Olive Oil Bread

Recipe for: OLIVE OIL BREAD

Ingredients:

·        7g easy-blend yeast

·        500g/ 14 oz strong white bread flour

·        2 tsp salt

·        1 tsp sugar

·        2 tblsp olive oil

Method:

1.      In a large mixing bowl place flour, yeast, salt and sugar

2.      In a jug add 100ml boiling water, 200ml cold water and the olive oil

3.      Make a well in dry ingredients and mix in the hot water to form a dough

4.      Turn dough onto a floured board and knead steadily until it is smooth

5.      Cover with tea towel and rest for one hour

6.      Oil a baking tray

7.      Tip dough onto a floured surface and knead briefly

8.      Shape into a round

9.      Place onto oiled baking tray

10.   Slash top with a sharp knife

11.   Cover and allow to rise again for 30 minutes

12.   Heat oven to 220C (fan)

13.   Bake for 30-35 minutes until browned and crisp

Escape From The Zoo

Escape From The Zoo

It was nearly midnight in the zoo,

And hardly a creature was stirring.

The lions and tigers were fast asleep:

All you could hear was their snoring and purring.

All except for the armadillos,

For they are nocturnal you see,

And on the inside of the compound,

Is not where they wanted to be.

They’d started digging three tunnels,

But had only managed to create holes,

So they’d done a deal with some of their friends,

And drafted in an army of moles.

Construction went on almost constantly,

But, of course, it was safer by night,

And there was only a hundred yards left,

Before they could say good-bye and take flight.

But the zoo-keepers became suspicious,

Realising that not all was still fine,

For leading away from the enclosure,

They spotted ten molehills all in a line

Next night they suddenly swooped,

And moved the armadillos to a new pen,

Where the floor was made of strong concrete,

Saying “let’s see you get out of that then!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Ordinary People

Ordinary People

They go to the supermarket

Pick up their children from school

Sit down to their teas in the kitchen

Then watch some evening TV

Sitcoms and serials the usual

Channel-hopping to find something cheerful

Chat shows and game shows

Perhaps ignoring the News

Sometimes they go to the pub

Have a chat with their friends

Or go off to the football

If City are playing at home

They’re married, and have been for years

A nice little house in the street

Maybe a car parked right there outside

And a garden to sit out when it’s fine

They have their worries, of course

And which of us can say that they don’t?

With prices going up it seems daily

Yet no pay-rise again on the cards

And when they’re in town on a week-day

They go into cafes and shops

Buy a lucky dip for the Lottery

And hope there’s a change in their luck

They sit right next to you on the bus

In the morning when they travel to work

And listen in to their music

To help make the time pass

They don’t look any different

Just ordinary people in so many ways

Nothing to make them stand out in the crowd

Or to show that they’re anything special

They don’t appear to be evil

Or look like marked criminal types

But what they get up to on their computers

Sets them apart from the rest

Their viewing and chatting and grooming

Goes on sometimes late into the night

But when you talk to them next morning

You’d never tell them apart from your mates

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Euclidean Love

Euclidean Love

Perhaps we may describe the shape of our love

The line between us being short

Having zero width and little distance

Straight and without angles

Proof, if it were needed

That we are on the same side

Two figures sharing the same plane of existence

The same dimension of being

Not parallel and un-meeting

But the volume of our bodies

Converging by degrees

The elements of our lives triangulated

To meet at the same point

Within the small circumference

Of a wide circle of space and time

A simple unopposed geometry

A fixed and solid truth

Governed by laws unseen

Non-tangential axioms

Equal plus equal being equal
The whole being greater than our parts

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 24th February 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 24^th February 2019

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

1.      D-Town’s Town Council was thrown into disarray when seven councillors on the left defected to the centre, three in the centre defected to the right, four on the right defected to the left.  Cries of “don’t panic”, “no surrender” and “don’t tell him Pike!” were heard around the Council chamber.  The numbers remaining in the different parties is now completely unclear.  The Parish Clerk said that it had been a very defective week in politics all round. 

2.     And further bad news for the local economy came when it was announced on Thursday that the local pet shop will be closing in 2020 with the loss of up to 3 jobs.  A company spokes-bot refused to confirm that the closure was in any way linked to anything else that anyone may ever have read in the press about a situation in regional politics that may or may not be happening elsewhere. Ever. Honest. Not at all.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Running For The Bus

Running For The Bus

I count myself a determined old bugger:

I didn’t want to be put out to grass.

Eventually a new vista opened,

When at last I got hold of my free bus pass.

I took to it like a duck to the water,

And used it to voyage about all over.

Soon I became a frequent traveller,

And was known as the “Off-Peak Rover”.

There’s but one bus a day from our village,

So you can’t afford not to be on board,

And when I saw the thing disappearing.

I was off in hot pursuit, and I roared.

The driver could see me, so gave me a chance,

Leaving the doors open as he moved away.

I was quite a wreck, as I leapt up on deck

But at least I still didn’t have to pay!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Pencil Case

Pencil Case

The bag sits upright, straight and packed

Books ready, folders loaded

Alert and standing to attention

And the new pencil case

Shiny, patterned, yet under-stated

Gold-bright teeth tightly zipped

Sheltering new treasures

Inky felt-tip pens rainbow-coloured

A set of HB pencils

Graphite honed to finest points

Compass and protractor

Plastic rulers all aligned

Packets of pins and paper-clips

Sorted and snuggled down

With sharpener and eraser

Ammunition for the new campaign

No broken points or shavings

No dust nor detritus gathered

Or yet cluttered in its depths

But clean, tidy, fresh, prepared

The very mirror of my mind

Open, hopeful, positive

Ready for another start

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Pork With Cider & Parsnips

Recipe for: PORK with CIDER & PARSNIPS –

Ingredients:

·        2 tblsp olive oil

·        1kg/ 2lb 4oz pork shoulder, cubed

·        2 onions peeled & sliced

·        2 celery sticks roughly chopped

·        3 parsnips peeled, cut into large chunks

·        2 bay leaves

·        1 tblsp plain flour

·        330ml bottle cider

·        850ml/ 1 ½ pints chicken stock

·        Handful parsley, chopped

Method:

1.      Heat oven to 160C fan

2.      Heat oil in large heavy lidded pan and brown the cubed pork in batches, setting aside

3.      In the remaining oil fry the onions, celery, and parsnips with bay leaves for 10 minutes until starting to brown

4.      Sprinkle in the flour and stir well

5.      Add the reserved pork and any juices back into the pan

6.      Add cider and stock and bring up to a simmer

7.      Add seasoning

8.      Cover the casserole and transfer to hot oven for 2 hours

9.      Stir occasionally

What else you need to know:

1.      Bring casserole to the table and sprinkle with parsley

2.      Serve with mashed potato & green vegetables

Saint Peter Has A Bad Day

Saint Peter Has A Bad Day

Hi there, everyone, the name is St Peter -

My role just couldn’t be neater -

I’m God’s old “meeter-and-greeter”

Outside Heaven’s multi-billion-seater.

I’m at the front desk receiving the hopeful,

Watching the queue where everyone waits,

For I’m the celestial sentinel

In front of those famous pearly gates.

Beyond them are clouds, and angels with harps,

Where nothing could be much cosier.

There’s heavenly music and haloes,

And for every meal there’s ambrosia.

Everyone would like to get in,

To enjoy rest in their eternal home,

But there are some tough criteria to meet

Before you get in to the pleasure-dome.

And that’s where I think the trouble starts,

With people justifying what they’ve been doing:

It leads to delays and congestion,

And we’ve no system of priority queuing.

Everybody comes here with an equal chance,

No matter how things might at first look:

All the good deeds and the bad deeds,

Recorded carefully in my master’s big book.

And they’re always in a bad mood,

Bearing in mind they’ve probably just died,

It can make them tired and tetchy,

Just like they’ve had their brains fried.

So you can imagine the abuse,

And what’s the reason for this? The cause?

When I ask them if they’ve been bad or good?

Even Lucifer calls me Santa Claus.

And if they get the unwelcome thumbs down,

And they’re condemned to fall from God’s grace,

They start shouting and arguing,

As they’re escorted off to The Other Place.

See, at the end of the day, I’m not Management,

I’m just an employee, which can irk -

I’ve got to be here twenty-four seven,

To carry out the Lord God’s dirty work.

  

Dealing with people day in, day out,

The negative procedure soon sours:

I mean, you never see God out here,

During any of these unsocial hours.

The queues and the disappointments

Are very upsetting, for Goodness’ sakes,

And I don’t get any paid holidays,

Nor any time out for toilet breaks.

I mean, don’t go getting me wrong,

It’s a very responsible position,

Holding on to the Keys of the Kingdom,

Fulfilling His Lordship’s great mission.

But I think I’m being taken for granted,

If you want my confession.

There’s no future in this organisation -

I can’t see any career progression.

So I’m looking around at what else I could do,

Something appropriate to my level.

There’s a strong rumour going around,

That Beelzebub’s seeking a new devil.

The pay’s only a little bit better,

But there’s fringe benefits as well.

Think I might give a try one day -

Can’t be worse than this – so what the hell?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

National Treasures

National Treasures

I’m fed up of being just normal,

I want people to get my measure,

So I’m thinking of applying

To become A National Treasure.

I want people to look up to me,

As if I were a great monument,

Perhaps pay me a little more respect,

And treat me like a real gent.

It seems fairly easy to do -

You just have to be ubiquitous:

Be famous for being famous,

And avoid being iniquitous.

Billy Connolly, Sir Cliff Richard,

Sean Connery or Dame Maggi Smith,

Clare Balding, Sir Bruce Forsyth

This is the company I should be seen with!

Benedict Cumberbatch is another,

Peter Capaldi – you know! Doctor Who!

Hugh Bonneville and Gary Lineker,

We’re surrounded by good guys and true.

You obviously need to live long enough,

Like Judi Dench or Cilla Black,

Or be a nice guy, like that Stephen Fry,

So they keep on inviting you back.

For these are society’s role models,

Celebrity leaders of our nation,

Liked by everybody’s sister and mother,

Examples that provide inspiration.

But notoriety and exposure,

Appearing in tabloids and all of that caper,

May not be quite the right thing after all -

There’s good reasons not to be in the paper!

I could mention that Max Clifford,

Rolf Harris, Jimmy Saville and Ken Dodd,

And Stuart Hall – each one a celebrity,

And every one turned out a real sod.

No - we’ve had to bring a few of them down,

So now we’re repenting at leisure -

I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,

I think I’ll stay as a hidden treasure!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

It's All In The Numbers

It’s All In The Numbers

We all know the old counting rhymes,

Like “one for sorrow, two for joy”,

But it carries on way beyond there:

Never mind “three for a girl and four for a boy”.

It’s a game of two halves, or even four quarters,

Sometimes it’s “a six and two threes”.

And Lotto and Housey-Housey

Can bring you down to your knees.

Some people have a lucky number,

The National Lottery can send you blotto,

With Scratchcards and the Thunderball,

And the forty-nine numbers in Lotto.

There used to be old Bingo calls -

Clickety-click and seventy-six trombones,

Two fat ladies and Kelly’s Eye,

Now everyone’s obsessed with their phones.

Heinz had Fifty-Seven Varieties ,

I admit I never understood why -

I think they just plucked out any old number,

In order to encourage us to buy.

And extremist jihadist martyrs,

Believed in virgins seventy-seven,

When they brought down the twin towers -

Yes, everyone remembers Nine Eleven.

And talking of in seventh heaven,

With ninety-nine red balloons in flight,

You’re bound to start losing the count,

Try however hard you might.

There were the Fab Four and The Guildford Six,

Joe Ninety and WD Forty,

And if you were three sheets to the wind,

Everyone would say that you were naughty.

Two and two can sometimes add up to five,

That’s when you’ve hold the wrong end of a stick,

It simply means that things don’t really add up,

So find another argument to pick.

A UB40 was for unemployment,

If a P45 had been your fate,

Then you needed to drown out your sorrows,

Until you were one over the eight.

Two’s company, and three is a crowd,

And to me that’s perfectly fine:

I’m ready to give one hundred per cent,

Because a stitch in time is said to save nine.

Do you remember 5-4-3-2-1?

That was a song sung by Manfred Mann,

But it got stolen, and they used it in Houston,

Launching their rockets in the space plan.

Now, I only know one man who called himself Dad,

But it’s of fore-fathers that people speak.

Don’t know what happened to the other three,

But does that make me into a freak?

And as each birthday becomes a bigger number,

I won’t be seeing fifty once again.

I mean – how long have we all got?

I’m told it’s only three-score years and ten.

And when I finally decide to go,

And they dress me in my wooden suit,

I’d like the appropriate send-off please,

With a twenty-one gun salute.

They say you’re as old as the woman you feel,

But as I go gentle into this good night,

Don’t say I didn’t give you the count-down,

Due to my incredible fore-sight.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 17th February 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 17^th February 2019

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

1.      D-Town was clearly divided in its opinions this week when it was reported in the local rag (The D-Town Dog-Botherer & Herald) that a feral teenager, who had previously left her family home in the borough in order to be with her feckless boyfriend in the terrorist state of Outer Trowvegas, announced that now she was pregnant with da yoof’s child, she wished to return to the warmth and comfort of her parents’ home.  She claimed that, as a 15-year old, she had been “groomed” with promises of deep-crust pizza and alcopops, but the her parents countered this claim as fanciful, stating that she had simply never liked being forced to eat her vegeatables.

2.     And shock and dismay greeted the news that local transport company StuffMyBus had gone into receivership, cancelling all journeys on the bus network, and stranding passengers in such exotic and foreign locations as Swine-don, Chip-Hole and Trow-Vegas.  The company had been struggling recently, running services at less than 40% capacity, occasionally only fulfilling journeys on more remote routes carrying only one man and his dog.  The dog was not available for comment.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine (an anti-dote to the hearts-and-flowers sentimentality of Valentine’s Day).

I have to say it’s been a bit slow lately,

In the “bedroom department” you know,

So I thought I’d tempt my dear beloved,

And try to bring back the old glow.

February four-teenth looked a good bet,

For that, as you know, is Valentine.

I thought that if I put in some effort,

Once again, our hearts could entwine.

I went and bought her some fine roses,

The best ones I could see in the shop.

It cost me an absolute fortune,

My funds had already started to drop.

Undeterred, I continued my bounty,

And I added a selection of chocs:

Nothing cheap, I really must emphasise,

Not a small one, but a very large box.

I wrote her poem, declaring my love,

And put it into her Valentine card.

It’s not easy writing poetry, you know,

It fact, I’d say it’s quite hard.

And finally I worked at the cook-book,

To present her with a very fine dinner.

I felt sure that this would win her heart,

I’d even say I was on to a winner.

I made our dining arrangements,

And over the details I took some pain.

There was soft, gentle lighting,

Mood music, and some pinkish champagne.

I hoped that she’d be impressed,

As she swooned over the effects,

And hopefully, when she’d eaten her meal,

There’d be kissing, and cuddling and sex.

But the best-laid plans of mice and of men,

Are often reputed to go far astray.

The course of true love rarely runs smooth:

I was in for a disappointment that day.

She was allergic to the chocolates I’d bought,

And she burnt her mouth on the soup.

The meal I’d cooked was truly awful,

And the sauce just tasted like gloop.

She thought my poem was real corny,

She scratched her arm on the roses’ thorn,

She got drunk on the champagne,

Which left my hopes all forlorn.

She went off to bed with a headache,

As can be a fair creature’s fashion.

I had to do all the washing-up,

And that was the end to all of my passion.

I was left on my own,

To sigh and to moan.

I’d wined her,

I’d dined her.

I’d thought that we two,

Would bill & would coo,

But it’s easy to see,

It just wasn’t to be.

So what lesson can we draw from this tale?

What should we take as love’s sign?

Well - if you think pink,

It’ll drive you to drink.

You know in your head,

That it won’t lead to bed.

So he’s got a lot to answer for, that Valentine!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Faith

Faith

Unknown where it comes from

Unbidden, worm-weaving

Inside hidden potential

Tendrils snaking into the crevices

Invading cells

And filling holes we did not even know we had

Casting a lifeline to the drowning

Helping the hopeless

Distracting the deluded

Succouring the simple-minded

With the power of anecdote

The personal testimonial

And imbuing simple correlations

Between unrelated phenomena

With the power of mystery and magic

Quasi-scientific language

Image and advertising

Belying of belief

Trading on trust

And the gap of gullibility

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Irish Potato Cakes

Recipe for: IRISH POTATO CAKES

Ingredients:

• 600g medium-size maincrop potatoes
• 50g unsalted butter, diced + 35g for frying
• 30g plain flour
• Sea salt & black pepper

 Method:

1. cook the potatoes in their skins for 20-30 minutes until tender
2. drain, peel & grate coarsely into a large bowl
3. add the 80g diced butter & stir to melt
4. sift in the flour, add seasoning & mix with a spoon
5. use your hands to bring the potato dough together
6. either roll out on a floured surface, or use your hands to pat into shape
7. cut out four 8cm  squares, then cut these in half into triangles
8. heat the 35g butter in a frying pan & fry the potato triangles in two batches until golden brown on both sides

 What else you need to know:

1. serve for breakfast with sausages or crispy bacon

Lost - One Pigeon

Lost

I’m sorry, but I’m too upset to talk,

I’ve had one awful helluva day -

My life has suddenly become empty,

Now that my pal, young Bob, has gone astray.

I’m going to offer a reward:

It doesn’t matter - whatever the cost,

For I’ve got to have that little chap back,

Now that he’s gone missing, now that he’s lost.

You’d probably do the same thing as me,

If you were feeling as miserable and down,

I’ll print some posters with his picture,

And pin them to poles all around town.

You see Bob could easily get lost in a crowd -

He’s just a pigeon, when all’s said and done,

But he was always my bosom companion,

And together we’d always had such fun.

As a pigeon he’s just a common breed,

Not fancy, not tumbler, nor homer.

I never thought that he might wander away,

That he’d become restless, or a roamer.

He’s a very special little bird,

Of which any man would be proud,

So I’ll give you a detailed description,

To distinguish him from the rest of the crowd.

He’s only about ten inches long,

Six inches tall and quite sweet.

He’s covered in black and grey feathers,

And he’s got dainty orange and pink feet.

He weighs just under a pound,

When he’s walking around on his deck.

There’s a special look in his beady eye,

And there’s little green hues round his neck.

His absence has left a hole in my heart -

I don’t know what I’m doing,

So your help I am wooing,

His little habits I’m ruing,

I miss his billing and cooing,

And even his constant pooing.

  

I need him back for my sanity -

The feeling is cutting,

My insides it’s gutting,

Hear me cursing & tutting,

I miss his beak jutting,

When he’s doing his strutting,

In his season of rutting.

I fear that he may be a target -

It hurts, but it must be confessed,

He’s quite a well-fed little bird,

And he bears a very plump breast.

He’s easily tempted by a few crumbs,

Just like the other birds in the town.

He flaps his wings quite a lot,

And his little head bobs up and down.

So please keep all your eyes peeled -

Together we can do a good job.

Mind, he could be dangerous if cornered,

So, remember, he answers to Bob.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Upon Waking

Upon Waking

Rousing slowly from a drowsing sleep

Still faint and frowsing

Morning light insinuates itself

Creeping unbidden under gummy eyelids

At the liminal edge of dawn

The last lingering strands

Of imaginings and of rambling dreams

Stretch taut like piano-wire, gently snapping

The final frayed threads of contact

With troubling night-time places

Receding, fading, disappearing

Among the jumble of tangled bedclothes

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Silbury Hill

Silbury Hill

Looming above us, occluding

We walk forward into its shadow

And for a while we are darker, cooler

Welcoming its shade on a hot day

We begin to skirt around

Following its rounded even contours

Till we emerge again minutes later

Beyond the ancient mystery

First the halo’d penumbra

Then the eye-blinding flickering flash

Of unfettered sunlight

The same people, yet changed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 10th February 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 10^th February 2019

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

1.      In a shock move this week, local serial entrepreneur Ivor Bigun, was given leave by D-Town’s Supreme Court to discontinue his action for libel against the local newsagent.  As a consequence, the previous gagging order was immediately lifted, and it was revealed that Mr Bigun had been accused of not paying his newspaper bill for more than two weeks on the trot, and that he had been a peruser of dubious “top shelf” publications.  The charges of bothering the newspaper boys was also dropped, after it was disclosed that the gagging activities had been entirely voluntary.

2.     And the Transport Commissioner in Trowvegas was reported as saying that there was a special place in the circle of hell for those D-Town councillors who had wanted to withdraw from providing the 18.23 express through service on the 49 bus route, without having any clear alternative time-table in place.  The remark came after a delegation from The Vize had pleaded for more time to hire a replacement bus service, since (in a further shock move) it had been revealed that the contract with a new bus company (with no buses and no bus-station) had previously been awarded a contract to run a bus service.  You couldn’t make it up.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

If That's The Truth (You Can Stick It)

If That’s The Truth (You Can Stick It)

They say that honesty’s the best policy,

That we all have a duty to be straight -

Well, I’m not so sure about that, my friends,

Or that the truth is really so great.

So let me tell you what I know to be true,

And let me speak exactly as I find,

Then you can all judge for yourselves,

And be ready to make up your own mind.

I’m getting older, and will get no younger,

I’m no longer down there, deep in the groove -

There are bits of me moving south-ward,

And everything hurts or creaks when I move.

I prefer Radio 4 to Radio 1 -

I find it easier on the heart.

I’ve lost track of pop music -

I’m turning into an old fart.

I no longer feel butch,

I don’t follow fashion and such,

My house is the size of a hutch,

My hands are clammy to touch,

And I’m drinking too much.

My clothes are out of date,

I’m succumbing to fate,

My life I’m starting to hate,

I never hear from my best mate,

And I’m well over-weight.

I owe taxes to the Revenue ,

That’s what it says on my statement.

I don’t have any money stashed away,

And now they’re chasing for late payment.

My children have flown the nest,

Even though I gave them my best,

I no longer pass every test,
I don’t get enough rest,

And everything’s gone West.

Sex is less interesting (or possible),

My libido’s right down on the floor.

I’ve lost touch with everybody,

And my girl-friend don’t love me no more.

  

We’re buggering up the planet -

Mankind just seems fixated on war.

It’s all greed and selfishness,

I sometimes wonder what it’s all for.

And the Universe is an infinite void,

Earth just a tiny, meaningless speck,

No other intelligence out there,

I mean – what the heck!

Seems like we’re here on our tod,

And, besides, there’s no God.

Nothing in life is fair,

It’s all wear and tear,

A long bloody nightmare,

Why should we bother to care?

I’ve got more than a hunch,

That as we take punch after punch,

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

Politicians deceive and they lie,

So I’ve become a cynical old guy,

No matter how hard I try.

There’s no answer to “why?”,

Children continue to cry,

The odds we can’t defy,

Life’s a bitch

And we’re all gonna die!

I may sound uncouth,

Bitter and twisted forsooth,

But ain’t that really the truth?

Seems to me that’s exactly the ticket –

We’re all batting on a sticky wicket,

But if that’s really the truth,

Then I’m afraid you can stick it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Land Of The Free

Land Of The Free

I was a great fan of the United States,

I just loved their American ways,

So I did the quite obvious thing,

And went to the West Coast for my holidays.

To California and Arizona,

To discover all that they had to show me,

Then on to the islands of Hawaii,

And to the shoreline of Waikiki.

The mountains, the forests and the deserts,

The Pacific and Los Angeles’ nooks,

The Salad Bowl of the continent,

Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonalds and Starbucks.

With pancakes, muffins and super-sizing,

Those yanks sure know how to eat a big meal:

There’s Taco Bell, and then at Burger King,

“WMD” simply means a “Whopper Meal Deal”.

There’s the Big Mac, slathered in Monterey Jack,

Tacos, burritos and Mexican food,

There’s Hershey Bars, in candy jars,

Eat what you want, whatever the mood.

Of course there’s gallons of Coke and of Pepsi,

Of Coors, and Miller, and good old Bud Lite,

Available in sizes up to a bucket,

And most of it tastes shite.

In San Francisco I wore some flowers in my hair,

Yosemite’s beauty left me beaming.

I enjoyed Uncle Sam, at the old Hoover dam,

And I did my share of California dreamin’.

I travelled down freeways and Inter-States,

Gambled in Vegas, Flew The Friendly Skies,

Got plenty of kicks, on Route Sixty-Six,

And discovered that chips are called fries.

But there’s only so much that one man can take,

And Country & Western songs started to pall.

I longed for a pavement, not a sidewalk,

And had enough of Cowboys & Indians, y’all!

So I left my heart in San Francisco,

Had quite enough of “yee ha!” and such manner,

Travelled back home to England,

Deserted the Star-Spangled Banner.

  

I’ve had enough of the flag of Old Glory,

As in the breeze it slowly unfurls,

I’m back living in our Scepter’d Isle,

And want no more of Hula-Hula girls.

I’m done for a while with The Union,

And our cousins there over the sea,

I’m finished with ice-hockey and baseball:

No more swimming and surfboards for me.

It might be the land of democracy,

Peopled by every immigrant wave,

But is it still “the land of the free”?

And is it truly “the land of the brave”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Courgette & Cheese Soup

Recipe for: COURGETTE & CHEESE SOUP

Ingredients:

• 1 – 2 lbs courgettes, washed & chopped
• 1 large white onion, finely sliced or chopped
• 50g butter
• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 1 tblsp flour
• 1 – 2 pints vegetable or chicken stock
• 100 – 200g mature cheddar cheese, grated
• Fresh herbs – thyme, oregano, parsley, whatever
• 3 – 4 tblsp cream, crème fraiche or greek yoghurt (or milk even)

 Method:

1. in a large pan melt the butter & oil, tip in the onion and cook gently for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Don’t let the onions colour
2. add the chopped courgettes & the herbs, mixing to coat everything with the buttery onions
3. add the flour, and keep stirring to coat everything
4. add the stock, enough to just cover the combined vegetables
5. bring to the boil, then lower the heat, cover & simmer gently for about 40 – 50 minutes.  Add a little extra stock if necessary
6. check that the courgettes are completely soft and that the liquid has thickened slightly
7. remove from the heat, then blitz with a stick-blender until completely smooth
8. return to a very low heat and add the grated cheese.  Stir until completely melted
9. add the cream or yoghurt and stir to incorporate

 What else you need to know:

1. great recipe for using up a glut of courgettes.  You can make this soup in large quantities & then freeze it
2. most types of cheese will do instead of cheddar, especially blue cheeses like stilton – anything which can be grated & will melt