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 2019

While Shepherds Washed

While Shepherds Washed

While shepherds washed their socks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And passed the soap around. 

“Fear not”, said he, for mighty suds,

Had filled their washing sink.

“Persil washes whitest of all

And does not leave a stink”.

“To you, in Devizes Town this day,

Is given a washing-line,

A tumble-drier, built by Bosch,

And this shall be the sign.”

“An extended warranty you shall get,

But in the smallest print,

All meanly wrapped in weasel words,

Until you’re nearly skint.”

Thus spake the seraph, and forthwith

Appeared a shining throng

Of Comet salesmen on the make,

Who thus addressed their song:

“All discounts be to you the buyers,

Please accept your guarantee,

And if it should go wrong all too soon,

Please don’t you bother me.”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th December 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 29^th December 2019

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

                                              

1.      As 2019 finally falls over the line, coughing and exhausted, we’d like to wish all our readers a Happy New Year.  Let’s hope the next decade is better than the last one.  But with badly-dressed buffoons, who have only a nodding acquaintance with the truth, installed in the two major offices of the “democratic free world”, and murderous regimes in charge in so many countries (Syria, Iraq, Iran, Turkey, Burma, Saudi Arabia…I could go on), somehow that fond wish has to look very doubtful.

2.      For 2020, we’ll be buying Greta Thurnberg a frequent flyer card, petitioning Parliament for a new series of Gavin & Stacey, digging an Anderson Shelter in the back garden to protect against the privations of Brexit, and working on a new range of recipes featuring turnips and cabbage.  There’s so much to look forward to.  The excitement is almost palpable.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Some Alternative Christmas Cards

Some Alternative Christmas Cards(for when you just can’t find the card that says exactly what you really want)

Thank-you for your awful present

Thanks for that dreadful gift you bought me

It really made me awfully sad

I guess it cannot have cost you very much

So I’ve bought you one that’s just as bad!

May it bring you the misery of the season

It’s just what you deserve you fool

Here’s wishing you what you’ve got coming

So let’s both not bother next Yule.

On finding that the turkey will not fit in the oven

You looked so attractive in the shop

But now I cannot shut the oven door

There’s bits and pieces sticking out

And there’s stuffing falling onto the floor

I don’t care about the pigs in blankets

The roast potatoes I can wait to scoff

But I think I’ve solved the problem now

By cutting your bloody legs off.

On discovering Santa leaving presents

I know you’ve got a busy night

With so many kiddies you’re needing to see

Leaving them their long-wanted presents

Neatly stacked under the tree.

But did you have to force your way down our chimney?

Couldn’t you have remained silent and aloof?

And did you have to tread soot into the carpet?

And park that heavy sleigh up on the roof?

Now the house is collapsing around us

You’ve dropped all the family in a right hole

So gather up your piggin’ reindeer

And bugger off back to the North Pole!

On being invited round to the in-laws

Thanks so much for your kind invitation

To come to your house on Boxing Day

I know you’ve got to eat up the leftovers,

But surely there must be another way?

Cos we all agree that Grandma’s not nice to sit with

Not only that, but she’s smelly

Frankly I’d rather stop home at our place

And watch the hours of shite on the telly.

Thanks (to the vicar) for midnight mass

Thanks Your Reverence for the service last night

It’s almost impossible for me to believe

That so many people could pack out the church

And throw up in the pews on Christmas Eve

I suppose an excess of booze is to blame

So much vomit to be mopped down the drain

I don’t envy you as I languish at home

As today you get to do it all over again.

I’ll bet you’re glad Christmas comes but once a year

It’s tough being a vicar, but what can I say?

You signed up for this lark of working on Sundays

At least you can kick your shoes off till it’s Good Friday!

Season’s Greetings To The Supermarkets

Thanks for stocking all the things I needed for Christmas

Those goodies didn’t appear one moment too soon

I’m grateful that you got them all in so early

I really needed my Christmas cake way back in June!

It’s great that you’re open extra early and late

On your supply-chain you’ve exerted your powers

So we can stock up for a two week siege

Even though you’re only closed for twelve hours!

And I’ll be back in again on Boxing Day morning

Taking advantage of sale prices that are almost a gift

To help you get rid of the seasonal stock

That otherwise you’d have a problem to shift!

Get Well Soon

So sad to learn you’re having trouble -

Your flatulence comes in gusty bouts.

But it’s probably all your own fault

For eating one too many sprouts.

For Brussels can be the cause of many troubles

On this subject my poor heart grieves

I understand that this is what happens

If you swallow all the leaves

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

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 2019

Nights Of Terror

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 2019

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 2019

Not Lonely This Christmas

Not Lonely This Christmas

The pine’s propped up in the corner

But not for me the lure of the tree

Festooned in baubles and tinsel

Sheltering its stash of carefully-wrapped presents

And shedding its needles for everyone to see

Nor the cupboard-full of mince-pies and stollen

For I’ve frequently had doubts

About the cranberry sauce and the oversize turkey

The stuffing and pigs in their blankets

And the leftover roasties and sprouts

I’ve turned down the invitations to parties

I’ve not sent Christmas cards either

For this annual budget-busting mentality

Is not something I feel I can cope with

Or want to have to endure neither

Santas, elves and their reindeer

Are of any religious purpose totally devoid

The crackers and paper hats leave me quite cold

And the festive specials on the telly

Are things I try hard to avoid

I’ve finally escaped the annual torture

Of listening to relatives as they moan

About the cost of everything these days

And struck out on my singular path

To spend a quiet day on my own

What’s it all got to do with anything anymore?

When did the Feast of Stephen turn into Boxing Day?

And apart from the shops being closed

And no useful services running

Isn’t it just the same as any other day?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

I'm Dreaming Of A Shite Christmas

I’m Dreaming Of A Shite Christmas

I'm dreaming of a shite Christmas

Not like the ones I used to know

Where Santa’s in prison

And no-one listens

To hear Wizzard singing on the radio

I'm dreaming of a shite Christmas

With every turkey that I stuff

May all your cranberries be enough

And may your pudding be plum duff

I'm dreaming of a shite Christmas

Not like the ones I used to know

Where poor kids’ noses glisten

And the drunkards pissin’,

To write their names in yellow snow

Yes, I'm dreaming of a shite Christmas

With every satsuma that I bite

May your nights be drunken and tight

And may all your Christmases be shite

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

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 2019

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 2019

Savoury Roquefort Cheesecake

Recipe for: SAVOURY ROQUEFORT CHEESECAKE

Ingredients:

·        For the base:

o   75g/ 3oz white breadcrumbs

o   40g pecorino romano or parmesan, finely grated

o   25g butter, melted

o   Freshly milled black pepper

·        For the filling:

o   3 eggs, beaten

o   225g medium-fat curd cheese

o   110g fromage frais

o   175g roquefort cheese, crumbled

o   1 tblsp fresh chives, snipped

o   4 spring onions, finely sliced

o   Salt & freshly-milled black pepper

Method:

1.      Heat oven to 180C (fan)

2.      In a bowl mix the breadcrumbs & parmesan, adding melted butter and pepper

3.      Press this mixture firmly down onto base of a 22cm springform cake tin

4.      Bake in the oven for 10-15 minutes until crisp & toasted

5.      Remove from the oven and turn down to 170C

6.      In a bowl beat the eggs with curd cheese

7.      Stir in fromage frais and seasoning

8.      Add the crumbled Roquefort and snipped chives

9.      Pour the mixture into the tin on top of the crumb base

10.   Scatter spring onions on top

11.   Bake for 40-45 minutes until centre feels springy to the touch

12.   Allow to cool for 20 minutes before removing the tin

13.   Cut into wedges and serve

The Fairy On The Christmas Tree

The Fairy On The Christmas Tree

I’m the Fairy on The Christmas Tree

I stare down from way up high

And my dress is so very pretty

It almost makes the children cry

I’m the brightest of all the baubles

I’m quite the darling sight

I’m the crowning decoration

And I twinkle in the light

I’m the Fairy on the Christmas tree

Without me, Christmas wouldn’t be the same

But though they put me up each year

They still haven’t given me a name

Sometimes the tinsel gets up my nose

And the needles fall like rain

The smell of pine gets bloody irritating

And it brings upon my migraine

I’m the Fairy on the Christmas tree

But it’s not all glamour – please take pity

There’s a downside to this job

Indeed one aspect is quite shitty

The twinkling lights can get on your nerves

With each bulb that flashes and flickers

And I can tell you it’s not much fun

Having a six-foot Christmas tree shoved inside your knickers

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Office Christmas Party

Office Christmas Party

It’s that happy time of year again

Just a few more days to go and then

Someone organises the office Christmas party when

All your tedious colleagues have a yen

To rave it up, both the women and the men

Suddenly it’s reindeer antlers and paper hats

Santa outfits and snowy kitty-cats

Christmas jumpers sported by the twats

A chance to get as pissed as rats

How bad could it possibly be?

Inappropriate behaviour for all to see

Inhibitions loose and newly free

Debbie from HR’s showing a bit of knee

Gordon from Accounts always rushing off to pee

And Secret Santas beneath the Christmas tree

The secret for getting through these do’s

Is to create some gossip and some news

About who’s using the Stationery Cupboard as a ruse

Who’s crying their eyes out in the loos

And who’s the hottest person you would choose

Whilst knocking back the copious booze

There’s a cheesy disco, and dad-dancing under way

Enforced enjoyment is the order of the day

Definitely not the time to discuss your pay

The simmering resentment that makes you grey

Or the rumours that the Sales Director’s turning gay

According to the lads working in the Loading Bay

And as the sausage rolls & vol-au-vents begin to shrink

And you imagine that someone’s giving you the wink

You’re ready to declare undying love - you think

All’s looking well and you’re in the pink

Before your spirits can have chance to sink

It’s time to have yet another drink

The soundtrack’s from Wizzard and from Slade

Company loyalty & commitment start to fade

It’s time the photocopies of genitals were made

Time repressed sexual desires were displayed

Flirting’s now of the highest grade

And is anyone here going to get laid?

But, alas, the flowing drink is free no more

A situation that is frankly just a bore

That stingy boss pretends he’s poor

  

Tomorrow lots of heads will be very sore

Meantime, to the crowd’s sarcastic roar

It’s time to slide disgracefully to the floor

The consequences won’t be hard to tell

Instagram will show the world how you fell

Not the best way to come out of your shell

Your professional reputation’s death-knell

A career-limiting night of drunken hell

Capped off by copious vomiting in the stair-well

And in the New Year what changes will await?

What will be your humiliation? Your fate?

You’ll get lumbered with a task you’ll hate –

To organise next year’s Christmas party date

You’ve been stitched up, and that’s not great

But, what did you expect from a work-mate?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Skin

Skin

This covering, this wrapper I’m within,

This infection barrier,

Protector, keeper of my guts,

Which holds my everything inside,

Stopping me from spilling out upon the floor

And from pouring myself away,

Is under attack,

Both night and day

Infected, itchy, red, rough,

Sore, dry, cracked and broken skin,

A delicate tracery of lines,

A network of flaking layers,

Pieces to be picked and peeled,

Revealing bare tissue below,

Bleeding into crevices,

Creases, valleys and folds

Between fingers and toes,

Dry hair, crumbling nails

Leaving shrinking islands

Of a barely-working epidermis

Oily ointments, greasy creams

And emollient treatments

Penetrate the dermic strata

With cellular, capillary action

Until they quite are absorbed within

Gently rubbing, scratching, stroking,

Smoothing, soothing,

Bathing, seeking brief respite

From this never-ending torment

And the tiny blisters bursting, erupting,

Spreading further poison

Throughout my failing system

Condemned to live within this atopic cell,

Torture-chamber of a thousand tiny cuts,

Prisoner of a painful pathology,

Chronic, never-ending condition

Making forever unthinkable

Any contact with another human body

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019