Courgette Fritters

Recipe for: COURGETTE FRITTERS

Ingredients:

·        500g courgettes, coarsely grated

·        50g plain flour (or gram flour if you want pakoras)

·        4-6 spring onions, finely chopped

·        3 eggs, beaten

·        90g feta cheese, crumbled

·        Small handful mint, finely chopped

·        Small handful flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

·        1 garlic clove, finely minced

·        Zest of one lemon, finely grated

·        Salt & freshly ground pepper

·        Green chillie, finely chopped (optional)

·        Vegetable oil for frying

Method:

1.      Put the grated courgettes in a bowl, and squeeze out as much liquid as you can.  Only the solid matter is required.

2.      Add in all the other ingredients, except for the vegetable oil, mixing thoroughly.  You should end up with a fairly thick batter/ dough.  If it’s too sloppy, add a little more flour.

3.      Heat 3mm of oil in a frying pan, and ensure that it is hot enough by dropping in a small bread cube, which should brown in about 10 seconds.

4.      Ladle in large tablespoons-full of the batter, flattening each fritter with the back of a spoon.

5.      Do not overcrowd the pan – cook the fritters in batches & keep warm.

6.      Cook fritters each side for 3-4 minutes, until nicely browned, then carefully turn over and cook the other side for the same amount of time.

7.      Drain the fritters on kitchen paper and eat immediately.

What else you need to know:

1.      These are really easy to do & delicious

2.      You can vary the ingredients with different herbs, parmesan, more onion etc, or add a little chillie to make a kind of pakora

3.      Great as a vegetable side dish, or on their own with dipping sauces

4.      Best eaten fresh, but you can keep them in the fridge & reheat under the grill or in the toaster

The Lady Gail

The Lady Gail

Walking along the footway,

A path carried over a ridge,

Looking down at the old waterway,

From high, on top of the bridge.

Spying the weathered old barge,

Tethered to stakes at the edge,

The ropes twisted and tight,

Between the reeds and the sedge.

Thin metal chimney poked through the roof,

Emitting a steady smoke plume,

From the stove near the stern,

The thin galley, a shortage of room.

With fine, faded old artwork,

The reds, the greens and the blues,

Artful, intricate pictures,

Golds, yellows, several hues.

This girl had been beautiful once,

Though her paint had turned pale.

Now low, and snug in the water,

An old vessel, “The Lady Gail”.

Well-travelled, an itinerant,

Good body, mellowed face,

Wandering the waterways,

Moving on from place to place.

For days she moored there quietly,

Majestic, as if lying in state,

Resting her bones in the water,

Waiting, down near the lock-gate.

Then one day, towpath all covered in ice,

A space by the bank newly appeared:

The Lady Gail had slipped her mooring,

Just as I’d expected and feared.

No sign of her in either direction,

Her stay with us turned into history.

The cold water sadly deserted,

Her next destination a mystery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Splash

Splash

Driving home, cold winter night,

Dank, dark, snowing hard still,

Traffic bad, peering ahead,

Round the corner, over the hill.

Road and pavements all icy,

Sleet lying thick on the ground,

Windscreen wipers beating

Their regular heart’s sound.

Two boys at the side of the road,

Doing something I cannot observe,

Smashed my screen with a snowball,

Just as I emerged from the curve.

Momentarily startled,

Shocked, but keeping my nerve,

Holding on, juggling the steering,

Battling the skid and the swerve.

Thoughtless, stupid little fools!

Couldn’t they see what they’d done?

Nearly causing an accident,

All for their moment of fun.

The intention was never mine,

Couldn’t see the pothole was there,

But to be perfectly honest,

I cursed and sure didn’t care.

Wheels nearly striking the kerb,

Direction all in a muddle,

Skidding through the slush and the mush,

Scything through the invisible puddle.

A happy circumstance then ensued:

Suddenly it was all over in a flash -

A huge arc of freezing cold water,

Covered them both with a hell of a splash.

Blinding the aggressors -

What a battle they’d been in:

A cascade of retribution,

Soaking both through to the skin.

Instant, cruel justice,

Dispensed without any trial,

Leaving them both fuming,

Whilst I drove off with a smile.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

No Room At The Bin

No Room At The Bin (or why some women seem to need ten times more space in the bathroom than a man).

I went in to the bathroom one day,

To clean my teeth if I may.

But the space was all clutter,

And I started to mutter:

We can’t carry on in this way!

My few things like a toothbrush,

Were squashed together all flush.

And my black plastic comb,

In its own little home,

All sitting right there in a crush.

I couldn’t help but notice her wares,

Spread out on one of the chairs.

But the things I required,

Were pushed to one side.

To me this hardly seemed fair!

Mascara, lipstick & eye-liner,

Were spread out, like in a diner.

There were six lotions,

And plenty of potions:

A display much better than mine were!

I spotted three types of shampoo.

She’d say there were too few.

Conditioner & ointment,

And at this point meant,

I couldn’t get near to the loo!

I don’t mean to grumble or mope,

But I’m starting to lose hope.

For too many creams,

Are giving me dreams,

Of being hung by soap on a rope.

I see she’s got three types of razor,

But this seems not to faze her.

Depillatory action

Is gaining some traction,

And one of them looks to me like a taser.

This variety’s all very well,

But when you’ve got ten sorts of gel,

The new body scrub,

Arranged near the tub,

Is leading to a bath-time’s version of hell.

There’s every form of cotton wool:

We’ve glass jars of it quite full.

Some buds & some balls,

Right round the walls:

It’s time that we went for a cull.

To say nothing of her dental picks,

Flosses, discloser and sticks.

Just for her teeth,

It’s beyond belief,

And is only one part of her tricks.

  

Some of the creams & the products are pink,

Some of them are blue, but all of them stink.

To moisturise,

And hoist up her eyes,

She’s got potions all round the sink.

Don’t get me started on vitamins & pills,

Which with the cabinet she fills.

Some’ll be vital,

But some of them might’ll

Be fatal – perhaps one of them kills?

Even though it’s meant to be shared space,

I feel crowded in this grooming arms-race.

Because it’s replete,

I’m admitting defeat,

And I’m out of my depth in this place.

Now of my misery I’ll no longer sing,

But, there’s a question got me wondering.

With all of this stuff,

Is it more than enough,

Or is there any left of the real thing?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 27th October 2019

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

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

                                               

1.      Citizens in The Vize are once again waking up to the totally unexpected news that the clocks have gone back.  “It only seems like a year ago that we last put the clocks back,” one concerned person said.  “It’s almost like a regular thing these days.  Where will it all end?”  The Town Council are now considering launching a public information initiative, in order to head off trouble when the totally unexpected events of Halloween, Christmas and New Year occur in the next couple of months.

2.      People generally celebrated the return to GMT by simply waking up an hour earlier in order to enjoy the extra hour of daylight to the full.  Others are planning to spend the day adjusting their clocks and timers in their houses and cars, but possibly leaving the clocks on the cooker as they require a fifteen-page manual for instructions on how to adjust the time.  Others are looking forward to going to work on Monday morning with a spring in their step.  This new-found euphoria is likely to last until approximately 10.28am.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Everything Changes

Everything Changes (you can’t count on any of the old certainties, these days – what’s happening?)

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold:

It’s all entropy, we’re told,

But you get to depend on the way things are,

And certainties that never fold.

But now everything’s changing:

It’s enough to make you feel faint.

They’ve finished the Forth Road Bridge:

They used up their last pot of paint.

And as they lock the brushes all away,

Packing in a big shed all of their kit,

I’d love to look up at the great structure,

And say: “here – you’ve missed a bit!”

They’re telling us GMT will be no more -

Greenwich is going to the dogs.

They’re running now on atomic clocks,

In Paris! – it’s all a plot by the Frogs!

They say there’s a new particle:

They’ve seen a bump in the data.

It might be the missing Higgs-Bosun:

I’m glad they found it sooner, not later.

They call it the “God Particle” -

They’re sure that it’s there -

It’s been missing for quite a while now,

They’re looking down the back of a chair.

The Universe is expanding faster,

Faster than ever they thought.

It’s getting ever so big you know,

And the edges are still being sought.

Then they said that it’s full of dark matter –

That’s stuff that nobody can see.

So how they know that it’s there,

Well, it’s way beyond me!

Now they’ve come up with a new theory,

Which has got them all ensnared.

It’s buggering up all of the physics -

E might no longer equal MC squared.

Neutrinos are travelling faster than light,

For which there’s no reason or rhyme,

And if that’s true, which I very much doubt,

It just makes a right horlicks of time.

But it could explain some phenomena,

Like Doctor Who and Star Wars and Stargate,

Why things happen in the wrong order,

And why the buses always run late.

No, the old certainties have gone,

But there’s things you can always depend on -

Like bills and debts, and like death and taxes,

And toast always falling butter-side down.

  

Then there’s new promises that seem to be true:

Politicians will always keep lying,

And peeling very strong onions,

Will always leave you sobbing and crying.

The banks and corporates will make big profits,

And of tax loopholes make the very most,

But when they owe you any money,

You can be sure – “the cheque’s in the post”!

They’ll fiddle the interest rates if they can,

They’ll lie, they’ll cheat and they’ll steal,

Then they’ll lie to cover their crimes,

And live on bonuses of a level surreal.

Men will always chase women and girls,

Who never seem to heed the old warning.

For the worst of their promises will be:

“Of course I’ll still love you in the morning”.

So, you see, despite all this frightening stuff,

The Universe – we can’t do without it -

It’ll all carry on just as before,

And there’s buggar all we can do about it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Farewell My Lovely

Farewell My Lovely (I’m in a good relationship now, but my last girlfriend….well there was a bit of a problem…..)

Farewell my lovely, for I must go,

Though I’m not removed by any force,

I think that, for many reasons,

Our relationship has now run its course.

It wasn’t your dog that worried me,

Though his habits were certainly vile,

The postman’s out of hospital now,

And the locals don’t run for a mile.

I didn’t mind that you smoked,

Though sixty a day was over the top,

And though I couldn’t see you through the fog,

I never, ever begged you to stop.

I’d quite got over the look of your face,

Though it was quite odd of a sort,

Your crooked, lop-sided smile,

Topped off with a rectangular wart.

I looked beyond your cauliflower ear,

Your tattoos never gave me a care,

Your broken nose was never an issue,

Nor that your palms were covered in hair.

But I’ll admit that I got a few shocks,

The first time that we went to bed,

Before taking all of your clothes off,

Your whipped your wig off instead.

You know I’m no oil painting myself,

But I can’t deny that I was galled,

Having chatted up a blonde bombshell,

To find I was with a girl who was bald.

The surgical stockings came off next,

Which you hung up on the peg,

Followed by two pairs of tights,

Then unfastened your wooden leg.

I thought that this might un-nerve me,

But I didn’t want to appear pathetic,

Nor appear to be too un-grateful

At the sight of your pink prosthetic.

But when you took out your teeth,

And placed them on the bed-side table,

I could see them grinning at me,

And I didn’t think that I’d be able.

To love you in the way in the way I’d intended.

At that point, you remember, I turned shy,

And I had to look the other way,

As you removed your cheery glass eye.

  

You put it there in a glass on the side,

And it gave me a terrible fright,

As it stared at me -  not just at first,

But another twice in the night.

So, you see, darling my dearest,

I’m not usually one to moan,

But I’m still left wondering,

How much of you is your own?

There’s so many parts to your make-up,

That make you look so fetching and fair.

But I’m going to find a new girl-friend,

And I’ll make sure the next one is all there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Basque-style Salmon Stew

Recipe for: FISH – BASQUE-STYLE SALMON STEW

Ingredients:

·        1 tblsp olive oil

·        3 mixed peppers, seeded and sliced

·        1 large onion, peeled and thickly sliced

·        400g baby potatoes, unpeeled and halved

·        2 tsp smoked paprika

·        2 garlic cloves peeled and sliced

·        2 tsp dried thyme

·        400g can chopped tomatoes

·        2 – 4 salmon fillets

·        1 tblsp chopped parsley (to serve, optional)

Method:

1.      Heat the oil in a large lidded pan and add the peppers, onions and potatoes

2.      Cook, stirring regularly, for 5-8 minutes until golden

3.      Add paprika, garlic, thyme and tomatoes

4.      Bring to the boil, stir and cover, turn down the heat

5.      Simmer for 12 minutes, adding a splash of water if needed

6.      Season the stew and stir

7.      Lay the salmon fillets, skin-side down, on the top

8.      Replace lid and simmer for another 8-10 minutes until fish is cooked through

9.      Scatter with parsley and serve

I've Got A Little List

I’ve Got A Little List (with apologies to G&S – from The Mikado)

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,

I've got a little list — I've got a little list
Of society offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed — who never would be missed!

There’s the looters and the rioters out there on the street,

The people with sticky hands and stolen trainers on their feet.

Youths who hide behind disadvantaged backgrounds to cover up the crime,

But when it comes to working against it, just don’t seem to have the time.

There’s no real excuses for it, so I continue to insist:

They'd none of 'em be missed — they'd none of 'em be missed!

I’ve got 'em on the list — I’ve got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed — they'll none of 'em be missed.

There’s the dubious politicians and others of that kind,

And the self-appointed advisors – I’ve got them on the list!

And the government officials who don’t seem to pay it any mind -

They never would be missed – they never would be missed!

They’re just bad sorts abusing their privileged position,

At the tax-payers’ expense – it’s time we had an Inquisition!

I’ve got them on the list — I’ve got them on the list;
And I don't think they'll be missed — I'm sure they’ll not be missed

And there’s them that won’t pay their taxes, no matter how much they earn,

The Revenue let them get away with it – they never seem to learn.

There’s money stashed in Switzerland and out there in Cayman,

Using accountants who run rings around us mere laymen.

But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list,
For they'd none of 'em be missed — they'd none of 'em be missed!.

Corruption and self-serving are traits that run very deep,

No-one should expect them ever to desist,

For high moral standards are things that are hard to keep.

It’s a way of life that ever will persist.

Quiet whispers, taps on the shoulder, and smoky-room deals,

That’s the way to get things done, and how to oil the wheels.

You may put 'em on the list — you may put 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed — they'll none of 'em be missed!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Stone

Stone

They’re going to bombard it

With short pulses of ultrasound

The doctor sounds quite confident

That it won’t long be around

They hope it’ll break into pieces

Fragment into passable bits

But I’m not quite so optimistic

In fact it’s giving me the shits

What if it hurts?  What if it’s painful?

I’m not so sure that I’ll cope

I have to trust in these medical men

All that I can do now is to hope

The next stage is the laser

But that’s not much to my liking

Then keyhole surgery if it gets desperate

To kick the ass of this alien thing

It’s grim and it’s aching all day

It niggles inside of my kidney

But I’ve just got to get rid of it

Just how hard can this lozenge be?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

An Idiot Abroad

An Idiot Abroad (or the dilemmas of trying to choose a holiday this year)

I could be gay, with a good holiday,

If there was any point choosing,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

No, not even for boozing.

I’d be keener to be in Kenya,

It’d be neat to go to Crete

No, I just can’t compete.

I could do loads, over in Rhodes,

Or be well fed, while in the Med,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So I’ll stop home instead.

It’d be bliss, on the canals of Venice,

Or have a nice piece, walking in Nice,

I can’t even afford Greece.

I’d get fresh in Marrakesh,

The streets I’d comb, when in Rome,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

I think I’d better stay home.

I wouldn’t be at a loss, if I went off to Kos,

It’d be a great day in Montego Bay,

But I guess in Wiltshire I’ll stay.

I could take her to Jamaica,

She’d be glad in Trinidad,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So she’ll only be sad.

I wouldn’t fear her in Madeira,

I’d talk to her in Majorca,

But we can’t even get to Minorca.

She said I was a wanker in Sri Lanka,

Why couldn’t we loll, on the Costa del Sol?

Cos it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

(She’s not always a doll).

I could be ruder in Bermuda,

Or be a dago in Tobago,

But I just can’t afford to go.

It might be finer in China,

I long to be in Hong Kong,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So it’s here I belong.

It wouldn’t be hell in The Seychelles,

My heart reaches for their beaches,

It’s what economics teaches.

I hear it’s grotty in Lanzarote,

I’d be a goer over in Goa,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

Morale just couldn’t be lower.

I wouldn’t be a charley in Bali,

But I’d be free in gay Paree,

And it’s the World I want to see.

  

Just a breather in Ibiza,

Or we could booze on a long cruise,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

There’s just nothing to choose.

So no more of package tours,

My best friend just wouldn’t lend

So it looks like a week in Southend.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 20th October 2019

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

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

1.      After much political pressure, the Lord Mayor of D-Town has finally written a note to the milkman.  It requests that the milkman should continue to deliver two pints of semi-skimmed to the Council Chambers for another two months.  However, he has refused to sign this note, and has included another note which says that they don’t really want to continue with the milk delivery at all.  A third note, signed by disaffected councillors has sought a compromise by asking for just one pint of whole milk to be delivered every other day.  The dairy involved has said that it will look at these notes, but will not decide what action to take until it has consulted all 27 of its milk delivery personnel.

2.      And in other news, the welfare of the planet was again highlighted when a pensioner from The Vize managed to glue himself to the side of the No. 49 bus to Trowbridge on Tuesday.  Police, fire crews and para-medics were called to the scene to free the clearly distressed pensioner, whilst crowds looked on and cheered in his support.  Later, sipping tea and dunking a McVitie’s digestive, the man explained that it had not in fact been a climate change protest, but an unlucky accident when he had mistaken a tube of glue in his shopping bag for his purse, in an attempt to find his Rover Ticket.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

I Remember Amnesia (I think)

I Remember Amnesia (I think)

Have I told you this before?

Can I make this easier?

You can’t blame me for this,

I think it’s called amnesia.

Have I said this already?

I don’t want to tease ya,

It’s not my fault you know –

I think it’s called amnesia.

I don’t remember much.

I forget when I’m breezier,

Now, what was I saying?

I think it’s called amnesia.

My memories are slippery,

Elusive and greasier,

I just can’t hang on to them –

I think it’s called amnesia.

The other day I went – somewhere.

I must have had some sort of seizure,

It could have been anywhere,

I think it’s called amnesia.

I was wrapped up snug and warm,

Wearing something….fleecier,

But I can’t remember what it was,

I think it’s called amnesia.

I was talking to….somebody,

I think they were from Silesia,

But it could have been anyone –

I think it’s called amnesia.

Have I already mentioned?

I’m feeling a bit queasier,

Since whatever it was I ate –

I think it’s called amnesia.

I hope I’m not boring you,

I only want to please ya,

But the thing is that….

I think it’s called amnesia.

Now, have you all got that?

Oh, I wish this was easier,

Have I already told you?

I think I’ve got……

And now, I’d like to read you a poem

Called “I remember amnesia (I think)”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Where's Ya Bin Lately?

Where’s Ya Bin Lately? (or the tale of the bad-tempered domestic waste operative)

I’m up in the early morning -

You could say it’s up with the lark.

But all that I know is -

Outside it’s still bloody well dark.

The alarm sounds like a siren,

Right at the crack of the dawn.

I stumble straight into my clothes.

It’s another freezing cold morn.

Then I’m off down to the depot -

I can smell it before I even get close.

To meet up with the crew & the truck,

But it’s not worth holding your nose.

We put on our caps & thick leggings,

Together with some steel-toed boots,

And reflective jackets, thick gloves -

These form up into our business suits.

Then it’s off down the road to the first job,

Before the manager comes round.

That means parking for breakfast,

At this little café we’ve found.

It’s tea & it’s butties all round.

There’s banter & plenty of talking.

There’s no rush to get started,

On those miles & miles of walking.

The oldest bloke in the team is the driver,

The rest of us just follow behind,

Working at the back of the truck,

Dealing with garbage of all kinds.

The pay & conditions are poor,

So most of our bin-men are dross.

We’ve got no pride in our work,

In fact, I don’t give a toss.

We work our way through the streets,

Making as much noise as we can.

Nobody sleeps through our workings,

As we drop every bin with a clang.

We search through whatever’s left out,

To see if there’s anything worth keeping.

That goes into our special compartment,

And builds a fund that’s ours for the reaping.

Then we run through our reasons for rejections:

Bins that are too heavy for lifting,

Lids not quite closed or overfull -

Well it’s something we’re not shifting.

Bags at the side are not ours to do:

It makes it quite clear in the rules:

We’d be breaking our new contracts:

We just can’t afford to be fools.

  

Folks chuck away everything that’s messy,

And I don’t care what you think:

There’s no way it can be avoided -

Most of the bins really stink.

There’s rats and dead cats to look out for,

Cooking fats & things dripping with grease.

Watch as we leave a great trail of debris,

Right across the lawn you can follow with ease.

And don’t bother, or dare, to complain:

It’s really not worth your while,

Cause next time we’ll remember,

And leave all your trash in a great pile.

When the truck finally fills up with your rubbish,

We get a short break as we drive to the dump.

It all gets tossed into land-fill,

And lands with a ruddy great bump.

There’s short-cuts & some fiddles,

Too many for me to relate,

But we all go hunting for tips,

Some extra pay to create.

We let the chaps in the big houses

Talk us into shifting their trash.

We’ll shift anything you want, guv’nor,

Provided there’s enough cash.

But we’ve got to get through our quota,

Before we can knock off for the day.

The work is boring and relentless,

So we make sure we do it our own way.

And the toil is hard and it’s dirty:

We smell like the rubbish we’ve carted.

Everyone takes us for granted.

And recycling? – Don’t get me started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019