So Close

So Close

I watched that film again today

I’ve seen it a few times before

It only lasts a few short minutes

Showing life as it was once before

Taken from the front of a rolling tram

It follows tracks from the centre of town

Up the hill, and along Manningham Lane

As far as the park, then turning back round

The footage is jerky and grainy

Flickering, faulting, the focus all over the place

The horses and carts, the men in their hats

The girls in their bonnets, hiding their face

And I know every one of these houses and streets

Every tram-stop along the way

It might have been a hundred years ago

But to me it looks like only yesterday

And it’s more than just the memories.

The familiarity and the knowledge of years –

There’s something about almost being there

That brings me quite close to tears

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

The Great Indoors

The Great Indoors

So here I am in the Great Indoors

Staring across the wide and empty space

Trekking through the lonely Dining Room

Towards the vacant Kitchen place

I’m travelling around my Living Room

I’m having a long soak in the tub

I’m watching Coronavirus Street

Where they still gather in the old pub

Gazing through the grimy windows

Outside at the vast unblinking sky

I’m waving the white flag of surrender

This self-insulation’s gone rather dry

I’m walking round and round the garden

Staying at home and doing my bit

Feeling a sense of social isolation

And quarantine’s feeling a bit shit

When this is all over we’ll have a great party

Hugging and kissing a-plenty

I’m returning this year as defective

Already had enough of Twenty-Twenty!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel from Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th March 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 29^th March 2020

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

                                              

1.      No-one knows what has happened in D-Town this week because no-one has dared to go outside.  Lonely faces have been spotted staring out of windows, wondering what the hell is going on.  Traffic-lights have been changing through their sequences despite their being no cars to speed through on red.  The weekly ritual of watching the bacon-slicer in action in the window of the local butcher has been abandoned, because there is no-one to wind the handle.

2.      The first of a series of council-sponsored rescue buses have left Swindon and Trowbridge to bring citizens home to The Vize.  People arriving in the Market Place after a nearly 40-minute journey looked frightened and exhausted.  They will now be required to self-isolate for 14 days, and will be monitored by a team from the local hospital.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Girl Leaving

Girl Leaving

It’s that time late Sunday afternoon

A time that both of us knows

There’s no way of avoiding

The curfew when you have to go

I’ll tidy up the drained coffee cups

The two empty bottles of red wine

The plates we left in the kitchen

One of them yours, one of them mine

I’ll make the bed and straighten the sheets

Clear up the mess that we left behind

It’s a kind of displacement activity

Or some phrase of that kind

The weekends are always too short

Precious time that we’ve stolen away

But a few more memorable moments

Before the onslaught of each Monday

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Fish & Chips

Fish & Chips

Stranded in a strange city recently whilst working away on business, I was staying at a local B&B. 

As there was no dinner on offer, and finding that my hunger pangs were starting, I set out in search of some fish & chips.  I really fancied some fish and chips.

I couldn’t wait to smell the hot fat, to see the glistening golden batter, to eat the mushy peas, the whole lot drowned in salt and vinegar.  My mouth watered in anticipation.

My appetite thus whetted, I set off into the night to seek my quarry. 

The trouble was I’d no idea where to go, as I wandered onto the nearby High Street. 

I decided to stop and ask directions of a man just passing by.  He looked like a local.

“Excuse me,’ I said.  “Are you a local?  Do you know the area?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Are you lost?”

“Not exactly,” I said.  “I’m looking for a fish & chip shop.  I really fancy some fish & chips.”

“No problem,” he replied.  “I can tell you exactly where to go.”

The directions he gave me were as follows:

-        Straight along here for 50 yards.  Go past Chick-O-Land, The Chicken Box and KFC

-        Turn left by Tennessee Chicken.  There’s a branch of Cluck-It on the opposite corner

-        Go past King Chicken, Chunky Chicken and USA Fried Chicken, but not quite as far as Chicken Ranch

-        Hang a right turn.  You’ll see Mister Chicken, Favourite Fried Chicken and Dixie Chicken on your left

-        And New York Chicken, Chick-O-Lite and Chick-O-Land will be on your right

-        Carry on along there for 100 yards or so till you reach Chicken Cottage

-        Turn left at Sam’s Chicken, past Chicken House and Best Fried Chicken

-        Until you see Mother Clucker and Coq Fighter

-        Now this is the only tricky bit – ignore Krunchy Fried Chicken and Lulu’s Chicken

-        And keep to the left of Chicken Shop and Chicken Town

-        Go past Chicken-Fil-A, El Pollo Loco, and Finger-Lickin’ Chicken

-        This’ll bring you out into the Market Place.  So you’ll see branches of Chickin-Lickin, Chicken Dippers, Land-O-Chicken, Wing Stop, Thunderbird, Red Rooster, and World-O-Chicken

-        Cross over into the far corner between Church’s Chicken and Chick-Chick-Chicken

-        And it’s down that road – you can’t miss it!

I thanked him for his help, turned my collar against the wind, and set off into the night

Finally I reached my destination and in the distance I could see the illuminated sign – “In Cod We Trust”

I rushed into the shop, tired and hungry after my trek, looking forward to my meal

“Large cod, chips and mushy peas, please!” I cried in exhaustion and relief.

The rotund gentlemen behind the counter, the Fat Frier responded in the negative

“Sorry mate – you’re too late.  I’ve just completely sold out of fish!”

“Oh no!” I ejaculated, the disappointment in my voice as clear as a bear’s intention when entering a wood

“But I’m starving!  And I’ve come all this way!”

“No worries mate,” he responded calmly.  “I can easily fry you some chicken!”

I ran from the shop screaming.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Marmite & Poppy-Seed Cookies

Recipe for: MARMITE & POPPY-SEED COOKIES

Ingredients:

·        100g wholemeal flour

·        100g plain flour

·        150g unsalted butter, chilled, chopped in cubes

·        3 tsp Marmite

·        1 tblsp poppy seeds

Method:

1.      In a large bowl mix two flours together

2.      Mix in the butter until it forms fine crumb

3.      Add the Marmite & mix evenly

4.      Roll the mixture into a sausage shape on clingfilm, wrapping tightly

5.      Chill in fridge for at least 30 minutes

6.      Heat oven to 180C

7.      Line baking tray with baking paper

8.      Put poppy seeds onto a board and carefully roll the sausage to coat the edges

9.      Cut sausage into discs/ rounds & place on lined tray (leave room for them to spread)

10.   Bake for 12 – 15 minutes

11.   Leave to cool

Bridlington

Bridlington

The long promenade still remains

As does the old lifeboat slipway

Descending to the golden sands

The railings corroded in the sea-salt air

The blackened break-waters disappearing into water

Stumps rotting in the slop of the tide-swell

The walkway threads its way

Around the old Spa Pavilion theatre

Where the seaside Summer season no longer runs

The TV comedians and variety acts long departed

In favour of the one-night-only tribute acts

But the cast-iron plaque is still there

If you know just where to look

Paying tribute to Wallace Henry Hartley

Principal of the once municipal orchestra

Ten years before he sank with the Titanic

Playing “Nearer My God To Thee”

And following the fold of the land

The harbour wall extends out to the fish-dock

Where trawlers and drifters once jostled for space

Before the Icelandic Cod Wars

And the death of the fishing industry

The wharves once crowded with nets and lobster-pots

The sheltered inlet now silted up and muddy

Hosting but a small collection

Of private yachts and skiffs

Yet still the dads and their lads

Go crab-fishing from the end

And the aging Yorkshire Belle touts for tourists

Several trips a day, voyages around the bay

Or up to Flamborough Head

But not too many takers on this rainy morning

Gone forever is the novelty rock emporium

And many of the old cafes

The back-street boarding houses

Proffering B&B or weekly terms

And the glorious Spa Hotel

No longer grand, but small and seedy

Converted into retirement apartments

Its sunny dining-room now the Residents’ Day Room

Providing views out across the swelling sea

And the lifeboat-house has moved

To a smaller, modern place

The picture-house is closed

The pubs are boarded up

And the streets allow only pedestrians

Or wither within the new One-Way system

Yet some things always stay the same –

The flashy Fish n’ Chip shops

Cockle and whelk stalls

Dressed crabs and winkles

The glittering amusement arcades

And the tacky Fun-Fair on The Front

With its tatty dodgems, ghost train and carousel

The ferris-wheel turning slowly, empty

The Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

The buckets, spades and windmills

And the wail of fretful children

And, there, in a dusty doorway

A dishevelled man crouches, down-at-heel

Shaking, shabby and deprived

His face once handsome

His spirit broken, lost and lonely

His faded glory an emblem of the town

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Panic-O-Virus

Panic-O-Virus

There’s been an epidemic coming

It’s been on its way for simply ages

It’s been building up its power

And now it’s in its final stages

The symptoms are easy to describe

And include a sudden worry onset

Followed by a raise in temperature

And nervous twitching -that’s what you’ll get

Panic is a bug extremely infectious

(And also contagious we’re being told)

It’s worse than mere anger or jealousy

Once it’s got you, and taken its hold

It’s spreading by daily contact

From those who’ve travelled far around

Yet the virus itself is quite invisible

And its compass knows of no bound

If you catch it you’ll soon feel hot under the collar

You’ll want to go out and do your panic shop

And, like the others who’ve caught it,

Purchase so many toilet rolls that you’ll drop

You’ll be overcome by greed and by envy

Empathy to you will become a lost cause

As you seethe, and tuck into your dinner –

Lovely dried pasta in an antibacterial sauce

You need to get out there – go forth and panic

And infect with panic everyone you see

Then they can pass on the panic virus

Until the panic has spread through society

We need to get this to epidemic proportions

Until the Earth upon its wobbly axis tips

Otherwise it’s wasting the best chance we’ve got

Of creating a true zombie apocalypse

To engender a new land of confusion

Where worry and panic become endemic

Rising to record levels of total hysteria

And fomenting a total panic pandemic

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Self-Isolation

Self-Isolation

We’ve all been told to stay at home

Self-isolate whilst this Covid-19 thing rages

And not just for a mere fourteen days

But for absolutely bloody ages!

Don’t go out and spread the disease!

Don’t panic, or over-stock yourselves!

There’s no need to buy so many toilet rolls!

You don’t need to empty all of the shelves!

But what to do with all those empty hours?

How to pass the time when I’m all by myself?

Maybe a chance to complete those unfinished jobs

Like finally putting up that bathroom shelf?

I’ve cleaned the house from top to bottom

And I’ve re-decorated three rooms already this week

I’ve done all the washing and all of the ironing

And I’ve not nearly got near to my peak!

My CDs are now alphabetically arranged

And I’ve been through all of my DVDs

This constant round of activity

Will surely bring me down to my knees

Already I’m feeling totally knackered

Dashing around the house is making me dizzy

But I’m staving off the worst of the boredom

By keeping myself so thoroughly busy

I’ve eaten almost everything in the fridge

And the freezer’s looking increasingly bare

I may have to venture to the supermarket later

That’s if I can summon the nerve to dare

Meanwhile I’m making meals from what I can find

Things from all around the house

Tonight it’s going to be made from scouring pads,

Some shoe polish, and a tiny dead mouse

The garden’s looking immaculate

Better than it has done for many a year

It’s my only chance to get in the outdoors

My only real exercise I fear

I’ve read all my books and magazines

For anything new I’d almost grovel

But on a more positive note -

I’ve nearly finished my second novel

  

There’s no more live sport on the telly

So everything’s closed to my view

And the BBC’s stopped filming Eastenders -

Well, at least that’s one piece of good news!

Of course I’ve started talking to myself

It creeps up on you, alone day after day

But the worst thing about it all

Is that I’ve run out of new things to say

My hair has grown long and quite straggling

And my beard is now several inches long

Should I be bothered to shower each day?

Would that really be terribly wrong?

And there’s a new thing to worry about -

What if someone comes to the door?

Will I have to pretend not to be in?

Will I have to hide by lying on the floor?

Do-gooders can be awfully persistent

That’s just one of my several gripes

What do I have to do to keep them away?

Pick up the ukulele, the banjo or bagpipes?

There’s a few of us thinking of getting together

But the idea’s not just for a social meet

We’re forming a raiding party just in case

An Ocado van ventures into our street

How long before the drugs and the beer run out?

How long am I expected to last?

When will all of this be finally over?

When will the epidemic have passed?

Dear Lord, give me strength to hang on to my sanity

Let me live to see how the virus news trends

I just want to still be around to witness

When the DFS sale finally ends.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd March 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd March 2020

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

                                              

1.     DIY stores in D-Town have been inundated as people trapped at home by Covid-19 precautions turn to home decoration.  Not since the Napoleonic War have people’s houses looked so well-maintained and their gardens so well-kept.  The phrase WFH (meaning Working From Home) has now come to mean Wasting Time From Home, Walking Round In Circles From Home, Wanking From Home, Washing From Home. Writing From Home and Whiling The Time Away From Home.

2.     The stores have also sold out of two metre-long bargepoles, as people attempt to socially distance themselves from one another.  Wannabe lovers, previously rejected with the withering phrase “I wouldn’t touch you with a bargepole” are now feeling confident and smug that they are unlikely to catch the virus under any future circumstances.  Equally, delivery drivers with MyHermes and CPD, practised in the art of not ringing doorbells but merely throwing parcels over the fence or wall before running back to their van, are now feeling fully justified in their actions.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Hail To The Experts

Hail To The Experts

The Internet’s bulging with information

On Coronavirus, called also Covid-19

The data’s overwhelming it seems

It’s filling up most of my screen

There’s statistics and predictions,

Projections on the spread of disease

It’s easy to access by Googling

Advice designed to put you at ease

Lots of stuff about washing your hands

Which will help us all very much:

Voluntary self-isolation,

Social distancing tactics and such

But I’ve decided not to bother

With such a comprehensive source

It’s an awful lot of detailed reading

When I could go to the mouth of the horse

Turns out my next-door neighbour Sheila

Is an expert virologist – who knew?

She tells me everything I need to know

And is quite clear what it is I should do

And my mate Dave, who’s lives down at the pub

Is an epidemiologist in his spare time

He’s got plenty to say on the subject

Not listening to him would be a crime

Then there’s Dick the keyboard warrior

Who can prove that the whole thing’s quite deep

A conspiracy by dark secret forces

To brainwash us mere compliant sheep

Not forgetting Mary at the local shop

Who assures me it’s all due to lack of faith

If only we’d pay more attention to Jesus

And heed everything that he saith

There’s Terry’s the local expert politician

And he’s quite clear who’s to blame

It’s letting all these immigrants in

Closing our borders should be the game

So there’s no need to burden myself with the facts

No need to get confused by the Government

I’m surrounded by these bloody experts

And I’m sure they’re all very well meant

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Panic

Panic

Last winter someone heard a snowflake drop

They were feeling full of anguished dread

So they rushed down to the supermarket

And they bought up fifty loaves of bread

And milk enough to last for thirty days

That emptied all the shelves

Not worrying about anyone else

Just looking out for their selfish selves

And now there’s something in the air

With origins that are rare and vague

There’s infection and contagion

There’s coming pestilence and plague

And suddenly everybody’s short of stock

Of hand-sanitiser and liquid soap

And merely trying to buy toilet rolls

They’re running out of hope

For they fear the bugs and beasties

The things that will make them ill

So they’re stocking up with drugs,

With potions and every kind of pill

They’re hoarding many types of pasta

All across the British Isles

They don’t trust the old supply-chains

They’re busy fighting in the aisles

Wringing hands and ringing tills

Panic-buying, Headless Chicken Syndrome

Soon they’ll be in self-isolation

Siege mentality, holed-up in their home

Locked up and in a total lock-down

No more touching or social contact

Forever washing their hands

The odds against them all are stacked

So we’ve had the forty days of floods

There’s a chance that we’ll all go bust

And now we’ve got this pestilence -

What next? – a swarm of locusts?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Honey & Mustard Ketchup

Recipe for: HONEY & MUSTARD “KETCHUP”

Ingredients:

·        2-4  medium onions, peeled & very finely chopped

·        4 cloves garlic, peeled & very finely chopped

·        2 tblsp oil

·        2 tblsp light Muscovado sugar

·        2 tblsp honey

·        4 tsp English mustard powder

·        1 tsp ground cinnamon

·        2 tsp turmeric

·        1 tsp salt

·        1 tsp fresh-ground black pepper

·        6 tblsp cider vinegar

·        4 tsp wholegrain mustard

Method:

1.      In a large frying pan, gently fry the onions & garlic in the oil until lightly golden (do not brown)

2.      Add the remaining ingredients, one by one, stirring all the time over a gentle heat

3.      Cook slowly until the mixture thickens slightly

4.      Keep tasting, adding more mustard or honey (and salt) to taste

5.      Whilst cooking, sterilise suitable glass jars (by washing then heating in the oven), ready for the mixture when it’s cooked

6.      Using a plastic funnel, decant the mixture into the jar (s)

What else you need to know:

1.      You can change the flavour by adding more honey (sweeter), more mustard powder & pepper (spicier)

2.      You can change the texture by straining the mixture through a sieve, keeping back some of the solids, if you want a smoother mixture.  Or you could use a hand-held liquidiser.

Empty House

Empty House

I may have been mistaken

When I heard another door

At the far side of this room quietly closing

At the very second I entered

Leaving someone else’s breath

A feeling of their presence

Within the empty space

Yet there is nothing here

Except this puzzling void

Pregnant with the possibility

That the designer of these rooms

Is inside this labyrinth

And may still be here walking somewhere

Just beyond where I can see

The next door is locked

The handle rattling in my hand

And I must retrace my weary steps

Back from an unexpected cul-de-sac

Only to think that he is now behind me

Yet when I turn to face him

There is no-one there

His elusive presence troubles me

As I seek him out without success

For whilst it may appear

That our paths must have crossed

At some time upon my search

I cannot find any clear sign

That he was ever really here

At times I believe that I am quite alone

Inside this deserted edifice

Yet then I hear faint sounds

Just beyond where I am standing

Which defy all definition

I worry at this illusion in my mind

The elaborate trickery

Or circularity of perception

Turning round upon itself

Allowing me to almost see

Myself disappearing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Unanchored

Unanchored

Her leg hangs languidly

Over the side of the lounger

Above long- forgotten drinks

Their ice melted in the heat

On the light-bright surface

Of the blinding polished deck

Amid a tangle of abandoned magazines

Crumpled pages colour-bleached

Lost beneath the relentless, blazing sun

The yacht wallows gently

Shallowed near the shore

Warm water cradled

Swinging slowly round

Shifting position, drifting with the tide

In the heat-baked afternoon

Where nothing stirs

And there is not a breath of air

Nor any breeze to cool the burning day

Suddenly aroused, the girl looks intently

Towards the shimmering island

Alert to its spice-infused aromas

Believes she hears it calling

Feels the bow pull against the chain

Dragging the light anchor

Through the soft white sand

Beneath the gin-clear water

Where acid-blue fish dart

Between shafts of flickering sunlight

She aches to step ashore

To feel the firm-ness of the Earth

Beneath her naked feet

A home to hold on to

A fixed point within her orbit

Un-shifting, unchanging

A steady, stable foundation

Where she could remain

Upon which she might build a life

And feel that she had finally arrived

At some long hoped-for destination

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Waiting

Waiting

I pushed my way through the throng to the bar,

My ears assailed by drink-induced sound.

I’d put off it off as long as I could –

It was my turn to get in the next round.

Two lagers, two beers and a Guinness:

I knew that this wouldn’t be cheap.

But when I’d found my way to the target,

I saw that they were standing three deep.

I waited, I wheedled and I pushed,

I wormed my way through with a grunt.

Finally I crawled under their legs,

And eventually came up at the front.

They were all shouting and yelling:

Everyone was giving it a try,

Waving their fivers and their tenners,

Trying to catch the barmaid’s lazy eye.

She moved with the speed of a retarded sloth

On Mogadon, or a backward old tortoise.

Unimpressed by the frenzy of punters,

As if life itself held little purpose.

She took several passes, to find the right glasses,

To serve out pale ale or strong cider.

She poured gin-and-tonic, in a state catatonic,

And for beer, needed an old dog to guide her.

Some ice and a slice were beyond her:

Optics, mixers and bottles bemused her.

She couldn’t add up for toffee,

And the till completely confused her.

All around me were desperate people,

Yet from serving them quickly she shrunk.

With service at this glacial speed,

There wasn’t a chance of getting near drunk.

Empires rose and fell, and Hell froze over

In the time it took to serve out one cocktail,

And the period to complete one round

Was measured on the geological scale.

Nothing seemed to sir this girl up:

She was the world’s slowest barmaid.

By the time she served the guy next to me,

He’d lately died and his body decayed.

  

But I hung on in there, pinned up at the front,

Trying to catch her with a nod and a wink.

I might be several years older now,

But I was determined to get me a drink.

Galaxies formed, and faded away,

And the Universe fell in disorder.

Till she, at last, asked me what I wanted

And, finally, it was my turn to order.

But time had moved on, my memory gone,

I must have looked like a proper chump -

I’d forgotten the drinks that I’d come for,

And on the bar, my head I started to thump.

I racked my brains for some answers,

But there were only “ifs” and “ands” and “buts”,

And that’s why we’re all drinking crème de menthe,

To wash down our pork scratchings and nuts.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th March 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th March 2020

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

                                              

1.     Panic has now set into the streets of D-Town as a row has erupted over whether there is a need to panic or not.  The Town Council is advising that, based on the scientific evidence, a gradually escalating level of panic would be the most appropriate.  The opposition parties are saying that this is an inadequate response, and that we should all be panicking a lot more.  Retailers have suggested that there is no need to panic at all.  Anarchists in the town are stating that a huge level of panic is the only credible response in the face of the pandemic.  Social media is alive with panic and no-panic stories.  And finally the World Heath Organisation has advised that five episodes of panic per day, as part of a balanced diet of panic, is the best approach.

2.     D-Town University of Medicine (DUM) is to start a new degree course in Pandemic & Panic Studies (PAPS) leading to a BA qualification.  The three year course will involve studying the underlying sociological causes of panic in the face of an ongoing global coronoviral epidemic, together with practical work in the field, involving panic-buying, supermarket shelf-clearing and re-stocking, toilet-roll storage solutions, cooking dried pasta in an anti-bacterial sauce for a family of four, and immersive self-isolation strategies.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Steam

Steam

A heavy grinding, churning sound assaults the senses

Blacks out everything around, a skull-shaking

Teeth-rattling, deafening intensity of shuddering

The platform vibrating, juddering asunder

Then, dirty grey, clanking, slowly rumbling past

Spitting waste into a slate-grey sky

Hot, black, sooty smoke blown from chimney-stack

Hissing, wheezing steam escaping valves and joints, orifices

Leaking clouds of white, dripping water dribbling

Down onto cold wet, coal-black tracks beneath

Hot iron’s sound and smell, coal and fire and oil

And the whispering pressure of the boiler

Hard, heavy turning wheels, slow shimmering spokes

Across glittering rails of steel

Its pipes and pistons, rods and linkages

Crank and turn the shining driving gear

Valves and pumps forcing shafts to motion

Via vacuums and vapours, an elemental driving-force

An intricate inter-play of metal, gas and liquid

Fluid dynamics, perfectly synchronised

Harnessed in the creation

Of this dark demonic beast

And when at rest, at journey’s end, the engine

A leviathan hoarsely wheezing, breathing hard

From its great exertions stands hot, glowering

Every aspect of its bulk, its massive motive power

Its kinetic promise and potential, its working force

And energy yet held back, latent

Waiting patiently under the driver’s steady hand

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020