Euclidean Love

Euclidean Love

Perhaps we may describe the shape of our love

The line between us being short

Having zero width and little distance

Straight and without angles

Proof, if it were needed

That we are on the same side

Two figures sharing the same plane of existence

The same dimension of being

Not parallel and un-meeting

But the volume of our bodies

Converging by degrees

The elements of our lives triangulated

To meet at the same point

Within the small circumference

Of a wide circle of space and time

A simple unopposed geometry

A fixed and solid truth

Governed by laws unseen

Non-tangential axioms

Equal plus equal being equal

The whole being greater than our parts

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

 

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th November 2020

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

 

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

1.      The streets of The Vize were lined with almost seven people this week when the funeral cortege of Bobby “Killer” Knocker, erstwhile left back (sometimes in the dressing room) of Athletico D-Town Wanderers, was hauled towards the Anusol Memorial Crematorium & Massage Parlour by his favourite vehicle – a Waddie brewery dray, pulled by two magnificent dray horses.  Famous not only as a footballer of dubious merit (who can forget the infamous 1978 Wiltshire Germolene Cup incident where he “accidently” guided his foot into the groin of Real Potterne Ramblers’ star striker Willy Stroker just as he was about to score a winning goal), but also as a keen snooker-player, ferret-wrangler, and leader of The Wounded Ferret’s premiership goat-nadgering team.  He will be sadly missed, especially by the town’s publicans, many of whom may now go out of business. 

2.      Black Friday came and went, together with Turquoise Tuesday, White Wednesday and Mauve Monday, largely unnoticed in D-Town.   However, the Market Place witnessed a few protesters with placards and banners protesting that “Black Friday Matters”, but they were countered by another demonstrators from the “All The Days Matter” movement.  A stand-off between the two factions was avoided when the police employed the unusual tactic of buying everyone a takeaway coffee and a slice of stollen.   The peace-pact was sealed as everyone paused to watch the passing funeral cortege of Bobby “Killer” Knocker.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Running For The Bus

Running For The Bus

I count myself a determined old bugger:

I didn’t want to be put out to grass.

Eventually a new vista opened,

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

 

I took to it like a duck to the water,

And used it to voyage about all over.

Soon I became a frequent traveller,

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

 

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

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

And when I saw the thing disappearing.

I was off in hot pursuit, and I roared.

 

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

Leaving the doors open as he moved away.

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

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

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

I Saw GoD In The Market Place Today

I saw GoD In The Market Place Today

I saw GoD in the Market Place today

She waved and came to say hello

We chatted & said what we had to say

I saw GoD in The Market Place today

Then the 33 came and took her on her way

I was so sorry that she had to go

I saw GoD in the Market Place today

She waved and came to say hello

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Peppers stuffed with paneer & peas

Recipe for: PEPPERS, stuffed with Paneer & Peas 

Ingredients: 

• 2 tblsp sunflower oil
• ¼ tsp mustard seeds
• ¼ tsp turmeric
• 1tsp cumin seeds
• 1 tsp paprika
• 1 tsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp group cumin
• ½ tsp ground black pepper
• 225g/ 8oz paneer, cut into cubes
• 100g/ 4oz frozen peas, defrosted if possible
• 1 large, juicy tomato diced
• 2 large Romano or ordinary (red) peppers, split in half with stalks, seeds & membranes removed 

Method: 

1. heat oil in a frying pan and add mustard seeds, cumin seeds and turmeric until seeds start to pop
2. add paprika & rest of spices, stirring to mix with the oil
3. add paneer and fry gently for a few minutes, turning the cubes so that each side gets lightly browned and an even coating of oil & spices
4. add peas and chopped tomato, cooking for another few minutes until the tomatoes have softened
5. heat oven to 200C/ fan 180C/ gas 6
6. in a baking dish or on a non-stick baking sheet add a little oil
7. stuff the halved peppers with the paneer/ pea mix & place on the oiled dish/ tray
8. roast for 15-20 minutes until the peppers have cooked & softened 

What else you need to know: 

1. a very tasty vegetarian snack, main course or side-dish.

 

Pencil Case

Pencil Case

The bag sits upright, straight and packed

Books ready, folders loaded

Alert and standing to attention

And the new pencil case

Shiny, patterned, yet under-stated

Gold-bright teeth tightly zipped

Sheltering new treasures

Inky felt-tip pens rainbow-coloured

A set of HB pencils

Graphite honed to finest points

Compass and protractor

Plastic rulers all aligned

Packets of pins and paper-clips

Sorted and snuggled down

With sharpener and eraser

Ammunition for the new campaign

 

No broken points or shavings

No dust nor detritus gathered

Or yet cluttered in its depths

But clean, tidy, fresh, prepared

The very mirror of my mind

Open, hopeful, positive

Ready for another start

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020 

St Peter Has A Bad Day

Saint Peter Has A Bad Day

Hi there, everyone, the name is St Peter -

My role just couldn’t be neater -

I’m God’s old “meeter-and-greeter”

Outside Heaven’s multi-billion-seater.

 

I’m at the front desk receiving the hopeful,

Watching the queue where everyone waits,

For I’m the celestial sentinel

In front of those famous pearly gates.

 

Beyond them are clouds, and angels with harps,

Where nothing could be much cosier.

There’s heavenly music and haloes,

And for every meal there’s ambrosia.

 

Everyone would like to get in,

To enjoy rest in their eternal home,

But there are some tough criteria to meet

Before you get in to the pleasure-dome.

 

And that’s where I think the trouble starts,

With people justifying what they’ve been doing:

It leads to delays and congestion,

And we’ve no system of priority queuing.

 

Everybody comes here with an equal chance,

No matter how things might at first look:

All the good deeds and the bad deeds,

Recorded carefully in my master’s big book.

 

And they’re always in a bad mood,

Bearing in mind they’ve probably just died,

It can make them tired and tetchy,

Just like they’ve had their brains fried.

 

So you can imagine the abuse,

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

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

Even Lucifer calls me Santa Claus.

 

And if they get the unwelcome thumbs down,

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

They start shouting and arguing,

As they’re escorted off to The Other Place.

 

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

I’m just an employee, which can irk -

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

To carry out the Lord God’s dirty work. 

 

Dealing with people day in, day out,

The negative procedure soon sours:

I mean, you never see God out here,

During any of these unsocial hours.

 

The queues and the disappointments

Are very upsetting, for Goodness’ sakes,

And I don’t get any paid holidays,

Nor any time out for toilet breaks.

 

I mean, don’t go getting me wrong,

It’s a very responsible position,

Holding on to the Keys of the Kingdom,

Fulfilling His Lordship’s great mission.

 

But I think I’m being taken for granted,

If you want my confession.

There’s no future in this organisation -

I can’t see any career progression.

 

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

Something appropriate to my level.

There’s a strong rumour going around,

That Beelzebub’s seeking a new devil.

 

The pay’s only a little bit better,

But there’s fringe benefits as well.

Think I might give a try one day -

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

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

National Treasures

National Treasures

I’m fed up of being just normal,

I want people to get my measure,

So I’m thinking of applying

To become A National Treasure.

 

I want people to look up to me,

As if I were a great monument,

Perhaps pay me a little more respect,

And treat me like a real gent.

 

It seems fairly easy to do -

You just have to be ubiquitous:

Be famous for being famous,

And avoid being iniquitous.

 

Billy Connolly, Sir Cliff Richard,

Sean Connery or Dame Maggi Smith,

Clare Balding, Sir Bruce Forsyth

This is the company I should be seen with!

 

Benedict Cumberbatch is another,

Peter Capaldi – you know! Doctor Who!

Hugh Bonneville and Gary Lineker,

We’re surrounded by good guys and true.

 

You obviously need to live long enough,

Like Judi Dench or Cilla Black,

Or be a nice guy, like that Stephen Fry,

So they keep on inviting you back.

 

For these are society’s role models,

Celebrity leaders of our nation,

Liked by everybody’s sister and mother,

Examples that provide inspiration.

 

But notoriety and exposure,

Appearing in tabloids and all of that caper,

May not be quite the right thing after all -

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

 

I could mention that Max Clifford,

Rolf Harris, Jimmy Saville and Ken Dodd,

And Stuart Hall – each one a celebrity,

And every one turned out a real sod.

 

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

So now we’re repenting at leisure -

I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,

I think I’ll stay as a hidden treasure!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd November 2020

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

 

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

1.      Great excitement in D-Town literary circles this week with the announcement of the winner of the prestigious Fucker Prize.  The winner was “What I Done In The Lockdown”, a searing indictment of boredom & fecklessness in a modern-day Vize household, written by Heidi Hole.  The runners-up were “I Spy With My Little Eye” by 5 years-old Ali Moany, and “Watching Paint Dry” by the minimalist author Emma Royds. 

2.      Discussions are under way in the Town Council as to the arrangements when the Lockdown is lifted in ten days’ time.  It is rumoured that a new, simple, 47-tier system will be introduced, with special extra restrictions in local lockdown areas.  For example, Potterne, where Covid rates are high, may not allow visits to maternal grand-parents on Tuesday afternoons, whereas in Bromham, which has had lower rates, the restriction will be more relaxed, and will allow visits on Monday mornings also.  People who keep chickens will be required to eat custard for seven days, and households with small children will be expected to thatch their roofs with pancakes.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

 

It's All In The Numbers

It’s All In The Numbers

We all know the old counting rhymes,

Like “one for sorrow, two for joy”,

But it carries on way beyond there:

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

 

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

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

And Lotto and Housey-Housey

Can bring you down to your knees.

 

Some people have a lucky number,

The National Lottery can send you blotto,

With Scratchcards and the Thunderball,

And the forty-nine numbers in Lotto.

 

There used to be old Bingo calls -

Clickety-click and seventy-six trombones,

Two fat ladies and Kelly’s Eye,

Now everyone’s obsessed with their phones.

 

Heinz had Fifty-Seven Varieties ,

I admit I never understood why -

I think they just plucked out any old number,

In order to encourage us to buy.

 

And extremist jihadist martyrs,

Believed in virgins seventy-seven,

When they brought down the twin towers -

Yes, everyone remembers Nine Eleven.

 

And talking of in seventh heaven,

With ninety-nine red balloons in flight,

You’re bound to start losing the count,

Try however hard you might.

 

There were the Fab Four and The Guildford Six,

Joe Ninety and WD Forty,

And if you were three sheets to the wind,

Everyone would say that you were naughty.

 

Two and two can sometimes add up to five,

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

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

So find another argument to pick.

 

A UB40 was for unemployment,

If a P45 had been your fate,

Then you needed to drown out your sorrows,

Until you were one over the eight. 

 

Two’s company, and three is a crowd,

And to me that’s perfectly fine:

I’m ready to give one hundred per cent,

Because a stitch in time is said to save nine.

 

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

That was a song sung by Manfred Mann,

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

Launching their rockets in the space plan.

 

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

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

Don’t know what happened to the other three,

But does that make me into a freak?

 

And as each birthday becomes a bigger number,

I won’t be seeing fifty once again.

I mean – how long have we all got?

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

 

And when I finally decide to go,

And they dress me in my wooden suit,

I’d like the appropriate send-off please,

With a twenty-one gun salute.

 

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

But as I go gentle into this good night,

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

Due to my incredible fore-sight.

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Faith

Faith

Unknown where it comes from

Unbidden, worm-weaving

Inside hidden potential

Tendrils snaking into the crevices

Invading cells

And filling holes we did not even know we had

Casting a lifeline to the drowning

Helping the hopeless

Distracting the deluded

Succouring the simple-minded

With the power of anecdote

The personal testimonial

And imbuing simple correlations

Between unrelated phenomena

With the power of mystery and magic

Quasi-scientific language

Image and advertising

Belying of belief

Trading on trust

And the gap of gullibility

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Beef in Brown Ale with Horseradish Dumplings

 Recipe for: BEEF with BROWN ALE & HORSERADISH DUMPLINGS 

Ingredients: 

·        3 tblsp plain flour

·        2 tsp English mustard powder

·        1 kg/ 2lb 4 oz beef shin or braising steak cut into large chunks

·        50g/ 2 oz lard

·        2 large onions, peeled & sliced

·        400g/ 14oz whole small Chantenay carrots

·        2 tsp Worcestershire sauce

·        1 tblsp mushroom ketchup

·        550ml bottle brown ale

·        2 large thyme sprigs

·        2 bay leaves

·        2 beef stock cubes

·        200ml water

·        For the dumplings:

o   175g / 6pz self-raising flour

o   75g 2 ½ oz suet

o   2 tblsp thyme leaves

o   4 tblsp strong horseradish sauce 

Method: 

1.      Heat oven to 160C fan

2.      Tip flour, mustard powder and seasoning into a large plastic bag

3.      Add the meat and shake well to cover each piece

4.      Put half the lard into a heavy, lidded casserole dish

5.      When hot brown the cubed meat in batches, setting aside in a bowl

6.      Heat remaining lard, then add onions and cook until lightly browned

7.      Return the meat and juices to the pan

8.      Add carrots, Worcester sauce, ketchup, ale, thyme, bay, stock cubes and water

9.      Gently bring to the boil, cover with lid and transfer to the oven

10.   Cook for 3 hours or until meat is very tender, stirring occasionally

11.   Turn oven up to 180C and quickly make the dumplings

12.   In a bowl mix flour, suet and thyme

13.   Season well and add the horseradish

14.   Add some water a few tblsp at a time, mixing until dough comes together and doesn’t stick to the bowl

15.   Divide dough into 12 and roll with your fingers into small balls

16.   Remove lid from casserole, put dumplings on top and return to the oven (uncovered) for 25 minutes until dumplings are cooked and golden 

What else you need to know: 

1.      Serve with mashed potato &green vegetables, or champ

Lost

Lost

I’m sorry, but I’m too upset to talk,

I’ve had one awful helluva day -

My life has suddenly become empty,

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

 

I’m going to offer a reward:

It doesn’t matter - whatever the cost,

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

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

 

You’d probably do the same thing as me,

If you were feeling as miserable and down,

I’ll print some posters with his picture,

And pin them to poles all around town.

 

You see Bob could easily get lost in a crowd -

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

But he was always my bosom companion,

And together we’d always had such fun.

 

As a pigeon he’s just a common breed,

Not fancy, not tumbler, nor homer.

I never thought that he might wander away,

That he’d become restless, or a roamer.

 

He’s a very special little bird,

Of which any man would be proud,

So I’ll give you a detailed description,

To distinguish him from the rest of the crowd.

 

He’s only about ten inches long,

Six inches tall and quite sweet.

He’s covered in black and grey feathers,

And he’s got dainty orange and pink feet.

 

He weighs just under a pound,

When he’s walking around on his deck.

There’s a special look in his beady eye,

And there’s little green hues round his neck.

 

His absence has left a hole in my heart -

I don’t know what I’m doing,

So your help I am wooing,

His little habits I’m ruing,

I miss his billing and cooing,

And even his constant pooing. 

 

I need him back for my sanity -

The feeling is cutting,

My insides it’s gutting,

Hear me cursing & tutting,

I miss his beak jutting,

When he’s doing his strutting,

In his season of rutting.

 

I fear that he may be a target -

It hurts, but it must be confessed,

He’s quite a well-fed little bird,

And he bears a very plump breast.

 

He’s easily tempted by a few crumbs,

Just like the other birds in the town.

He flaps his wings quite a lot,

And his little head bobs up and down.

 

So please keep all your eyes peeled -

Together we can do a good job.

Mind, he could be dangerous if cornered,

So, remember, he answers to Bob.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Upon Waking

Upon Waking

 

Rousing slowly from a drowsing sleep

Still faint and frowsing

Morning light insinuates itself

Creeping unbidden under gummy eyelids

 

At the liminal edge of dawn

The last lingering strands

Of imaginings and of rambling dreams

Stretch taut like piano-wire, gently snapping

 

The final frayed threads of contact

With troubling night-time places

Receding, fading, disappearing

Among the jumble of tangled bedclothes

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Silbury Hill

Silbury Hill

 

Looming above us, occluding

We walk forward into its shadow

And for a while we are darker, cooler

Welcoming its shade on a hot day

 

We begin to skirt around

Following its rounded even contours

Till we emerge again minutes later

Beyond the ancient mystery

 

First the halo’d penumbra

Then the eye-blinding flickering flash

Of unfettered sunlight

The same people, yet changed

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th November 2020

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

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

1.      The continuing soap opera power struggle within the top echelons of D-Town Council spilled over into the public domain on Friday when the Leader’s personal advisor Dominic Goings was seen leaving The Town Hall with a cardboard box containing not only his few personal possessions, but also all his little hopes and dreams.  In other changes, the Town Hall cat has been displaced by a civic rat-catcher, the caretaker’s job has gone to the leader’s brother-in-law, the tea-lady replaced by his fiancée and the office cleaner by his mother-in-law.  

2.      And, as the Christmas campaigns of the big stores & chains are launched on TV and radio, in an attempt to kick-start sales in this era of Covid-19, we can bring you a sneak preview of their offerings.  Greggs, for example, have launched their special Christmas bake, containing turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce.  The vegan equivalent contains no turkey, but instead an extra portion of tears and disappointment.  John Lewis have launched new ranges of Covid-20 and Covid-21 goods (“never knowingly under-numbered”), and M&S have announced their special vegetarian “feast” containing squash, nuts, parmesan and herbs (“not just any old shit, this is M&S shit”).  Sainsburys meanwhile have just launched their range of Easter eggs and hot-cross buns.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

 

Autumn Light

Autumn Light

 

And now we lose the light

The chill of shorter days

Shivering through the cobwebs

Soggy silver hunting nets

Strewn dewy amongst the weeds

And mouldering auburn leaf-fall

The occasional flash of gold or red

Between the darker shades

The grim-hued palette of the tired ground

As it awaits the swirling fogs

That will soon embrace it

And bring the freezing kiss of Winter

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

If That's The Truth

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

They say that honesty’s the best policy,

That we all have a duty to be straight -

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

Or that the truth is really so great.

 

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

And let me speak exactly as I find,

Then you can all judge for yourselves,

And be ready to make up your own mind.

 

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

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

There are bits of me moving south-ward,

And everything hurts or creaks when I move.

 

I prefer Radio 4 to Radio 1 -

I find it easier on the heart.

I’ve lost track of pop music -

I’m turning into an old fart.

 

I no longer feel butch,

I don’t follow fashion and such,

My house is the size of a hutch,

My hands are clammy to touch,

And I’m drinking too much.

 

My clothes are out of date,

I’m succumbing to fate,

My life I’m starting to hate,

I never hear from my best mate,

And I’m well over-weight.

 

I owe taxes to the Revenue ,

That’s what it says on my statement.

I don’t have any money stashed away,

And now they’re chasing for late payment.

 

My children have flown the nest,

Even though I gave them my best,

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

And everything’s gone West.

 

Sex is less interesting (or possible),

My libido’s right down on the floor.

I’ve lost touch with everybody,

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

 

We’re buggering up the planet -

Mankind just seems fixated on war.

It’s all greed and selfishness,

I sometimes wonder what it’s all for.

 

And the Universe is an infinite void,

Earth just a tiny, meaningless speck,

No other intelligence out there,

I mean – what the heck!

 

Seems like we’re here on our tod,

And, besides, there’s no God.

 

Nothing in life is fair,

It’s all wear and tear,

A long bloody nightmare,

Why should we bother to care?

 

I’ve got more than a hunch,

That as we take punch after punch,

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

 

Politicians deceive and they lie,

So I’ve become a cynical old guy,

No matter how hard I try.

There’s no answer to “why?”,

Children continue to cry,

The odds we can’t defy,

Life’s a bitch

And we’re all gonna die!

 

I may sound uncouth,

Bitter and twisted forsooth,

But ain’t that really the truth?

 

Seems to me that’s exactly the ticket –

We’re all batting on a sticky wicket,

But if that’s really the truth,

Then I’m afraid you can stick it!

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Pot Roast Of Shoulder Of Lamb

 Recipe for: POT ROAST OF LAMB SHOULDER 

Ingredients: 

• 1 boned shoulder of lamb
• ½ tsp ground cumin
• ½ tsp ground black pepper
• 2 tblsp fresh mint, finely chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
• Juice of ½ lemon
• Salt
• 2-3 tblsp olive oil
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 1 large carrot, diced
• 1 small glass white wine or water 

Method: 

1. lay the boned shoulder out flat & trim off as much excess fat from the skin side as possible
2. turn cut-side up.  Scatter the cumin, pepper, mint, garlic & salt over the surface
3. drizzle over the lemon juice
4. roll the joint up tightly, in a spiral, and secure with cooking string
5. in a large, heavy pan, just big enough to take the joint, heat 2 tblsps of oil and brown the joint all over
6. take out the lamb & set aside
7. throw in the onion & carrot, sautéing until lightly browned
8. turn the heat down very low, spread the vegetables evenly over the bottom of the pan to form a bed, and place the joint on top
9. pour over the wine or water, and season with salt & pepper
10. cover tightly & cook over a very low heat for 1½ to 2 hours, turning the lamb every ¾ hour or so, until very tender
11. rest the lamb in a warm oven for 15 minutes before slicing
12. strain the juices & serve with the lamb 

What else you need to know: 

1. you may need a little more liquid – check from time to time that the lamb is not drying out

 

Land Of The Free

 Land Of The Free

I was a great fan of the United States,

I just loved their American ways,

So I did the quite obvious thing,

And went to the West Coast for my holidays.

 

To California and Arizona,

To discover all that they had to show me,

Then on to the islands of Hawaii,

And to the shoreline of Waikiki.

 

The mountains, the forests and the deserts,

The Pacific and Los Angeles’ nooks,

The Salad Bowl of the continent,

Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonalds and Starbucks.

 

With pancakes, muffins and super-sizing,

Those yanks sure know how to eat a big meal:

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

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

 

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

Tacos, burritos and Mexican food,

There’s Hershey Bars, in candy jars,

Eat what you want, whatever the mood.

 

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

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

Available in sizes up to a bucket,

And most of it tastes shite.

 

In San Francisco I wore some flowers in my hair,

Yosemite’s beauty left me beaming.

I enjoyed Uncle Sam, at the old Hoover dam,

And I did my share of California dreamin’.

 

I travelled down freeways and Inter-States,

Gambled in Vegas, Flew The Friendly Skies,

Got plenty of kicks, on Route Sixty-Six,

And discovered that chips are called fries.

 

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

And Country & Western songs started to pall.

I longed for a pavement, not a sidewalk,

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

 

So I left my heart in San Francisco,

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

Travelled back home to England,

Deserted the Star-Spangled Banner. 

 

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

As in the breeze it slowly unfurls,

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

And want no more of Hula-Hula girls.

 

I’m done for a while with The Union,

And our cousins there over the sea,

I’m finished with ice-hockey and baseball:

No more swimming and surfboards for me.

 

It might be the land of democracy,

Peopled by every immigrant wave,

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

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

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Missing In Action

Missing In Action

I see you very clearly at the start - a living, breathing boy

a Victorian green certificate carefully clerk-inked in neat copperplate,

hard clear evidence of your entry to the world

 

Again, newly brothered with your Mum and Dad, my unknown great-grandparents,

family members grouped in rows and columns, neat names in the census

together at century’s turn

 

And yet again, a decade later, stone-mason’s apprentice, following your father’s trade

young, strong, single, patriot to the country’s cause , enlisted, marching away with the Pals,

and then – nothing, vanished from the face of the Earth,

swallowed by Belgian mud, but I’m only guessing,

your service records destroyed, ironically lost in another Blitz

 

Never married, no death recorded, no longer there when you were needed

dead-ends, as if you had never existed, a withered branch of the family tree

no twigs, no buds, no leaves

gaps in the photographs where you should have been standing

gatherings you ought to have attended, children you never had

cousins you failed to provide

and sometimes I can hear your voice filling empty spaces in conversations

in the folk-lore of family

 

Already long departed before I came, not here to meet my arrival

I could never reach out and touch you

it’s as if you’re still missing in action

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Independence For Wilsher

 Independence For Wilsher

Seems the country’s fast falling apart,

And the United Kingdom’s set to rot,

With independence for the Cornishman,

For the Irishman, the Welshman and Scot.

 

So what about the claims for Wilsher?

The county of white horses and downs,

The shining jewel of South-West England,

The chalk hills and the market towns?

 

Our claims for EU recognition,

Would be composed of many factors:

We’re much more interesting than Gloucester,

And we’ve got an awful lot more tractors.

 

So here is my Wilsher manifesto,

To protect all we have in great bounty.

Let’s have belonging, our own identity,

A plea to be a Sovereign County.

 

We have our own history and landscape,

Our mythology and literature.

We’re a persecuted minority,

But the people are odd – that’s for sure.

 

Look at Marlborough and Avebury,

Malmesbury Abbey’s beautiful font.

Then there’s Trowbridge and Melksham,

Places that nobody else would want.

 

But what about Bradford and Salisbury Plain?

Lacock, Castle Combe and Devizes?

And lots of lovely little villages,

Whose names on-one ever recognises?

 

We’ve got the Great Western Railway,

Legacy of Isambard Kingdom Brunel,

And that corridor, of the bloody M4,

Also known as the Highway to Hell.

 

There’s our Wilsher Ham and our bacon,

The cheese and the bread, and cider-makers,

And there’s great myths and some weird legends,

Silbury Hill, and the tale of the Moonrakers.

 

Our patron saint could be - St Michael,

Our flower the burnt orchid, neatly cut,

Our bird must be - the Great Bustard!

And the Vly Be On The Turmut. 

 

Our special sport could be - goat-nadgering,

And on our peculiar accents I’m banking,

To award a new protective status

To the practice of gander-flanking.

 

From Fosse Way, Ridgeway and Kennet & Avon,

Our great county will have its revenge,

And the roar of the lions at Longleat

Will be heard beyond the site at Stonehenge.

 

So let’s assert our independence -

Recognition for Wilsher’s the goal!

We should put barricades on the borders,

Impose some form of passport control.

 

And fair enough to old Cornwall -

What they’ve achieved is all very fine,

But I’m afraid that I’ve got to now -

I’m walking right round the Wilsher coastline!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 8th November 2020

 Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 8^th November 2020

 

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

1.      Counting has finally concluded in all of the D-Town wards to elect the new leader if the Council, but it has taken several days to work through the complex mathematics of the democratic system’s checks and balances to figure out, on a purely representational system, allowing only so many votes per ward, based on population density, and taking into account postal ballots cast, including those received late, who might have won.  The returning officers complicated matters by asking for a recount in several wards, taking away the number they first thought of, adding their mother’s birthday and so on.  The result, following four years of campaigning, and the expenditure of many tens of pounds, was finally decided by the narrowest of margins, by flipping a coin.  And they say that this country is not completely democratic!  Local pop group The Hanging Chads have been booked to play at the Inauguration Ball in January. 

2.      And in a bold move, local footballer Wynn Gerr has been appointed to the Council as Chief of Nutrition, appearing to know more about feeding starving school-children than the existing post-holder.  Emboldened by this experiment, other appointments have followed.  The Manager of the local pet-shop has become Head of Parks & Gardens, the town drunk is to head up Licensing & Trading Standards, a cashier at Sainsburys is the new Finance Chief and a parking attendant is to lead D-Town’s Foreign Office. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020