and bring to a rolling boil;

c.      Allow it to reduce down to about one pint, then remove from heat;

d.      If using a sachet of gelatine, sprinkle directly into the hot stock & stir until completely dissolved, and allow to cool.  If using sheet gelatine, soak in a little cold water first for 5 minutes to soften, then squeeze out & add to the hot stock.  Either way, make sure it is fully dissolved;

e.      When the stock is cold, but before it sets, pour carefully over the meat mixture in the mould, tapping to remove air bubbles.  There should be enough to fill the mould & to create a thin top layer of stock.

f.       Cover with clingfilm and put in the fridge for several hours, preferably overnight, to set completely.

4.      Serve the terrine:

a.      Remove the set “loaf” from the mould, using the clingfilm lining to ease it out.

b.      Turn upside down onto a carving plate;

c.      Using a sharp knife, carve thick slices & serve.

What else you need to know:

1.      You need two days to make this: one day to assemble it all, and a good overnight chilling to solidify properly to make it carveable;

2.      Variations: any cooked meat or combination, e.g. chicken, game, rabbit, veggies.

3.      Serve with: salad garnish, chutney, bread/ toast.

Call Girl

Call Girl (or how telephone sex is not as good as it’s cracked up to be)

I’m a great fan of online banking,

And I use it to manage accounts.

But last week I ran into a problem -

On the screen were the wrong amounts.

So seeking to sort this problem at once,

To the bank’s Call Centre I rang.

I listened to music for minutes,

As on the phone I was forced to hang.

Then a recorded voice quite sharply said:

“Press 1 for this, and press 2 for that”.

So I worked my way through the options,

Trying not to feel like a prat.

My digits blazed over the keypad,

Pressing this, pressing that, and then you

Think you’ve finished at last,

But there’s always one more menu.

At last I got to where I wanted,

After this long game of hide and seek

For it was just with a human being,

That I desperately wanted to speak.

At last came a female voice quite confident -

I wasn’t trying to be choosy.

She asked if she could help me,

And told me her name was Susie.

I stumbled through with my problem,

But really I hadn’t much of a choice.

I’d become all kind of nervous, you see,

Seduced by the sound of her voice.

So began my fantasies & questions:

I went right through the book.

Was she young, and was she pretty?

In fact, how good did she look?

I started to imagine for myself:

What was the colour of her hair?

For her voice was so gentle,

I decided she had to be fair.

Could I ever get to know this girl?

I could feel my cheek starting to heat.

Could we take this relationship further,

And arrange somewhere cosy to meet?

I wanted to take this thing off-line:

I felt that she was waiting to be whirled,

Away from her Call Centre employment,

To something more solid in the real world.

  

She carried on talking, working her script.

She was a mistress of her profession.

She was confident & well-drilled.

Would she listen to my confession?

She worked her way through my problem,

But the solution had started to vex.

Did a one-sided fantasy like this,

Count as telephone sex?

I wanted to keep her talking, you see,

And try to keep her involved.

I felt we needed to build up some rapport,

So I brought up new things to be solved.

Her voice was so delightful & sexy,

But always in command, never a fall-girl.

I wanted this to go on and on,

To take things further, with my dear call-girl.

Her accent betrayed nothing at all,

But she seemed like an English rose.

I’d no idea where she was,

But she certainly felt very close.

Eventually, I screwed up my courage,

And asked her if there could ever be more.

That’s when she said it was against the rules,

And besides, she was talking from Bangalore.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Ee - It's Grim Down South

Ee – It’s Grim Down South (or how a Yorkshire-man laments his homeland)

When I was a lad, at home in the North,

I was told that I lived with great bounty,

In the best place that there was:

Yes it were Yorkshire – God’s very own county.

We’d grand hills & dales to go walking,

With so many sheep you’d be amazed,

Which drove the great wool industry,

With its mills wherever you gazed.

At home, things were quite rough though:

Our house was subject to flooding.

We’d no access to sand-bags,

So were forced to use lengths of black pudding.

The food were boring & monotonous,

I’m really sorry to gripe.

For, although I’m quite fond of a pork pie,

You can only eat so much onions & tripe.

The tea was made strong & very sweet

To bolster our old working men.

You could stand your spoon up in it -

You had to be right sturdy back then.

You’d be woken by the sparrows,

Coughing first thing in the dawn,

And, to the strains of a Hovis advert,

You’d set forth to your work in the morn.

You’d work in the spinning mills,

The factory, or one of the pits,

And think of yourself as quite lucky

If you didn’t suffer from nits.

And rickets & diphtheria were all of the rage;

Keeping pigeons or whippets the usual thing.

We kept our coal in the bath-tub,

And in the lavvy, you had to know how to sing.

The women were fierce & big-chested,

And Tetley’s ale was always the best,

Rugby League was the sport among men,

And brass bands played without any rest.

The toil was rough and it was hard,

But you took what work you could find.

My father was broken down daily

By his labours in the Treacle Mine.

But among the chimneys and the grime,

We still thanked God for our lot,

For we could still have a bath monthly -

Aye – whether we needed it or not!

  

But then the industries all closed down,

And took all the amusement away.

The North were classed as “Special Needs”,

And down South I was forced to stray.

So I came down here to see what were brewing,

To work, to live & to marry.

Thirty years I’ve managed to survive,

But I’ve not been as happy as Larry.

For the hills are all piddling & gentle,

And the beer is always served flat.

There’s no proper cricket teams,

And I can’t say any fairer than that.

But I think I’ve given the South a fair trial now:

For thirty years I’ve been right plucky,

But I’ve missed the doom & the gloom

I just didn’t realise: I were that lucky!

So one of these days, I’ll just get up & go,

My image will soon fade from your view.

I’ll bugger off back North again,

And be no longer here to bother you.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

My Pre-Nuptial Agreement

 My Pre-nuptial agreement 

You know I love you, my dearest:

A fact I’m sure you’ll always treasure,

But before we go too far my love,

It’s time that we took some measure.

There will surely come a day, my love,

In future times some way ahead,

When you’ll love me no more I guess,

And you will wish that I were dead.

You won’t be able to speak to me,

Nor will I to you, I’m thinking.

We’ll argue every time we meet,

And then I’ll take to drinking.

And you will want to go your own way,

And leave me very far behind.

And we’ll wonder what brought us together:

Well, they say that love is blind.

So let us decide right now, my love,

I don’t want my heart breaking.

Let’s not argue, but just agree,

Just what you think you’ll be taking.

You can have the old arm-chair in the corner,

With its frilly covers & such.

You always seemed to like it,

But it was never up to much.

You take the stereo and the CDs,

Because music wasn’t my thing.

You can hang on to most of our stuff,

Even that old wedding ring.

Please have all of our furniture

The savings accounts if you must,

For you know that once we are parted,

You won’t be seeing me for dust.

Keep all of our pots and our pans:

I don’t want to stake much of a claim,

But there’s one or two things I’d like,

I guess, if it’s all the same.

I’ll take my toothbrush & some personal things,

Like my little black address book,

My diary, my writings, my pictures,

I’m sure you won’t give much of a.. second look.

But there’s one thing I want to make clear,

And I’m saying it quite flat.

I’ll be filing for sole custody

Of our one-eyed, old ginger cat.

  

For I know that he loves me,

And his feelings will never waver,

As long as I keep feeding him daily,

I’ll never lose his favour.

Unlike you, my love, who’ll only get bored,

He’ll stay with me forever.

You know where you are with a cat,

But with you – well, that’ll be never.

For as you grow older and fatter,

In my eyes you’ll become just a jade.

Our feelings will fall apart daily,

And our love will definitely fade.

But old Samson’s ugly enough now,

He’s not the most elegant pet.

You know where you are when you start out:

And it’s as good as I’m going to get!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Doing Porridge

Doing Porridge 

They've found it in the long-dead stomachs

Of ancient peat-bog dwellers so old,

For it’s a very durable substance,

Once it’s set and allowed to go cold.

Scraps of it still adhere to kitchen walls,

Where a pan of it once exploded,

And it carries many a memory,

Once it’s been analysed and de-coded.

It’s a reminder of times quite distant,

A material that’s said to be fissile,

And, once rolled into a tight little ball,

It can even be used as a missile.

Now this food-stuff’s something of a winner,

And its utility takes some beating,

For it’s popular North of the Border:

A Scottish substitute for Central Heating.

Yes - I speak of a dish of hot porridge:

High in fibre, vitamins and protein,

It lowers cholesterol & blood pressure:

A meal that’s fit for a queen.

A humble bowl is so full of goodness,

Low in sugar and easy digestible,

Not like one of your fancy breakfasts,

But a food that’s a wholesome comestible.

It’s much better than a full English,

Yoghurt, muesli or hominy grits.

It tastes much smoother too,

Because it doesn’t come with the bits.

It’s not fishy like old kippers,

Nor crunchy like you get with fruit and with nuts.

It slides down all soft and seductive,

Then it sticks to the sides of your guts.

But you have to make it the true way,

Neither too heavy, nor too light.

Neither too hot nor too cold,

If you want it to be just about right.

Oatmeal and water and some salt

Is the method that really rocks,

And then you must stir it all clockwise,

If you want it to suit Goldilocks.

For the stirring keeps the Devil away,

And forces him to run and to hurtle,

And if that doesn’t seem to work,

You can despatch him with the spurtle.

  

Tho’ it’s Scottish, it don’t use a sheep’s stomach,

So from this dish there’s no need to hide.

You don’t need to eat it with Irn-Bru,

And, unlike Mars bars, it’s not even deep-fried.

They sell it in Prêt -a-Manger to take away,

And even McDonalds are in on the game.

So there must be profits in oatmeal,

But it’s good for you all the same.

It may be a guard against cold weather,

But here’s the point – if you want to take notes:

They say it’s an aphrodisiac -

So there’s more than one way of getting your oats.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 24th September 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 24^th September 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

                                                  

1.      Thousands of citizens of the borough had their lives turned upside down this week when the Town Council announced that it would not be renewing the Licence To Operate of Fred’s Taxi.  It is thought that up to one person could lose their job if this draconian ruling is not reversed.  Only last night a couple were forced to catch the 49 bus to get home, and a group of revellers were forced to walk all the way across the Market Place just to get from one pub to another.  Nearly seven people have now signed a protest petition.

2.      And, in another transport-related story, D-Town’s international airline, Brian-Air was forced to apologise on Thursday when it admitted that it had completely forgotten that its only pilot, Ben Dover, was due to take his annual holiday in East Grinstead next week, thus throwing their entire time-able into chaos.  Up to one flight may have to be cancelled.  A replacement bus service to Swindon has now been arranged for the one passenger who had been booked on the cancelled service.  No airstrips were harmed in the writing of this story.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

All Hung Over

All Hung Over (or the morning after the night before)

If you could all talk a bit quieter, and keep the worst of your noise down,

I’d be grateful to you for the favour, for you see I’ve been a bit of a clown.

My head is terribly throbbing, my mouth’s the bottom of a bird-cage,

And my tongue it’s all coated, my skin is burning up in a rage.

My limbs are all of a tremble, and my throat is feeling all furred.

The room it is spinning round slowly, and my vision is decidedly blurred.

I can hardly bear to open my eyes, I can’t stand this too-piercing light,

I’m suffering real badly this morning for the major sins of last night.

I badly need some Alka-Selzer to settle my stomach real quick.

I can’t stand around for much longer - in fact, I think I’m going to be sick.

I’ve over-indulged, that’s perfectly clear, I obviously don’t know when to stop.

But I’ll be alright tomorrow, and I’ll never touch another drop.

Now I’d like to lie down for a while, at least until I’m feeling more chipper,

And I’d like to get undressed, but my fingers may not cope with the zipper.

The pounding pain in my head is real bad, it feels like I’ve been drinking since November,

But how I made it home again last night, you know – I really can’t remember.

I guess it must have been quite a session - I remember  that we started with beer,

Then we went on to spirits and cocktails, but after that  - nothing’s quite clear.

There were drinking games and some forfeits - I must have drunk lots and lots.

Just a few tequila slammers, then we drank through the bar - using shots.

My clothes are a hell of a mess, and now I’m starting to worry,

For the brown stains on my shirt are evidence that we stopped for a curry.

Or it could have been even worse: if so, I’ll have to go into re-hab,

For the truth is - I might have succumbed to the charms of a doner kebab.

They say the best cure is a full English, or an omelette with ham and quite cheesy,

But now every time I smell food, I start feeling all queasy.

But, I’ll just have to get a grip of myself, and shake off this beer-smelling fog.

For the pub’s open again quite soon, and it’ll be time for some hair of the dog.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

When All Is Said And Done

When All Is Said And Done  (in praise of the lesser-spotted cliché)

When all is said and done you know,

You need to make your point in a rush.

You can’t go all around of the houses,

And you mustn’t beat about the bush.

You’ve got to think outside the box:

I can almost hear your heart sinking.

Then you’ve got to cut to the chase,

And do some blue-sky thinking.

On the other hand, and if I were you,

I’m not sure how you feel,

But if you’re going to let sleeping dogs lie,

You’re going to need nerves of steel.

The truth of the matter is, of course,

That you can have too much of a good thing,

And we know that it won’t truly be over

Until we hear that fat lady sing.

Between you and I, pound to a penny,

If you were to remain in this garret,

You wouldn’t be over the moon,

But surely as sick as a parrot.

You’d be between a rock & a hard place,

As the words you needed to form.

The writing would be on the wall:

A case of any port in a storm.

We can’t throw out the baby with the bath-water:

The buck stops here, I think,

For you can surely lead a horse to water,

But you know you can’t force him to drink.

Let’s run the flag up the flagpole,

To see who salutes, if they’re able.

For to be honest with you,

I’d like to lay my cards on the table.

In the good old days, this was just the tip of the iceberg,

But you know that I won’t grovel,

For when you’ve got your back to wall,

You have to call a spade a bloody shovel.

Now I’ve opened up this whole can of worms,

The whole thing’s a bit of a drag.

For to coin an expression,

I’ve let this cat out of the bag.

For a platitude or an obvious remark

Played such a strong role in my youth,

And now at the drop of a hat,

A cliché’s become the moment of truth.

  

I can’t stay in cloud cuckoo land,

And I really know that I oughter.

I should try & bury this hatchet,

For blood is thicker than water.

For these pearls of wisdom have become run of the mill:

I must bite the bullet: that’s fine,

For if I’m to bring home the bacon,

I’ve got to get to the bottom line.

And now, at the end of the day,

I hope that you’ll find my poem witty.

If that’s not the terrier’s testicles -

Well – don’t that take the McVitie!!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Cornish Nasty

Recipe for: CORNISH NASTY (PASTY)

Ingredients:

• For the pastry:
• 125g butter, chilled & diced
• 125g lard, diced
• 500g plain flour
• 1 egg, beaten, to glaze
• For the filling:
• 350g beef skirt or chuck steak, finely chopped
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 2 medium potatoes, peeled & cut into small dice
• 175g swede, peeled & cut into small dice
• Lots of freshly ground black pepper

 Method:

1. rub the salt, butter & lard into the flour using fingertips or processor until you have fine breadcrumbs
2. blend in 6-8 tablespoons of water to make a firm dough
3. cut into four pieces, cover & chill for 20-30 minutes
4. heat oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
5. mix together the filling ingredients + pinch salt
6. roll out each piece of dough into a circle or an oval
7. spoon a quarter of the filling into the middle of the dough, leaving a pastry margin all the way around
8. brush the pastry around the open edge
9. either fold over to seal the pastry at one side (Cornish), or else gather up both sides to meet at the top (Yorkshire).  Make sure the pastry is sealed all the way round.
10. brush the pastry with beaten egg
11. pierce the pastry at the top with a fork to allow steam to escape
12. lift onto an oiled, non-stick baking sheet
13. make the other three pasties the same way
14. bake in the oven for ten minutes, then lower temperature to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas4 and cook for another 40-45 minutes until golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. can be eaten immediately, cooled & re-heated or frozen
2. serve with LOTS of gravy & a green veg

A New Folk Song For Modern England

A New Folk Song For Modern England (based on an old Wiltshire goat-nadgering ballad). It shows that country pursuits may leave a lot to be desired.

As I walked out one May morning,

My fortune for to seek,

My way was suddenly blocked,

By a Tesco trolley blocking the creek.

I started to push on with my quest,

And tried to cross over using a log,

But the wood was all slippery,

And quickly I fell into the bog.

I came out smelling of diesel & worse,

My clothes all muddy & rank.

I was all soaking & smelly,

As I slowly crawled up the bank.

I carried on with my walk, ever bold,

Hoping a young maiden to sight,

But I’d got twigs in my hair:

And I must have looked quite a fright.

I then came out of those sylvan woods,

Leaving behind my rural bower,

But soon the day turned out nasty,

With gentle rain, later turning to showers.

I pushed on through the country,

And down to the meadow that day,

For I fancied myself dancing,

All among the new-mown hay.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived:

I suppose it was my bad fate.

Instead of the green meadow,

I found a new-built housing estate.

I looked to the woods where I used to wander.

Fences and barbed wire now blocked the way,

And the foot-path was well diverted,

Away from where we used to go play.

I determined not to give in so easy,

And across the valley I attempted to gaze,

But I couldn’t see nothing out there,

Due to all the pollution and haze.

But finally I spied a pretty fair maid,

A-wandering alone on the moor,

And bounding right up to her,

I said I’d walk her back to her door.

“Nay, lad” the maid said unto me.

“It’s not going home that I’m wanting to go.

I’m running away, and I’m starving.

But you can buy me a MacDonalds, though.”

  

I said I hoped we could lie down in the meadow,

For it was a great day to go courtin’.

She told me to get lost and scram,

And with me she wouldn’t be sportin’.

She said she was allergic to rape-seed,

And other farm pesticides:

It was sprayed all over the place,

And I looked such a mess, besides.

We couldn’t walk no farther that way,

We’d have to take different directions.

The fields were all fenced off now,

Due to Health & Safety restrictions.

In the end I gave up on my conquest,

For the day had turned out to be crap

It may be the early bird catches the worm

But the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap!

This folk-song lark’s not all it’s cracked up to be;

My nerves are all knotted & frayed.

Whatever the merits of Olde England,

There must be easier ways to get laid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Morning Has Broken

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken

But the coffee’s not yet spoken

The clouds of last night

Still fog up my sight

The daylight’s too bright

I’m not yet ready

Nor feeling too steady

Time to get through the gate

In spite of my state

The newspaper must wait

It remains to be seen

When I get that hit of caffeine

If the day won’t hold any fear

And the clouds in my head will finally clear

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Everything Is 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 Fawthfrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 17th September 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 17^th September 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Apparently it was the first day of the new school term for many children this week.  Apart from the buses running different schedules, traffic being completely gridlocked morning and evening and the sweetie shops becoming effective no-go areas, there was hardly any difference to normal life. 

2.      Scientists in D-Town stood and applauded to mark the end of the 20-year-long Cassini Trolley Probe, as the much-travelled supermarket wheeled container finally ran out of power and self-destructed as it entered the outer rings of Trowbridge.  The Probe had, in its long life-time, been wheeled within a few hundred yards of Morrisons in The Vize, Sainsburys in Calne and, in a daring manoeuvre, right past the front door of Waitrose in Melksham.  Data has been gathered that will help shoppers for decades to come and, perhaps, one answer the great mystery of the BOGOF cycle.  The Mission Director said that now Cassini had completed its journey, it was only right that it should end up in a part of Wiltshire with no atmosphere.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017