Heron

Heron

Daily at dawn and at dusk,

His ghostly glide-path,

Takes him down to his target.

A stealthy attacker,

Coming in from the blue beyond,

A large shadow in the sky,

Darkening the surface of the pond.

There he sits patiently waiting,

An expert fisherman on the bank:

A huge, hungry bird,

With an eye glinting and greedy,

Wondering which ones to target

From among the frightened fish,

Swirling in panic just beneath the netting.

It’s the battle to survive, the battle to eat,

And the battle to feed the young in the nest,

Which drives his hunting attitude.

The koi and the carp,

The orfe and the comets,

And the shimmering Shubunkins

Are my darling ornamentals,

But to him are just his dinner.

It’s a battle of wits between us:

Ever-watching, ever-vigilant,

Neither of us will give any quarter,

In the struggle to be the victor,

To be the one last left

Staring down into the water.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th September 2019

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

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

1.      It’s been a tough old week in constitutional terms here in The Vize.  On Tuesday the Supreme Higher Internal Trust (SHIT) unanimously ruled that Corporate Regional Acting Parliament (CRAP) had been wrong in its earlier decision the D-Town Area Management  Committee (North) (DAMN) had made to suspend itself.  It also over-turned a previous judgement regarding the Bromham Urban Massif (BUM) and the Chippenham Oversight Committee K-Division (COCK) which had sought to undermine local political democracy.  The Town Council will now meet by lying in a darkened room for several long hours, whilst they figure out how to get out of this mess.

2.      It is estimated that nearly half the 23 people trapped in Trowvegas, after the sudden collapse of Thomas Fuckit bus-lines during the week, have now been picked up by a replacement bus service and returned to D-Town.  Passengers still in Trowvegas who are still to complete their shopping, will be repatriated in the coming days.  Once completed, the bus-lift will have been one of the biggest peace-time transport operations since the breakdown of the local dairy’s milk-float in 1981.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Black Hole

Black Hole

It reveals itself again,

As Winter’s reedy grass recedes,

Down there, at the foot of the fence,

A hole into a blackness beyond,

Where creatures scurry who knows whence.

A trail, a path so obvious now -

Damp, dark and muddy,

Between the slats of wood, a funnel,

Leading into the undergrowth,

Entering a tangled natural tunnel.

Deserted passage in the day,

Abandoned so it seems,

While ever there is light,

But a busy feral footpath,

And crowded highway throughout the night.

Leaving the ordered,

The known and familiar land,

Where garden crops are sown,

The track-way dives through the portal,

And disappears into an unknown.

So my mind tends to flow,

A blackness revealed in Winter:

Bad thoughts, tangled, confused,

A dark hole of depression,

An old pathway, well-used.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Senior Escorts Limited

Senior Escorts Limited (or My Life As An Aging Hooker)

I get my assignments from the agency -there’s quite a few of us on the books.

I’m working for Twilight Escorts, for I still haven’t lost all of my looks.

I’m what they call a Silver Stallion, serving older ladies, with a quick wink.

You might have thought they were past it, but there’s more call for it than you might think.

I specialise in the older clientele: crusties, crumblies and old wrecks.

I’m not worried about their ages, as long as they’ll pay me for sex.

For everyone has needs to be met, and if I can speak to you frankly,

There are worse ways to spend your afternoons, than providing some hanky-panky.

For elderly widows get lonely, and just want to have some fun days,

But I think that it also helps that we do pensioner discounts on Mondays.

I can only handle one or two jobs in a day, but it’s not the energy that I lack.

I just have to be quite careful, or else I’ll put out my back.

My ladies have simple requirements, and don’t make complex conditions.

I’m not quite as lithe as I was, so I don’t do funny positions.

I’m clean and I travel quite light, and I’m one of their younger boys.

I don’t need much equipment: just baby-oil and one or two sex toys.

Afternoon is the most popular time and, I know that it sounds corny,

But it’s when the clients are mostly awake, as well as feeling most horny.

So, after I’ve parked my Zimmer frame in the hall, and perhaps been offered a medicinal whiskey,

It’s time to get on with the business, and chase her round the house, if she’s frisky.

It’s all straight-forward once in the bedroom, and I’m certainly not mocking.

I’m quite used to false teeth and false limbs, and rolling down their surgical stockings.

Medical appliances hold no fear for me, and I’ll also help with suspenders,

And afterwards we’ll share a cup of Sanatogen, and settle down to watch Eastenders.

But I can’t stay for too long at their house, even though they might make a fuss.

I can’t drive any longer at my age, so have to go and catch the last bus.

I’ve got my regular customers, but the flow is hardly a Niagara.

Still - my doctor’s quite understanding, and keeps me supplied with Viagara.

I provide a reliable service, and it’s one I think that appeals,

For my latest advertising slogan, I’m selling myself as “Feels on Wheels”.

We’re sponsored by Help The Randy, and other organisations you’ll learn.

Our latest out-sourcing contract is in support of Urge Concern.

Satisfaction’s not guaranteed, I feel I just ought to mention,

But what better way can you think of to fritter away most of your pension?

So if you’re in need of my services, and we cater for all sorts of ages,

Log on to our website at once, or look for us in Yellow Pages.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Chickpea & Coconut Tarka Dhal

Recipe for: CURRY – CHICKPEA & COCONUT TARKA DHAL

Ingredients:

·        1 ½ tblsp ghee or groundnut oil

·        2 onions, peeled, very finely chopped

·        8 garlic cloves, very finely chopped

·        3cm piece fresh ginger, peeled & grated

·        1 tsp ground turmeric

·        1 tblsp nigella seeds

·        2 tsp ground cumin

·        1 tsp ground coriander

·        1 tsp paprika

·        1 cinnamon stick

·        ½ tsp chilli flakes

·        4 cardamom pods, seeds removed and ground

·        2 bay leaves

·        2 x 400g cans, chickpeas

·        75g yellow split peas

·        400ml can coconut milk

·        450ml water

·        For the tarka garnish:

o   2 tblsp ghee or unsalted butter

o   2 shallots, finely sliced

o   1 tblsp cumin seeds

o   1 tsp black mustard seeds

o   ½ rsp chilli flakes

o   3 tblsp coriander leaves, chopped

Method:

1.      Heat ghee or oil and fry onion over medium heat until pale gold and soft

2.      Add garlic and ginger and cook for 2 minutes

3.      Stir in all the spices and cook for one minute

4.      Add all remaining ingredients and water

5.      Bring up to a simmer, turn heat down and cook for about 40 minutes until split peas are soft

6.      When nearly ready, make the tarka:

a.      Heat ghee/ butter and add shallots

b.      Fry until golden then add seeds and chilli flakes

c.      Cook until aromas released

What else you need to know:

1.      To serve, put the dhal in bowls, sprinkle on the chopped coriander, then pour over the tarka mixture

Don't Get Me Started

Don’t Get Me Started

“Hell is other people” said my mate Jean-Paul Sartre,

When he felt his nose was put out of joint,

But it’s awful the way that some people behave,

So I think he might have had a point

For life is full of many other frustrations

Designed, it seems, to drive me completely nuts

To imbue a mounting sense of futility

And to constantly grind away in my guts

Take the case of spinach, for example

A substance green, with the texture of snot

It’s claimed to be an iron-rich vegetable

But a fan of it I’m definitely not

Just don’t get me started on things that drive me mad

So many things that are just plain bad

Like food served on rectangular house slates

Instead of on proper round plates

And if I’d wanted my chips served in a basket

Then I’d have bloomin’ well asked for it

Mowing the lawn, waking before dawn

Tuna sandwiches with sweetcorn

You’ll probably hear me loudly mutter

About the disgusting snack of crunchy peanut butter

Beard-and-sandal-wearing lefties make me feel pale

In their relentless pursuit of craft real ale

Don’t mention quinoa, or green kale

People from Devon & Cornwall leave me fit to burst

Debating whether it’s cream or jam first

Their arguments I’d really like to shatter

Cos after all – it really doesn’t matter!

Littering, spitting and not picking up dog-shit

Foul & abusive language, and that’s not nearly the end of it

For I can no longer keep dumb

Over the curse of discarded chewing-gum

People who abuse disabled parking bays and signs

People who can’t park between the white lines

People who drive with no lights in the dark

People with cars they don’t know how to park

Sales reps with flash cars as their perks

And people that own BMWs, Audis and Mercs

SUVs on the pavement, hazard-lights flashing

Whilst into the shops their just dashing

The arrogance, the privilege I’d like to stem

As if the rules don’t apply equally to them

Cruelty to animals, fox-hunting and hare-coursing

Money-laundering, people-trafficking and labour-forcing

Queue-pushers, cold-callers and online scams

Facial recognition, CCTV and web-cams

Call centres, endless menus, and being on hold

Repeating the same information that you’ve already told

Automated supermarket self-service checkouts

Lager louts & ticket touts

Overcooked sprouts

People who eat smelly food on the train

Who don’t wash and smell like a drain

Boiled onions with tripe

Religious fundamentalists of ANY stripe

And I’ll tell you who’s a particular menace –

People talking about golf, or ski-ing, or tennis!

Unattended children & babies that scream

Mewling infants that shatter your dreams

Folks that won’t play as part of the team

People offended by everything it seems

Pre-packaged food & airline meals

Individual sachets with impenetrable seals

To listen to other people’s dreams is so dull

But better than people who talk with their mouth full

Charlatans, career politicians and liars

Climate-change deniers

People who are constantly late

Who are totally inarticulate

Who start every utterance with “so…”

When it’s their turn to go

People so posh they can’t talk

And eat bananas with a knife and a fork

Shop assistants who ignore a long queue

Then talk to someone else when dealing with you

People who can’t hold their booze

Stag parties and hen do’s

And what drives me right up the pole

Are dogs that are out of control

Their owners amused by my fright

Saying “he doesn’t often bite”

If only everyone was as tolerant as me

Things wouldn’t be so bad, sadly

You see the problem’s not really me

It’s all the others behaving quite badly

So if you don’t want to be really down-hearted

It’s a good job that you didn’t get me started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

The Girl At Greggs

The Girl At Greggs (other High Street Bakers Are Available)

I’ll tell you a tale of love unrequited,

That’ll drain your emotions to the dregs,

Of how I made a grand fool of myself,

All because of that gorgeous girl at Greggs.

She was pretty, she was down-right handsome:

About her there was nothing nasty.

She was real classy in her uniform,

And the Queen of the Cornish Pasty.

She moved behind her counter like a tiger,

Serving customers with a flourish.

And shortly I began to have feelings:

My romantic hopes I started to nourish.

Would she ever notice me all forlorn?

Would a girl like her even look twice?

Pining across the Starburst doughnuts,

Lusting after her savoury slice?

I worshipped the ground that she walked on,

I hoped that together we’d have fun.

I admired her loaves, both wholemeal and white,

Her tea-cakes, her croissants and buns.

But I wasn’t alone in seeing her charms:

There was a rival for her heart -

The man from the bakery fancied his chances,

And soon made a play for her mixed berry tart.

I couldn’t compete with his range of pastries,

His slices, and fancies, and pies.

And the size of his macaroons,

I could see, had really opened her eyes.

So she cared nothing for me, it was clear,

And I knew that I’d just have to lump it.

The bakery man had all the answers -

So he was the man getting the crumpet.

The baguette and the pain-au-chocolat,

No longer tasted so buttery rich,

I’d missed out on the special meal deal -

There was nothing filling my sandwich.

The coffee had become watery and thin:

It made me feel foolish and sick.

I’d not used my loaf to win her -

I was a pork pie short of a picnic.

My sausage roll seemed smaller next day,

And jelly had gone into my legs:

I began to feel like a real doughnut,

Pining for my beautiful girl at Greggs.

But she no longer works there I’m told,

According to breakfasting chaps.

I’ve moved on to Reeves on the High Street,

And I no longer dream of her baps.

Which just goes to prove that love is painful:

For an omelette you have to crack eggs,

And you can get your cream horn filled anywhere –

You don’t have to go just to Greggs.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Burglar

Burglar

Awoken by a bump in the night, a noise I wish could have resisted.

I didn’t want to investigate, but the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand, I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs, to discover who might be there.

There was a light on in the kitchen: so - there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him: “Hey! I’m armed with a big poker!”

I heard a noise and dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes was one I could hardly believe.

The youth, he was just sitting there in the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes, with cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening, slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

He wasn’t armed and dangerous, and there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t wear a long stripey jumper, nor have a bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me; in fact, he didn’t even frown,

Just said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! -and put those curling-tongs down!”

I said: “A man’s home is his castle – about that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes; in fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that as I was here now, he could guess how I must feel.

He didn’t have the heart to burgle, and from me he’d better not steal.

House-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be; the risks hardly make it worth-while,

Biting dogs and alarm systems were really cramping his style.

The hours were anti-social, always having to come in the night,

And he wasn’t getting much sleep, never seeing much of the daylight.

By the time I’d heard his story I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him; - well, I very near cried.

I saw him out through the door, once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future, and then I wished him all the best.

I locked the door behind him, reflecting on what we’d both said,

And, knowing that crime doesn’t pay, made my way happily back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered my wallet and keys he’d lifted,

He’d been back again in the night and all my valuables shifted.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd September 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd September 2019

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

1.      Citizens of The Vize came to the rescue of a poor woman who had swum all the way to Bradford On Avon (twice) to demand that Wiltshire Council allow D-Town to leave the Union with a Deal, only to be forced to swim back (twice).  Whilst the bad news is that we didn’t get a Deal, the good news is that the woman achieved a PB and a new World record for continuous canal swimming.

2.      And after last week’s revelations in the publication of his memoirs by ex-Mayor Willy Wontee, a new row has broken out after he revealed that he had broken the accepted, but unwritten, protocol that the Lady Mayoress should never be compromised, or directly involved in local politics.  Wontee revealed that he “may” have suggested that the LM “raise an eyebrow” or “give a come-hither signal” to voters in the Potterne Independence Ballot in 2016.  No posh boys were harmed in the making of this cynical crack.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Deer

Deer

Stumbling, I almost fall forward,

A stray bootlace dragged in the mud

Of the trail as I wearily walk,

So bend down to make the thing good.

Glad of the rest, but breaking my rhythm,

Quickly all fingers and thumbs,

Then looking up suddenly

I am almost struck dumb.

Frightened, but standing her ground,

Stands the trembling, terrified beast,

Staring unblinking straight forward,

Determined to face me, at least.

Not thirty feet between us,

The doe regretting her error,

Unwilling to turn her back upon me,

Despite her evident terror.

Time stands still for an instant,

The deer holding my stare,

No sound and no movement

For either of us, both fully aware.

Unmoving, the tableau continues,

A stand-off on the track,

Impossible to break away,

Neither can turn back.

This meeting of different worlds,

Here in the heat of the day,

Each uncomprehending the other,

The deer desperate to slip away.

Then a change of scent, or some movement,

Perhaps a sound somewhere to the right,

It takes just less than a second,

And she’s suddenly passed from my sight.

The bushes have swallowed her up,

And with a movement of some grace,

The lady has turned and fled,

Vanished, leaving without any trace.

I look about for her, of course,

Searching around everywhere,

But Nature has concealed her well,

Almost as if she’d never been there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

The Devil's In The Retail

The Devil’s In The Retail

Doing the shopping is always a chore, pushing a trolley down many an aisle,

But on my last trip down to Tesco, I saw something which forced  me to smile.

I’d come through fresh meat and groceries, and was just picking some bread from the shelf,

When I noticed a miserable presence: in short, it was the Devil himself.

I knew it was him from the pitchfork, his goat’s legs, his horns and the cloak.

There was his red face and his sharp teeth, and all round him there was a faint smell of smoke.

But there was something in his demeanour; I could tell that something wasn’t quite right.

He looked all miserable, pasty and drawn:  the demonic presence looked quite a sight.

Now I’m not a believer in Hades, but I couldn’t bear to see him that way,

So I asked Lucifer of his troubles, and this is what he sadly had to say:

“I’ve got a narrowing job description, and Forces of Darkness are facing huge cuts,

We’re out-sourcing Temptation Services, and minor devils are out on their butts.

And the price of gas goes ever upward, so we can’t afford to run the fires all night.

The Tormentors have asked for higher pay, and Hell’s budget has got very tight.”

Then he swished his forked tail around for a bit, and his visage looked dark, and of Death,

He had a bad case of halitosis, and he could have stopped a horse with his breath.

“You see - there’s a lack of believers; no-one these days gives much of a sod.

That’s meant re-structuring the heavens, and down-sizing imposed by the Lord God.

The Book of Revelation’s been revised, reduced to some lifestyle hints and tips,

The number of The Beast is One-One-One, gone are the Horsemen Of The Apocalypse.

Then there’s all of these Health & Safety rules, and the Human Rights of the bad sinners.

We’re not allowed to keep them all starving – that’s why I’m shopping for ready dinners.

The terrible reports on Trip Advisor were the straw that broke the camel’s back.

We’ve had to close the burning lake of fire, and Beelzebub’s been given the sack.”

Old Harry cut a figure quite forlorn, and he was far from a presager of doom,

The smoke no longer swirled about him, and his features showed up clearly his gloom.

He said he couldn’t stop chatting longer – if he’s late then his dog Cerberus yelps.

So I wished The Evil One “best of luck” – well, they say that “Every Little Helps”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Pork with Paprika & Olives

Recipe for: PORK with PAPRIKA & OLIVES

Ingredients:

·        500g diced pork (leg or shoulder)

·        Red onion – cut into thin wedges

·        2 garlic cloves, crushed

·        100g chorizo, cut into chunks

·        1 tsp smoked paprika

·        400g tin chopped tomatoes

·        300ml/ ½ pt chicken stock

·        400g can chickpeas, rinsed

·        100g green olives

·        Zest & juice of a lemon

·        Small bunch of parsley, chopped

Method:

1.      Heat oven to 150c/ fan 130C/ gas 2

2.      In oven-proof casserole with lid, season pork, then brown (in batches) in a little oil over a high heat. Set aside.

3.      Add onion & garlic to oil, cooking till softened

4.      Add chorizo & paprika, cooking for another 2 minutes

5.      Add tomatoes, stock and the cubes of browned pork

6.      Stir well, bring up to a simmer, then cover with lid & place in oven

7.      Cook for 1 hour

8.      Stir in chick peas & olives.

9.      Cook for another 1 hour.

10.   Stir in lemon zest, juice & parsley just before serving.

What else you need to know:

1.      The sauce in this is REALLY tasty

2.      Goes really well with crusty bread & a glass of cider

In The Eye Of The Beholder

In The Eye of The Beholder            

I wanted to be one of the beautiful people,

But was it the big thighs,

That led to my demise in their eyes?

Or was it the tattoos that caused them to refuse?

Or perhaps I’m somehow deformed?

Not properly “normed”?

Too short to be sought, too old to be sold.

Or is it because I’m too tall that caused me to fall?

Is it my poor looks, my nips and my tucks,

Or just my sagging buttocks?

They say they’ve tightened their criteria,

And their standards haven’t slipped.

But let’s get to the nitty-gritty:

I know I’m not that pretty,

But I don’t look that shitty –

Can’t they have some pity?

What is it they’re wanting? –

A view selective and snooty,

Where difference is excluded,

And the only pass-book is beauty?

This ghetto of symmetrical features can never reach us.

This apartheid of self-image - what does it teach us?

These discriminations,

Against different genes,

Can only lead to eliminations -

And we know what that will finally mean.

They need to take care,

Before this nightmare,

Becomes more than a game.

For dating and mating,

With too many of their own kind,

Will produce offspring that all look the same.

We need to celebrate the differences that make us all what we are.

The good, the bad and the ugly should all get over the bar.

So let’s cease this paranoia,

And let’s all be bolder.

I know I’m no oil-painting,

But isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Hashtag#

Hashtag#

Full stops bring us to an ending,

A closing of the subject or the sentence

And don’t get me going on connectors

A colonising colon

A sexy semi-colon

Or a dangling dash

Perhaps even a fading ellipsis…

Hinting that the sentence is not quite over

A feeling that there is still yet more

A suggestion of other possibilities…

And those other inflectors of punctuation

The question and exclamation marks

To create the question or the drama

Or those bristling brackets

Those luggage-expanding little marks

That let you cram in a little bit more

That will not quite fit in what you say

Ah, but if there were only one more way

To cast a smile or shadow over what’s just been said?

To add a note of humour, aching sadness, or wistfulness

Summary or sarcasm that makes the point?

A visual hint that means something more

To show that you’re up-to-date

Down with the kids and the twitterati?

Hashtag #punctuation

Hashtag #proseemoji

Hashtag #signofourtimes

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Magic

Magic

This is the face of Everyman

Dressed in casual shoes and jeans

There’s not a thing remarkable about him

But he’s more than he might seem

He wears a cheap and nasty watch

His glasses are smeared and show the dirt

His teeth are small and crooked

And he’s spilt some lunch all down his shirt

But he knows what he’s talking about

As he skims quickly through my notes

I’m know that I’m going to trust his judgement

And that he’s going to get my vote

For he’s a consultant and a surgeon

The man that will wield the knife

You say surgical procedure: I call it magic

Either way, he’s the man who’ll save my life

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019