Irish Barmbrack Loaf

Recipe for: CAKE – IRISH BARMBRACK

Ingredients:

·        375g mixed dried fruits

·        50ml whiskey

·        250ml strong cold tea

·        Butter for greasing

·        225g plain flour

·        1 tsp baking powder

·        ½ tsp mixed spice

·        125g soft brown sugar

·        1 large egg, beaten

Method:

1.      Put fruits into large bowl with whiskey & cold tea, stir, cover & allow to soak (preferably overnight)

2.      Heat oven to 140C (fan)

3.      Grease & line sides & base of 900g loaf tin

4.      In large bowl put the flour, baking powder, sugar and spice

5.      Make a well in the centre and add the beaten egg, and two tblsp of the soaking liquid

6.      Strain the soaked fruit & add to the bowl

7.      Mixture should be a soft cake mix that will just fall off a spoon.  If too dry add more soaking liquid, but only a tblsp at a time

8.      Spoon mixture into cake tin

9.      Bake in centre of oven for 50-60 minutes or until cake has risen, and a skewer comes out clean

10.   Leave to cool in tin for a few minutes, then turn out onto wire rack

11.   When cold, wrap in clingfilm and foil and leave for two days

12.   Serve sliced & spread with butter

Royal Visit

Royal Visit

The earliest of starts

Forcing everyone to be there on time

With hurried diagonal parking

In the designated distant spot

And the long, hurried walk to the venue

Through the exclusion zone’s lines of security

The checking of passes, invitations and identities

To gather with the hoi-polloi

In best bib and tucker, dressed up to the nines

Who pretend to have made no special effort

The men in shiny suits and tightening ties

The women in frocks and high hair-dos

The Lord Mayor in polished chain of office

And the councillors and dignitaries

Getting hot under their collars

Affecting not to want to be there at all

But ready to get to the front

When push comes to shove

And the long, long standing around

Labouring through meaningless small-talk

Murmuring amongst groups of gathered strangers

Waiting for the clock-hands to slowly creep round

Towards the long-appointed time

Having fun picking out the low-key security men

Obvious with their nervous tight faces

Darting eyes, short haircuts and thick necks

The wires from their walkie-talkies

Curling round the back of their ears

And the drifting aromas of fresh paint

Cleaning fluids and laundry

Floating on the air in a floral bouquet

A pre-agreed agenda

A palace-approved programme

The timings nailed down to the minute

In a carefully-choreographed series

Of visits, moves, walks and chats

Through the venue, past the people

And groups of obligatory children

Then a flurry of arrival activity

Sweeping her in through the doorway

A small head obscured by the huddle

An entourage descending

Heads nodding and bobbing

Murmured questions and answers

And the forced amusement of the moment

A flash of a smile and some hair

Between the bodies that surround her

The party moving inexorably forward

In line with the timetable

Orchestrated and organised

Through displays and demonstrations

Exhibitions and presentations

Chatting and stopping, stopping and chatting

And then she is suddenly upon us

Presented to the group

A hand held out limply for taking and shaking

The couple of questions

Feigning interest in the responses

Ma’am rhyming with jam

Tweedy twin-set and pearls

Bad hair and teeth at close quarters

Before being urged gently forward

By the lady-in-waiting, a hand upon her elbow

Towards the final station of the tour

The speeches and spouting

A cascade of polite applause

The unveiling of another new plaque

A replacement for its predecessor

Inscribed at great expense

By a guilded local craftsman

Using certified recycled materials

And time-honoured traditional skills

At last she is whisked away again

Towards the next appointment

In another market town

The special cakes left un-eaten

And the tea and coffee undrunk

Which the rest of us may now fall upon

Before drifting back to our normal realities

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Night School

Night School (time they offered some more interesting sessions to tempt the jaded palate)

It’s time to brighten up your evenings!

All Welcome! Don’t sit there being uptight!

There’s a new syllabus starting this week,

Tuesday at seven p.m. is orgy night!

You’ll find us to be a real friendly crowd,

Just sign up for a starter session inside,

And after your first hour with the team,

You’ll find no-one’s got much left to hide.

We’ve got the heating turned up cosy and warm,

So there’s no need for you to be thinking,

There’s a risk that your willy will become chilly,

Or that there’s any danger of shrinking.

Beginners don’t need to be shy:

The experienced will show you what to do.

Our guiding text is the Kama Sutra,

But after that it’s mostly up to you!

Intermediate and advanced classes,

Are provided as an education.

No limit on the number of partners,

And we provide free lubrication.

We cater for every possible position,

Men and women in all of their guises:

Forwards, backwards and even sideways,

And there’s no rules on shapes or on sizes!

Whatever kinks you’re into we handle:

All types of frotting, gavotting and knotting,

From complicated sliding and riding,

To quite simple plotting and slotting.

Whether it’s frigging you’re really digging,

Cheer up!  There’s no need to wear that frown -

You can come at it from any direction:

Left to right, inside-out, or upside down.

If you’re hard and firm, or soft as a worm,

If there’s wrinkles and folds, or you’re just lumpy,

We’ve no preference for one or the other,

So long as you’re up for rumpy-pumpy.

All of your body parts are catered for:

Boobs and moobs, bums and tums, legs and thighs,

Whatever ripples, and tipples your nipples

Just go with whatever may arise!

  

It’s all about your participation,

So don’t hang back looking all soppy.

You might get an ovation for your stimulation,

Instead of remaining all floppy and sloppy.

We each have our lengths, and must play to our strengths,

It’s not endurance that wins all the prizes,

But enthusiasm counts for a lot,

And a desire to go with that which arises.

So no need to get yourself stuck in a rut,

But come and join us, you’ll have such a ball!

If you fancy a sess, where there’s plenty of flesh,

It’s Orgy Night at The Village Hall!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Disoriented Express

Disoriented Express (didn’t we have a lovely time, the day we went to Blackpool?)

I’m sorry, Your Honour, that I failed so badly,

It’s my own fault for being such a fool,

And I should have known an awful lot better,

Than to go on their day-trip to Blackpool.

They were from the Home of The Bewildered,

They’d only been let out for the one day,

A day without luggage or medication,

A Mystery Tour for their holiday.

The ladies and gents had all boarded the bus,

When, behind me, they closed up the doors.

It was only then that I spotted the sign,

That this was a trip with “Twilight Tours”.

I thought I was being public-spirited,

When I volunteered to go with my Gran,

There on the coach with the old folks,

Only to find I was the youngest man.

They were all in their eighties and nineties,

Dressed up in their wind-cheaters and beige slacks,

And a wide range of woolies and macs,

Were packed and stuffed in the luggage-racks.

We set off for Blackpool, all in good cheer,

But much forward progress was hard to make,

Because every ten miles down the road,

We had to stop for the next toilet break.

Each stop lasted an hour or more,

When the charra we had to disembark.

They needed some help, so came out two by two -

At times, it was like emptying an Ark.

The bus was so noisy, you wouldn’t believe,

Not from the exhaust or from underneath,

But from the vibration of walking sticks,

And the ghostly rattling of false teeth.

There was one geriatric, called Patrick,

A cheeky and mischievous old boy.

He made passes at elderly lasses,

And tried to bring the old dears some joy.

And another crusty, who answered to Rusty,

Ex-military, a dashing old blade.

He made a great fuss all over the bus,

And made great play of his hearing-aid.

  

But the girls were the ones you had to watch,

And for me the trip got rather risky.

Once they woke up from their sleep,

And had their tablets, they were quite frisky.

They might not know what day of the week it was,

Or the meaning of my frightened laughter,

But in their condition, they were on a mission,

And they knew what they were after!

But once I’d barricaded the gangway,

The adventure turned out pleasant and nice,

They couldn’t remember what you’d told them,

And you had to say everything twice.

(I say – YOU HAD TO SAY EVERYTHING TWICE!!)

But I got caught up in the moment,

And my punishment I’ll have to take:

Tho’ the promenade’s a place for fun and games,

The wheel-chair races were a mistake.

In the end I should have known better,

I wouldn’t want you to think that they were abused.

After a whole day in their company,

I think it was me that was really confused!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 27th January 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 27^th January 2019

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

1.      D-Town suffered yet another commercial shock this week when the bloke who sells copies of The Big Issue outside The Shambles market decided to formally move his pitch to a different location within the town.  He was immediately accused of hypocrisy, after it was revealed that he had previously stated that wished to Remain in his original pitch, but had re-located for purely financial reasons.  He is now expected to sell up to an extra three copies of the magazine per week.

2.     And the Vize’s international heliport is now largely quiet after the departure of many (local) government, think-tank, environmental, economic and commercial celebrities “representatives” from the WEF (Wiltshire Economic Forum) gathering.  It will now be possible to park again in the Market Place, once the removal of stretch limousines and luxury people carriers has been completed.  Shops will be re-stocked with Wagon Wheels and Curly-Wurlies.  Unbelievably, life will actually go on – much as before.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Walking At Ephesus

Walking at Ephesus

It may be a simple effect of light, of the whiteness of rays

of the shimmering blinding sunshine flickering between columns

glittering particle sparkles in the crystalline texture of marble

but these careless tumbled liths appear restless, uneasy

heavy and broken, a jumbled jigsaw among the stunted grass

poking through rough gravel, rising up, re-assembling

resolving into many-godded  temples, triumphal arches, fountains, houses,

palaces, tombs and theatres, gateway carvings still fresh

features crisp and sharp, markings new-minted clear

no longer rough abandoned Roman ruins, nor the broken back of Byzantium

but a living space, a breathing place, where ghosts may freely roam

The death-heat of Anatolia, barely relieved by the coolness of water

or by fountains plashing into placid pools and baths

and the leafy colonnaded avenue of a tree-shaded Arcadian Way

its side-street walkways busy with the simple sound of feet, sandal-clad

people about their business, voices of slaves and masters

traders in the marketplace, and the client-busy brothel

clients inspecting the flesh on offer

the girls alert for someone new, perhaps an interesting stranger

a darkened sailor from the harbour-side

climbing the shining hill, far up into the heaving city

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019 

Nightscape

Nightscape

Our footsteps echo, bounce between hollowed empty buildings

and lose themselves again in deserted door-wells

deep darkened gaps, missing teeth in a broken smile

before being borne away by the bustling, scudding wind,

rattling metal shutters, matrix security grilles

the eyelids of unkempt, un-lit windows

of long-locked abandoned shops

The cold creeps into us, bitter chill biting finger-ends,

hurrying us along, despite ourselves, scurrying and scuttling rat-like

through unloved empty streets, cracked paving stones,

broken kerbs and gutters of dirty un-swept sidewalks,

pools of stagnant water snagging flapping sheets of greasy newspapers

hiding random dirt and rubbish

And night-time window-shows, bright shopping mall displays

flashing harsh allurements in a piercing clash of neon

reflected in the roadway sheen

shielding the shabbiness of pound stores and bookies,

amusement arcades and charity shops, cash-for-gold pawn-brokers

and unpopulated pubs and clubs

Yet somehow something stirs, unbidden flashes of former lively streets

nostalgia for what once was - no longer deaf, dumb and blind,

no longer worn and beaten down, but a town that lived and breathed

memories of a better past

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Chard, cheese & polenta tart

Recipe for: CHARD, CHEESE & POLENTA TART

Ingredients:

• For the pastry
• 170g plain flour
• 60g quick-cook polenta
• 20g grated parmesan
• 140g unsalted, fridge-cold butter
• 50ml cold water
• Pinch salt
• For the filling:
• 200-250g hard cheese, grated e.g. gruyere
• 150ml crème fraiche
• 150ml single cream
• 3-4 eggs
• ¾ tsp each salt & pepper
• 200g chopped swiss chard or spinach, cooked briefly in olive oil & drained
• Extra grated parmesan for the topping

 Method:

1. work all the pastry ingredients (except the water) together by hand or in a food processor to get a fine crumbly mixture.  Only add enough water to make it come together as a pastry
2. tip onto floured work-surface, & work until pastry comes together enough to be rolled out
3. butter a large flan dish, then lift the pastry disc into place & press gently into place.  Trim off any excess & use pieces to patch or re-inforce the gaps
4. chill in the freezer for 10 minutes.  Meanwhile heat oven to 180C/ 170C fan/ 350F
5. place a circle of grease-proof paper in the bottom of the pastry case & fill with baking beans
6. bake for 20 minutes until just golden
7. remove paper & beans & bake for another 10 minutes or until pastry cooked through
8. remove from oven & reduce oven temperature to 150C/ 140C fan
9. while the case is cooking, mix together all the other ingredients, except the parmesan,  in a bowl
10. pour into the cooked tart case & spread out evenly.  Grate parmesan on to the top
11. bake for about 30 minutes until the tart is golden on top & the mixture has set
12. leave to cool for 10 minutes before cutting & serving

 What else you need to know:

1. great with a mixed salad & fruity chutneys
2. the polenta in the pastry mix just adds extra crunch & taste
3. good hot, warm or cold

Twenty-One Pounds

Twenty-One Pounds

Twenty-one pounds

The figures stand out starkly

At the bottom of the column

Of other pounds and pence

An amount within an invoice

An account now rendered

Simple unadorned numbers

Clear in black and white

Just before the grand total

Twenty-one pounds

VAT inclusive

The final line of reckoning

The fee for services rendered

The burning of the body

Cremation of his small remains

Somewhere taken care of

That we shall never see

Twenty-one pounds

Seems not near enough

To reflect his energy

Nor what he meant to us

But that’s all there is of death

The summary of a struggle

A last and final line of life

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

A Corner Turned

A Corner Turned

And now the thing is done -

The post that seemed so far away

That never would be reached

Has become a milestone passed along the way

Already long behind me

Fading into hazy distance

A cross-ways of sorts

A turning-point achieved

Breath exhaled and a sigh released

Then confident strides along

A new and different path

As it stretches out ahead

The course a changed one

The direction of travel

Along a new trajectory

Perhaps towards the same horizon

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Invaded

Invaded

It’s not a matter of consent

or permission to invade

to come within the confines of my body,

nor the medical necessity of timely intervention,

but the very intrusion itself

and the cutting of skin and tissue,

the breach of orifice

entrance by main force,

breaking from without to within,

external to internal,

the subtle insertion of pipes and wires

the transgression of needles and probes

the incursion of cameras and computers

to break into the inner cavities

among the blood and nerves and organs

that pump away unseen

to effect the running repairs

to keep me alive for another day,

to give me the breath to complain bitterly

of the pain of violation

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 20th January 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 20^th January 2019

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

1.      D-Town was still coming to terms this week with its grief when the sad news was announced that the skate-boarder Hugh Jarse announced his impending retirement from international competition.  Commenting exclusively to this organ before undertaking daily practice, he said “yeh, but, no, but yeh, been like a hangin’ toenail, man.  Hurts to even put da socks on, innit, catchin’ an’ clickin’ on da material, innit.  Da pain barrier, man.  Can’t go on.  Sorry to da dudes in da ‘hood.”  A translation into English will be made available later.

2.     Meanwhile, the town’s 107-year old mayor, Ben Dover, was involved in a Road Traffic Accident on Thursday.  Pulling out from a side-street on his motability scooter, he forced several cars to swerve, and two to crash into each other.  He then mowed down two pedestrians on a zebra crossing, crossed the central reservation on the A350 into the path of oncoming traffic, went the wrong way down a one-way street, knocked over a cyclist, ran over a cat, and took out the safety bollards in the High Street, before crashing into the plate-glass window at the front of Poundland.  Several people were killed or injured, and three people were traumatised, requiring psychological help and counselling.  He was found to be driving without a valid MoT certificate, was not wearing a seat-belt, had no current driving licence, had no insurance, and was under the affluence of incohol.  Police later said that they had offered the mayor “suitable words of advice”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Radioactive

Radioactive

I’ve had this little operation,

On the theatre table laid prostrate,

They’ve fixed me up, and I’m good to go,

Now they’ve irradiated my prostate.

Yes they treated me with radiation,

With hundreds of tiny little seeds,

Now I’m full of alpha particles,

That will soon provide for all my needs.

I’ve got my own internal power source,

Which is a most important factor.

Now I’m a little generator,

Like a tiny nuclear reactor.

This fusion makes me glow in the dark,

Just like the ad with the Reddy-Brek kid,

And if the nation gets short of power,

They’ll just connect me to the National Grid.

Now you’ll see I’ve got a new demeanour,

That there’s a special quality to my gaze:

It comes from a sense of inner power –

Well - that and I’m transmitting gamma rays.

And it’s bound to make me so much fitter,

A claim I think you’ll find is fair,

Cause now I can only go out and about,

If I’m sporting my lead underwear.

These hot spots of uranium

Provide me with lots of future hope.

It’ll take me decades to decay,

Thanks to the half-life of my isotope.

And now I’m fit and full of energy,

A Geiger-counter provides the metric:

I’m a low-carbon, lean, green machine,

And I generate my own electric.

Not only that: there’s something else to tell -

This medical advance that’s come to pass,

Means that now I have this inner light,

So the sun really does shine out my ass.

There’s only one cloud on the horizon,

Something that might cause me to frown:

There could perhaps be a nuclear accident,

And my innards might go into melt-down.

  

So just be careful when you come to bury me:

It might have be a very long way down.

You won’t want me in your neighbourhood,

So it’ll have to be a long way out of town.

Anyway, there’s only one thing puzzling me:

Now that I’ve become radio-active,

And that I’m fully solar-powered,

Does it make me any more attractive?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Pea & Mint Soup with Prosciutto

Recipe for: SOUP –PEA & MINT with PROSCIUTTO STRIPS

Ingredients:

·        2 leeks, trimmed, washed, thinly sliced

·        200g potatoes, peeled & grated

·        500ml / 18 fl oz chicken or vegetable stock

·        200g frozen peas

·        150g yoghurt

·        2 tblsp chopped mint

·        2 slices prosciutto, excess fat removed

Method:

1.      Put leeks, potato and stock in a pan and bring to the boil

2.      Cover and simmer for 8 minutes

3.      Add the peas and cook for another 5 minutes

4.      Take off the heat  and blitz to smooth consistency with a hand-blender

5.      Stir in the yoghurt and mint

6.      Season to taste

7.      Meanwhile lay the slices of prosciutto in a large non-stick pan and fry until crisp

8.      Allow to cool, then tear into strips

What else you need to know:

1.      Serve with crusty bread

The Force Within

The Force Within

Now I must learn to live anew

And re-float myself

As the ark within which are carried

Inside and occult

These strange and dangerous seeds

Bringing death to certain cells

But life anew to this old body

Acting whilst they slowly fade

And mysteriously dissolve

Their active energy

Giving me an inner glow

A fighting force for good

That yet preserve me

Even as they kill

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Anticipation

Anticipation

Soon, soon, but not quite yet

Time dripping like a leaking tap

Its droplets seeping quietly away

A death-march dissipation

But not diminishing the span

Of the open interval

Before the consummation

So very nearly there

But not yet docked at the destination

My nerves jingling

Tingling in the finger-ends

The tumour of fear and worry

Gently growing within, building

Sending staccato signals

Through my trembling limbs

The anticipation of what might be

Or which may never happen at all

Yet the unbearableness of not knowing

Fearing the worst, wondering what may come

From around the next corner

The active mind plays its awful tricks

Thinking and guessing

Hoping and dreading

Worrying and waiting

I find myself holding my breath

Then the relief of exhalation

Dithering and shaking

So that I cannot settle

Nor find a way to rest

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Connected

Connected

He sits there in the corner all alone,

Absorbed in reading the latest text,

The most amazing fun he ever has,

Almost better than even having sex.

He can’t hear what I’m saying – he’s too far gone:

His social manners are quite uncouth.

His dearest object is his smart-phone,

His only worries are wi-fi and Blue-tooth.

He always likes to be connected:

To be abandoned would cause a frown,

So he texts and tweets and emails,

In case he misses what’s going down.

He’s got all the very latest gadgets -

Wireless hardware, and some software apps.

There’s nothing he can’t find out, or look up -

In his world, there aren’t too many gaps.

He aims to be online completely wireless,

Accessing his friends and data on the move,

Reporting on his every whereabout,

To let them know he’s in the groove.

You could be talking and he wouldn’t hear you,

He’s engrossed in looking at Facebook -

It’s as if he’s not really with you,

Just as if he couldn’t give a fuck.

His skin has assumed a ghostly pallor,

And his finger-nails are turning green.

Unearthly shadows flick across his face,

Reflected from his i-Phone’s tiny screen.

His brow is furrowed in concentration,

As he reads what’s recently occurred,

Crouched over the device within his hands,

And his fast-texting thumbs are blurred.

He’s terrified he might lose his signal,

Or his life as a connected man,

The phone he’s clutching, and frequently touching,

Just two seconds is his attention span.

Each incoming message holds promise,

Of some earthly contact electronic:

As if it’s asserted that he’s not been deserted,

Though his responses are mostly moronic.

  

His hearing has almost deserted him,

His eyes are hooded, his jaw it hangs slack.

He’s not really with us here in the room,

As he sits there emailing at the back.

Yes he’s got to be Mister Connected -

His concentration must be concerted,

But one of these days, he’s gonna look up,

And find himself totally deserted!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Adornment

Adornment

Admire the blank and empty canvas

upon which delicate brush-strokes have been drawn

as if to create a pretty picture, an illusion -

there, across her angled shoulders,

a golden sash, lightly drawn,

an elegant sweep of colour

upon the whiteness of her milky flesh -

there, around her neck, a delicate filigree thread

suspends a single diamond,

upon the gossamer muslin

above her gently-rising breast -

there, along her naked arms,

a rack of gilded circlets,

clicking, singing, cymbal-shimmering

resonating to the movement of her body -

there, on her slim and elegant fingers ,

twine twisted delicate rings

topaz-red in silvered settings,

jewelled in harmony with her carmined nails -

there, on her perfect pallid face,

along the nape and cheekbone

lie barely-visible, tiny blonde hairs

and from the faintest pinkness

of shapely ear-lobes hang heavy hoops of gold -

there, up to the very edges of her pretty mouth,

runs the lip-gloss painted line,

a precise and perfect butterfly

beneath the pertness of her nose

sporting its tiny jewelled stud -

and there, across her sculpted face,

sits her calm and cool expression

which speaks so little of the effort

that it took to look so natural

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019