Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 31st May 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 31^st May 2020

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

                                              

1.      Civic pride has been heavily dented this week when it was revealed that Dom Cummingsandgoings chose to drive to Barnard Castle, rather than D-Town, to have his eyes tested.  Boasting branches of Specsavers, Haynes, Boots and many, many others, D-Town is superbly placed to offer optometry services to the discerning middle-class idiot, rabid politico or social-climber.  Equally, council leaders are furious that people breaking Covid-19 lockdown restrictions are heading to beaches and national beauty spots, rather than to the boring High Street of The Vize.

2.      But that civic pride was restored on Saturday night by the launch of D-Town’s first commercial space flight from its Launchpad on top of Roundway Down.  Such a high point was chosen in order to save fuel, since it would mean that the International Space Station was at least 257 feet closer than if the launch had taken place from The Green in the centre of town.  Lighting the 2-metre-long socially-distanced blue touch-paper, the Mayor retired to a safe distance and the rocket took off without incident, other than forgetting to actually load the two astronauts.  But in all other  respects, the launch was a huge technical success.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Night-time Navigation

Night-time Navigation

I hope you won’t mind me telling you this, but there’s something I have to confess:

I’ve got this disembodied voice that I hear, but where it’s coming from - I simply can’t guess.

Sometimes, whilst I’m sleeping and dreaming, (that is to say, this happens during the night),

Being of a certain age, you see, I often find that my bladder is tight.

I find I have to get up for relief, and I desperately need to get to the loo:

I’ve got to find the bathroom quite quickly, in order to do what it is that I’ve got to do.

But as I disentangle the covers, I cannot but observe it’s pitch black,

And if I were to wake up the old lady, she’d surely give me a smack.

I’m half asleep, and I can’t really see: in fact, there’s no sort of landmark,

So I have to find my way to the toilet, without the aid of a lamp, in the dark.

That’s where my automatic pilot comes in: as I quietly slip out from the bed,

Through many years of custom and practice, I can hear the voice speaking inside my head.

“Go forward four paces, then turn to the left, carry on - right to the end of the wall,

Exit carefully into the next room, and be careful that you don’t fall!”

“Proceed three steps, and the toilet you’ll find: you are located before the loo station,

Now stop! and switch off your engine - you have arrived at your destination!”

It’s curious I can do this whilst asleep, I think it’s just a gift that I have.

I’m thinking of selling on the idea – perhaps Tom Tom could market it as “Sat Lav”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Leopard

Leopard

A shout and then a frantic scramble

Engines revving, jeeps reversing

A finger points toward the tree

There, there! - up on the shaded branch

Binoculars focusing, cameras snapping

Jostling for position

To get the clearest sighting

There, there! – reclining, relaxed and lazy

Dozing through the day

Lithe and muscular

His deceptive power concealed

Hidden in his restful pose

A paw casually hanging down

Towards the ground

Awesome in his beauty

Calm and camouflaged

Sandy ground, black-spotted

Among the shadowed, shimmering leaves

Noon-time elusiveness

This shy, retiring cat yawns wide

Revealing razor teeth

Blinking yellow, slitted eyes

Which gaze, bored, at his admirers

Conserving energy till drowsy dusk

And night-time hunting

A fearsome predator in the dark

Stalking killer, silent assassin

Striking without warning

And as the low-sinking sun

Burns itself into the horizon

Throwing long shadows

The nervous herdsmen move their lowing cattle

Inside their flimsy compound

Away from night-time danger

And stare after the retreating jeeps

As they roll away, back to camp

Amid rising clouds of dust

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Cheese & Chive Flapjacks

Recipe for: CHEESE & CHIVE FLAPJACKS

Ingredients:

• 100g butter, melted
• 250g porridge oats
• 1 large carrot peeled & grated
• 4 tblsp mixed seeds (flax, chia, sunflower, pumpkin, sesame etc)
• 100g mature cheddar cheese, grated
• 2 large eggs, beaten
• Bunch chives, chopped

 Method:

1. Heat oven to 180C (fan)
2. Butter a small 20cm x 20cm baking tray
3. In a large bowl mix the oats, carrot, cheese, seeds, chives, salt & pepper
4. Add the melted butter and beaten eggs & mix thoroughly
5. Tip the mixture into the baking tray, pressing down & into the edges/ corners
6. Smooth the top to make it even & sprinkle a few more seeds
7. Bake for about 30 mins until golden brown & set
8. Leave to cool completely before cutting into bars & turning out

Fungus

Fungus

A slow progress through the countryside

Breeze-carried through the air

Whispering, a gentle breath

Infection, invisible and insidious

Creeping, hidden, unseen movement

Bringing disease and certain death

A tiny fungus, just a spoor

Microscopic, beyond perception

Multiplying, growing quickly

Inside the branches and the leaves

Spreading, covering its victims

A landscape dying, wheezing, sickly

Trees ailing, falling, humbled

By the contagion in the country

Cut back, thrown upon the fire

A forest with holes in, open to the sky

The ashes slowly die back

And burn fierce upon the pyre

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Trousers

Trousers

What a wonderful invention are pants! Or, as the upper classes say, “trizers” -

For the lower male garment comes in many forms - it all depends on what the wife buys us.

You’d think the designer’s not got that much to go on, when he thinks about gentlemen’s kegs,

But - you must have a large hole for the body and (I suppose) at least one for the legs.

Of course, trousers come in so many forms: cords, pantaloons, slacks, whatever you wilt:

Plus-fours, culottes, even trackie-bottoms or, if you’re North o’ the border – the kilt.

But there’s more to it than first meets the eye, and the permutations can be legion -

You’d be surprised at the considerations when clothing a man’s nether region.

For a start, there’s the aspect of comfort, which demands a great deal of care,

But, naturally, some of the problems depend on your style of underwear.

For chaps are sometimes known to go Commando, which can lead to a great deal of slipment,

To say nothing of plenty of movement amongst the various bits of equipment.

But, if they’ve got any sense, they’ll wear undies to keep everything tidy and neat,

Shorts, slips, jock-strap, or a nice pair of boxers, but a good pair of knickers is hardest to beat.

They keep the meat and two veggies warm and, I don’t want to hear any drivel,

For if things below are allowed to get cold, there’s a serious danger of shrivel.

This allows the trousers to get on with their main job, like the role (for the ladies) of their skirts,

Which, apart from providing some modesty, is there mostly for the tucking of shirts.

That’s to say nothing of extra functions, and you’re in no position to mock it,

When we enter that very strange kingdom - the diverse uses of the male pocket.

For there you can keep your change, or some keys - about the contents you can get cocky -

Not to mention that pursuit of little boys - a furtive quick game of pocket-hockey.

Openings and fastenings are many, a subject that can cause some chaps to worry:

Buttons are slow, but zips can be dangerous, especially if you’re in a great hurry.

For you need a belt and braces approach, and you must be aware of what you’re about:

On leaving, “Gentlemen - Adjust Your Dress” - you mustn’t leave anything still sticking out.

So let’s pause and celebrate men’s trousers, a serious subject that everyone mocks,

I hope I’ve explained it all clearly – but just don’t get me started on socks.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Attachment

Attachment

She got it mail-order – it came in a large van -

She’d been wanting it since last December,

And with a flourish of her credit card,

There it was – a new family member.

Now I like to think I’m as clean as the next man,

And with a duster I’m a lovely mover,

But ‘Er Indoors goes in for extreme cleaning,

And she’d demanded the latest hoover.

There’s all types on the market you can buy,

Including several from Mister Dyson,

But it was a special one she’d coveted,

A top-of-the-range one she’d had her eyes on.

It took three days just to unpack the boxes:

The cardboard and plastic wasn’t the least,

For this thing needed major assembly -

I soon found it was a hell of a beast.

This fantastic piece of machinery

Towered above me, erect and so tall,

Covered in sockets, dockets and ports -

So many clips and wires, and that wasn’t all.

The orifices, gizmos and nozzles

Harboured so many attachments and tools,

Brushes, fitments, hoses and extensions:

She stared in wonder at her new Crown Jewels.

There were things for every application:

Truly this was a space-age appliance.

It had more computing power than NASA,

And was forged in the white heat of science.

It could do every possible job needed:

You just had to read the right instruction,

To locate the right setting or programme,

And it would produce mind-boggling suction.

She fell in love with it at first sight,

She could see it would be a lovely mover:

This machine that would do anything -

Truly it was a Swiss Army Hoover.

I remember the days of just pushing one round,

A job that could be done all alone,

But this thing was full of technology,

And I think it had a mind of its own.

  

It seemed to have clear fixed ideas,

About the best method for house cleaning.

There was something about it quite spooky -

If you get the drift of my meaning.

It was all programmes and electronics,

Controls and switches that needed setting,

So complex and damned complicated,

That we’d no idea what we were getting.

It talked to us when it wanted something,

In a synthesised voice thin and reedy,

Like when it wanted its dust-bag changing:

Soon we realised that it was quite needy.

It started to follow me round the house,

Even if I wandered from room to room.

It didn’t like being on its own much -

You could say it was a lonely vacuum.

There was almost nothing it couldn’t do,

And its motor was virtually silent.

I began to feel it was spying on me,

For it was there, wherever I went.

I had to creep quietly when I moved -

It created in me paranoid cares,

Until I discovered a new strategy,

For, just like a Dalek, it couldn’t climb stairs.

I thought that I’d finally beaten it,

And that I’d be able to live in some calm,

But it started using its extensions,

And to plot ways to cause me some harm.

You see it wanted ‘Er Indoors for itself,

And to be the holder of her affection,

It couldn’t stand me being in the way,

And it sought to sever my connection.

So in the end I took drastic measures,

And “by accident” fed it some water -

The explosion was quite spectacular -

There’ll be no more trouble from that quarter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 24th May 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 24^th May 2020

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

                                              

1.      D-Town’s mayor, Hugh Jarse, has defended his senior advisor, Dominant Cummings-and-Goings, for taking several trips from The Vize to his third, fourth and fifth houses in surrounding villages, claiming that his need to provide his child with fresh first-growth olive oil, tinned larks’ tongues and free-range artisanal muesli over-ride any mere trivial lockdown regulations.  Speaking from Doasyouretold House in Getknotted Lane, Mr Jarse pointed out that his advisor had not been visiting a lover, embezzling lockdown benefits or spitting on Col Tom Moore’s image, so he was free to use his common sense.  Everyone else should stay at home, keep 2m apart and generally shut up.

2.      Meanwhile, citizens have been advised to go to work.  Unless they can’t.  In which case don’t.  Unless they’re essential/ key workers, so they should, unless they can’t.  But don’t use public transport, unless they have to, in which case don’t lick the windows and keep 2m apart, only 3 people at a time clinging to the roof, one on the front bumper, and they must wear a mask, unless they don’t want to, in which case don’t, because it’s not provenly effective anyway.  So stay put, but go to work.  Stay home and save lives, unless you don’t feel like it, and think that a few days at the seaside is a good idea, in which case go.  Or don’t because it’s not safe.  Or drive 250 miles if you want to.  Or don’t.  But stay alert.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

When The Archbishop Came To Call

When The Archbishop Came To Call

Our village is a quiet sort of place;

You can hear the autumn leaves as they fall,

But strange things started to happen,

Last Sunday, when the archbishop came to call.

St Nicholas is the name of our church,

Where suddenly everything came to a stop,

Expecting the top man from the C of E,

You know – Welby – for he’s the Archbishop!

It was all meant to be very informal,

To give thanks for our Bishop’s loyalty,

But that’s not how it all turned out on the day -

You’d think they were expecting some royalty!

Now normally there’s not many goes there,

The congregation’s usually measured in tens,

But soon as word started to go round,

The vicar was cleaning his Mercedes-Benz.

The parishioners went into overdrive,

So that His Reverence would be very well-met.

They polished up the Church’s silverware,

And got set to roll out the red carpet.

The Erics, and Dereks, and all of the clerics,

Got themselves into a great fluster,

They pulled out all their best vestments,

And flicked round the vestry with a new duster.

The pulpit was given a make-over,

They made it into such a big deal -

Up in the bell-tower things were afoot,

They arranged to ring a grand quarter-peal.

They practised the bells for two days and nights,

The place was full of crumbly old ringers,

You couldn’t move for them pulling the ropes,

And they made a real set of swingers.

Come the day itself, things started to happen:

The last thing you’d feel would be lonely.

It was like “Songs Of Praise” had come to town:

In the church it was standing-room only.

There was a danger of over-crowding:

It was close to a riot – that’s a fact.

Inside people sat on one another’s knees,

Into the pews they were forcibly packed.

  

There was no outbreak of religious fervour,

Such was the opinion of the Dean,

But more of a social occasion,

As they all struggled to see, and be seen.

Now I’m not of a Christian persuasion,

I’m an atheist I have to confess,

So I don’t get what the fuss was about,

Just to see a bloke turn up in a dress.

Instead I decided I’d go down to the pub,

I just fancied to drink a few jars,

But I couldn’t get into the village,

For the two-mile tailback of cars.

Thousands wanted to get to communion,

There was a queue for road-side conversions,

There was chaos for miles all around,

The police set up road-blocks and diversions.

A helicopter droned low overhead,

Crack teams of snipers were up on the roofs,

And a ring of steel surrounded the pub,

Leaving me wondering just what this proves.

I hope that the moral of this story is clear,

Though some of my tale might be quite tall:

Don’t try to do anything near normal,

When an archbishop comes by to call.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drought

Drought

Tramping feet of skinny cattle

Track-herded, raising dust billows

Between brown, empty fields

The earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Crusted solids parched beneath a searing sun

The glaring, cloudless sky

Fierce and rain-barren

Curses and punishes the land

Withholds its water from the needy

Liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive in the sterile landscape

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Burned, beaten crops defeated by the dryness

Lie strangled, wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Fingering down between cracks of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted in the cratered furrows

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drop to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Dirt-crumbled in the empty air

Powdered into shifting dust, drifting into piles

Driven by an arid wind, which whispers as it blows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Sweetcorn Tikki (Spiced Fritters)

Recipe for: CURRY – SWEETCORN TIKKI (SPICED FRITTERS)

Ingredients:

·        500g sweetcorn kernels (fresh or frozen)

·        150g gram flour

·        ½ tsp baking powder

·        1 tsp garam masala

·        1 tsp turmeric

·        ½ tsp salt

·        ½ tsp paprika

·        3 eggs, separated

·        140ml milk

·        2 spring onions, chopped

·        2 medium chillies, finely chopped

·        2 limes zested and juiced

·        3 tblsp fresh coriander, finely chopped

·        15g of butter

·        1-2  tblsp vegetable oil

Method:

1.      Put flour and baking powder into a bowl with all the spices

2.      Make a well in the centre, then add egg yolks and HALF the milk

3.      Beat the mixture until smooth, then slowly add the rest of the milk

4.      Fold in the corn, spring onions, chillies, lime juice & zest, and coriander

5.      In another bowl whisk the egg whites to soft peaks

6.      Gently fold this into the batter mix

7.      Heat a heavy-based frying pan on a medium heat and add butter and oil for frying

8.      Drop heaped tablespoons of batter into the pan, gently flattening with the back of a spoon.  Do not over-crowd the pan.

9.      Fry each side until golden brown, then remove with a slotted spoon

10.   Drain on kitchen paper on a plate, and keep warm whilst you fry further batches

11.   Serve warm with a spiced yoghurt & mint dip

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin pearls, peels apart

tiny droplets, liquid beads

sitting pert, proud

waiting, welling moments

brimming, holding pause

awaiting further strength to push on

Then the pump and pulse

the stroke of a distant heartbeat

mechanics and hydraulics

forcing fluid pressure

through arteries, veins, capillaries

the cut-confines broken

an inundation, a rupturing

pouring crimson from the wound

a tracered stream of life-blood

red-staining onto flesh-whiteness

The torn and jagged scratch-line

filled and flooded by the flow

drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

vital to some-one else

but my wasteful gory loss

waiting the staunching, the padding and bandaging

or the subtle clotting power

of life’s congealment

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

It’s just that he had to get to the loo.

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

But if it’s brown, you must flush it right down.

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

“Oh dear!  I can’t see how I can mend,

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Blunt Axe

Blunt Axe

There was an executioner called Beck,

Who was paid to cut off heads by the neck,

But was exceedingly lax,

About sharpening his axe

And of his victims made a terrible wreck.

He gave his instrument a mighty swing,

But, though it was a frightening thing,

It just seemed to drop,

It didn’t actually chop,

And simply delivered a slight sting.

The prisoner with his head on the block,

Whose knees had already started to knock,

Said: “For God’s sake, you dick,

Get on and make it more quick,

Much longer and I’ll expire here of shock!”

This caused Beck to issue forth a great grunt,

And for the whet-stone started to hunt,

For it’s no use just tutting,

When you’re meant to be cutting,

And you can’t chop with an axe when it’s blunt.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 17th May 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 17^th May 2020

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

                                              

1.      Some children in D-Town are preparing to go back to school, but others are not.  Children in Years 1, 3. 5 and 7 will attend on alternating Tuesdays and Thursdays, whereas Years 2,4 and 6 will attend on alternate  Mondays and Wednesdays.  The following week they will swap over.  Fridays will be reserved for counselling & therapy sessions for the teaching staff.  But these arrangements will only apply if social distancing can be maintained.  Or not, in which case they won’t be.  School janitors and other non-reaching staff will be rubbed down with alcohol on a regular basis, and all door handles and textbooks will be boiled after each usage.  Or not.  On a conditional basis.  Perhaps.

2.      Given that D-Town currently has a low R-number, S-number and T-number, and sits in a beautiful country area of Wiltshire, civic leaders have pleaded with visitors from other parts of the country to come and visit the area as soon as possible.  Although all pubs, cafes, shops, toilets and car-parks are currently closed due to Covid-19 restrictions, citizens are desperate to see any vehicles with an internal combustion engine moving around the deserted streets, whilst seeking for a non-existent parking space.  Sightings of any forms of modern technology would be welcome.  The town idiots are getting bored now and we desperately need some new targets for their anti-social behaviour.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

The Sun Will Rise

The Sun Will Rise

The sun will rise again tomorrow morning

And the moon will take his nightly course

The Earth will keep on turning on its axis

And maintain its gravitational force

The days and months will go on passing

And the year will tread its normal way

Through all its seasons, each in turn

Until we’re out of this one day

Mothers will bring their babies into the world

And young children will outgrow their clothes

We shall all keep growing older

Until our bodies are free of worldly woes

Soon this crisis will all be over

As they say “This too shall pass”

We will carry on until our normal time

And our bodies return to elemental mass

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

My Busy Lockdown Day

My Busy Lockdown Day

This enforced lockdown isolation

Has turned my daily life upside down -

My old routine’s all shot to shit

Now I’m not supposed to walk to town

No longer getting up to go to work

Means I don’t need to set the alarm

But this doesn’t mean I get to have a lie-in

Or that the day passes all peaceful and calm

Now broadband communication’s a wonderful thing,

And so is social media and things of that type,

Cause everything happens online these days

As we all use Messenger, Zoom and Skype

The day’s simply packed with new activities

There’s just so much I’ve got to do

It’s just one bloody thing after another

Doing many things I didn’t know I knew

After early sessions of yoga and meditation,

There’s DIY, gardening and reading

Then I’m learning to play saxophone

Tho’ my ears have started bleeding

After lunch I learn Swahili and Serbo-Croat,

And other skills that are life-enhancing

I’m also looking into darts and scuba-diving,

Decorating birthday cakes, and belly dancing

Later I’ll re-arrange the titles in my book-case

To form an interesting background

You never know where they’ll be looking

When the video meeting comes around

I’m building a scale model of Buckingham Palace

Using only patience, glue and matchsticks

My 5000-piece jigsaw dominates the lounge

And I’m completing it naked, just for kicks

Tonight I’m shouting at the neighbours

Using many expletives and such

I’m not requesting any help from them –

It’s just that I don’t like them very much

Tomorrow I’ll bake bread using only sawdust

Or other random items I can get

I’ve removed the labels from all my cans

Now it’s like playing nutritional Russian Roulette

I’m wondering just how many combinations

Of sandwich fillings I can possibly make

I’m slowly crawling up my newly-decorated walls

How much more of this am I expected to take?

I’m bored of shouting at politicians on the telly

There’s only one answer that I need to get –

Because now that time has lost all its meaning

Is it too early to start drinking yet?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Beef Broth

Recipe for: BEEF BROTH (with dumplings)

Ingredients:

• 1lb (or more) of lean stewing or braising steak, cubed into bite-size pieces
• Large onion, roughly chopped
• ½ swede, peeled & roughly chopped
• 2 medium carrots, peeled & roughly chopped
• 2 medium potatoes, peeled & cubed
• 4-6 oz peas (fresh or frozen)
• 2-4 oz red lentils
• Beef stock cube

 Method:

1. in a large heavy pan or casserole, put a pint of water on to boil.  Crumble in the stock cube and throw in the lentils
2. as the liquid is coming up to the boil, throw in the onions, swede, carrots, potatoes & the steak
3. once up to the boil, lower the heat to a simmer & skim off any scum which rises to the surface
4. cover & cook very gently for a couple of hours.  The lentils should become so soft that they become part of the liquid, help to thicken it,
5. when the broth is almost ready, add the peas & cook until tender
6. adjust seasoning with salt & pepper
7. if using dumplings (see other recipe), drop them into the simmering liquid and cover with a lid, cooking for about 20 minutes, until the dumplings have fluffed up
8. serve in large soup bowls

What else you need to know:

1. this dish is actually better if you make it one day, then let it cool and heat it up the next day
2. it gets even better if you keep it going for a few days – make a double quantity to start with, then keep topping up with extra hot water, another stock cube, fresh vegetable etc as you deplete the quantity by eating it.  The sauce thickens, matures & gets more depth.
3. you can add other veggies if you want – celery, courgette, tomato, mushroom – it doesn’t really matter – use your imagination!
4. it also works with chicken, but add later in the process & cook for a shorter period
5. great with dumplings or a floury baked potato

Love At A Distance

Love At A Distance

I know that I must keep my distance

And that we cannot be together

So I must admire you from afar

Yet still my skin grows hot

And my temperature rises

When I’m thinking of you

I’m infected with my love of you

So I dutifully stay at home

Locked in and locked down

It’s a way of testing my love

Though the result can only be positive

You may wish to wash your hands of me

Each time for twenty seconds

Whilst singing your favourite song

But I continue with my daily routine

Exercising my right to love you from afar

I Zoom in on your isolation

Peering at the volumes on your bookshelf

Shielding yourself from my infection

Your face masked against my intrusion

So that you cannot breathe me in

Locked down against the world

Safe within your comfort zone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Banger

Banger

I’m a great fan of pork products:

To be deprived would be a great lossage -

So I’m here to sing you the praises,

Of the noble, and various sausage.

                                                    

There’s Cumberland, and there’s your Irish,

And French ones from the town of Toulouse,

And they’re all bound to get juices running,

For soon as you cook them, fat’s starting to ooze.

On the Continent you’ve got Saucisson,

In Germany there’s a thing called a Bratwurst.

It’s not Baloney to think of Poloney,

A nation without one should call itself cursed.

The flavours come in all shapes and sizes,

To suit the rich and the hoi-polloi.

A chipolata’s good for a starter,

But pales beside the good old Saveloy.

You can go the whole hog for a Hot Dog,

But salami, I think, looks perter.

You can be a hanger for a good banger,

Especially if it’s a Frankfurter.

But I think we must look rather deeper,

And we’ve got to be really willing,

To delve into methods of production,

And to wonder just what’s in the filling.

The casing might be natural or false,

But there’s lots of things can call themselves pork.

You’d be surprised if only you knew,

Exactly what’s on the end of your fork.

They like to use up all of the animal,

And be sure that nothing can go to waste,

So everything gets ground up you see,

And reduced to a pink kind of paste.

Mechanically-recovered’s the term,

With cereal and rusk they pack and they fill,

And then they do grind, lots of thick rind,

And the snout, the ears and the nostril.

Most of the innards, and outwards, are used:

The guts, the toe-nails and the eye-lashes,

The pistle, the gristle and even the whistle,

Mixed all up into hashes and mashes.

  

Colourings and plenty of flavourings,

Additives and seasonings to begin,

You’d wince, if you knew what went into the mince,

That was finally forced into the skin.

The feet are mixed up with wheat, and even some teat,

Some spice, some rice, perhaps even some mice,

Then its ground and bound, and gently browned,

That’s the way to make it taste nice.

For these are some of the ingredients,

The contents that the makers might favour.

After all, without all the e-numbers,

How would we ever get any flavour?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020