Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 28th February 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 28^th February 2021

 

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

1.      Massive disappointment this week in D-Town for music fans: after 22 years of topping the charts the pop-synth duo Stupid Twat have decided to call it a day and retire from performing.  Famous for their career-long insistence on remaining anonymous by wearing full-face helmets (recently converted to Covid masks), they shocked fans even further by removing the head-covers to reveal their true identity: Mr. & Mrs. Potato-Head!  Who knew? 

2.      Meanwhile the twists and turns of local politics continued to be dominated by fish.  The Leaderene Miss Mackerel has been attacked in court by her predecessor Alex Haddock for mishandling his sardine-rape case.  ‘By cod,’ he declared, ‘this is not the time or the plaice to be making accusations.  It sticklebacks in my throat to be herring them.  She’d better not come the raw prawn with me – she hasn’t got the mussel to do it.  She’s a total sprat.  And I’ll bet she’s accepted thousands of squid to do it.’  Miss Mackerel later said that Mr Haddock had “had his chips”.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

This Door Is Alarmed

This Door Is Alarmed

The notice read “This door is alarmed”

To warn me, as if I should take some particular care,

That this portal was a sensitive creature,

And that I should make no sudden movements,

And, whilst I was obviously very concerned,

I thought I should also point out:

That the window is open – to suggestions

The curtains are drawn – having pulled themselves together

The floor - feels as if it is beneath me

The walls - are simply plastered

The skirting board – is working its way around me

The ceiling - is really over my head

The staircase – is a bit up and down

The TV – is channelling

The dish-washer – is on a new programme

The spin-drier – doesn’t know which way to turn

The fridge – is trying to keep its cool

The beds – are taking it lying down

But at least the lights - are very switched on

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Identification

Identification 

This is how it all started once before

With simple marks and signs

The means of clear identification

The distinction in status

Back then it was pink or yellow

But now it seems to be red

The plastic wristband

The painted door

The convenient grouping together

The insignia of things that must be distinguished

And next it will be numbering

Indexing and recording

After that it will be branding of the skin

A more permanent answer

Pre-cursor to a Final Solution

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Eve's Pudding

Recipe for: EVE’S PUDDING 

Ingredients: 

• For the fruit:
• 2-3 apples, peeled, cored & chopped
• 1 tblsp caster sugar
• For the sponge:
• 4 tblsp softened butter
• 4 tblsp caster sugar
• 75g self-raising flour
• 1 egg, beaten
• 2 tblsp milk 

Method: 

1. pre-heat the oven to 180C/ 170C fan
2. place the apples, 1 tblsp caster sugar + 1 tblsp water in a 2-pint buttered oven-proof dish
3. make the sponge: mix all the sponge ingredients together until smooth, light & fluffy
4. spoon the sponge mixture over the top of the apples & smooth the surface
5. bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the top has browned & is springy to the touch.  A skewer should come out clean
6. remove from the oven & allow to cool for a few minutes.  Slide a knife or spatula around the edge, then place a warm plate over the top of the dish
7. turn the whole lot over, then ease off the dish to leave the apples now on top of the sponge 

What else you need to know: 

1. you can just leave the pudding in the dish & scoop it out with a large spoon if the turning over thing seems too risky!

 

I Remember Whats-Her-Name

I Remember What’s-Her-Name

I was only thinking just the other day

About many things so far away

Before my recollection could wane

As I took a trip down Memory Lane

That I hadn’t seen her for such a long time

The girl I had courted back in my prime

She was handsome, and she was pretty

She lived in old Bradford City

I was sweet on her, which she surely knew

And I think that she was sweet on me too

So many years have now slipped by

How the decades have tended to fly

Such a long time since I played the courtship game….

I wonder whatever happened to… What’s-Her-Name?

 

After such a promising start

We gradually drifted apart

Then came that fateful day

When her family moved far away

We saw each other for one final night

Of course we promised we’d write

It didn’t happen and, as is often the case,

I think she got married to… What’s-His-Face

And as the story usually bids

There followed at least a couple of kids

Then, just like you read in the books

She faded, and lost all of her looks

 

Now I wish I hadn’t so tarried

She was the girl I ought to have married

But I’ll never know whether

We might have been happy together

You know - right after our first date

I knew she was my soul-mate

So close that our spirits were linking

We knew what each other was thinking

It’s such a shame it didn’t last

And now it’s all so far in the past

I don’t think either of us was to blame…

I just wish I could remember her bloody name!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

The Shape Of Things To Come

The Shape Of Things To Come

It seems they’ve come to an agreement

On climate change, global warming and such

That will assure the future of planet Earth

Give the human species new birth

Signed a new treaty, whatever that’s worth

To avoid a dystopian future of gloom, steer us away from impending doom

Give our atmosphere a little more room, and let us breathe once again

 

So does that mean we’ve found a solution?  That there’ll no longer be any pollution?

Can we stop worrying and relax?  I don’t think so, and here are some facts:

It’s like a resolution to cut down on smoking, not to stop, but to carry on choking,

Just a little more slowly – and I’m not joking

The planet’s future is probably nixed, because the problems aren’t fully fixed

It’s just a huge box of tricks

 

The carbon’s still being dug out of the ground, and will continue to be burned all around

Science and technology collude in the cracking, to assist industries like mining and fracking

Extracting resources sadly lacking, so into the corner we’re backing

Destroying what’s left of the thin atmosphere, undermining the whole biosphere

 

You see - the damage is already done!  The Jet-stream’s decidedly swung

Into a different pattern and course

Global population’s increasing perforce

Which means we’re heading no doubt, towards malnutrition, starvation and drought

Poverty and desperation all about

Rising temperatures and rising seas, natural systems brought to their knees

Typhoons and hurricanes, monsoon rains, dust-storms across all terrains

Freak hailstorms, weird weather in all of its forms

Choking fog, carcinogenic smog

Gas-masks and particulates you can taste

And then in our haste, we’re tipping out waste

Into the oceans that boil, there’s not much left to spoil

It’s quite drastic, the sheer amount of plastic - it’s simply fantastic

It seems there’s no escape, from the rape of the landscape

As we hollow out the planet, exhaust our reserves,

Taint the water courses, use up the resources

Till there’s so few, that there’s nothing to do, and none left to renew

With intensive methods of factory farming, the over-crowding’s alarming

And processes even less charming

We can’t afford a reduction, in the scale of food production

With gene-splicing and genetic modification’s persistence

Creating anti-biotic and painkiller resistance

In a move that’s endemic, the threat of a global pandemic

Spawning mutations, hybrids and clones, as well as pumping in buckets of hormones

Poisoning that goes down to the bones – and now the skies are filled up with drones

As the global corporations push for power - they’re a dangerous, de-regulated shower

Where corruption’s a too-common flower

The free-market economy believers, elitist capitalist system deceivers

People in pursuit of gain, never mind the pain

Never hear the under-privileged sobbing

 

Or the self-determination it’s robbing

Leaving the stark choice of unemployment , or insecure underpaid jobs

How are the under-pensioned to fare, in a system of under-resourced care?

The elderly, the vulnerable, the poor?  The sick and the weak are left on the floor!

Whilst the rich climb into their gilded towers, protected by private security powers

With their robots, and servants and slaves, the rest of us head for our shelters and caves

Barricaded inside our modules or heading for our early graves

But that’s how market forces work in the end, and polarisation of life-chances tend

To foster political and religious extremism that bend right-wing fundamentalism to rend

The world to its liking

And as the suicide bombers, move deftly among us

As their explosions we hear, coming increasingly near

Creating a stewing mass of violence and fear

Nowhere is safe, it can be presumed

Conclusion – I think we’re all doomed!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Extreme Tidying For Beginners

Extreme Tidying For Beginners

Some people can live right on the edge

In a minute-by-minute existence

With possessions that are rife

But not me and the wife

It’s the path to married strife

Not for us an ad-hoc approach to life

 

No - we’ve lifted ourselves right out of that zone

Our lives have taken on a new tone

We’ve ascended to a higher plane of being

And with minimalism we’re agreeing

We’ve risen above chaos’s curse

We cannot imagine anything worse

Yes - we’ve taken orderliness to heart

Made a completely new start

And adopted the Ancient Yorkshire art

Of extreme tidiness

 

For the true key to life is perfect alignment

Each object must have a specific assignment

With a right place for every single thing

Where empty space and straight edges are king

Using the power of re-positioning

And the discipline of re-purposing

We allow nothing to clutter the floors

And we’ve removed all of the doors

 

Our books are now filed alphabetical

Disorder is completely antithetical

To be haphazard would be heretical

The quest for inner cleanliness is clear

And self-purification we hold dear

Now we have nothing to fear

We’ve sublimated our souls to Ikea

 

The science of feng-shui is our creature

Surplus possessions are no longer a feature

Mind over matter is our only teacher

You cannot imagine the shock

The self-flagellation that would block

The critics that would mock

To humiliation we’d be in hock

In the event that we found…. a stray sock

 

No – that way to shame and self-loathing lies

Focused meditation makes us wise

The road to tidiness lies in that guise

The Zen of self-improvement cannot be disguised 

 

Everything not wanted - we sell

Our chakras align and gel

We’ve escaped from our living hell

Our lounge resembles a monastic cell

Our home is almost an empty shell

 

The house is totally enchanting

Exceptions to our rules we’re not granting

We’re calm, not panting and ranting

The seeds of doubt we’re not planting

And we end each day with joyful chanting

 

From what you have heard

It must have occurred

That order is to be preferred

And that Joy is our watchword

 

The wife and I make an excellent team

And I know it may seem

That we’re severe and extreme

In pursuit of our dream

But now that every possible thing has been tidied,

We’ve formulated a new scheme –

We’re going to make the garden gleam!

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 21st February 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 21^st February 2021

 

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

1.      Spontaneous applause broke out in D-Town Mission Control when the reconnaissance probe Sneaky Intruder made successful landfall in Trowvegas after a journey of nearly 25 minutes.  Pictures and sound signals, taking almost a second to pass through the void of distance, were soon received, revealing a barren, devastated landscape.  As long suspected, Trowvegas is proving to be a place with absolutely no atmosphere. 

2.      And a row has broken out between the man with his wife in the Big House at one end of time, with the man’s brother and his wife in the Other Big House at the other end of town.  One brother apparently wants to give up his family duties, but to carry on receiving his family allowance.  This has upset the other brother, and the mother of the two brothers, who lives in an even Bigger House in the middle of town.  She is said to be “quite cross” about the situation, especially as her centenarian Greek husband is still being held captive in D-Town’s Cottage hospital.  All three families begged for privacy at this very sensitive time, announced at a global press conference.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

What Are The Chances?

What Are The Chances?

What are the chances of you being here today?

What are the odds against you ever being born?

It’s not easy seeing, how you might have come into being

The statistics are staggering, the numbers mind-boggling

So let’s check there’s no deception regarding your conception

Let’s not be defective, but get some perspective

 

The first obstacle to your birth, is the pre-existence of Earth

Which pre-supposes the creation of the whole Universe,

The evolution of its galaxies and solar systems and all of that gang

The planets and even life on this world – all the way back to The Big Bang

The conditions had to be right, there had to be sun-light

So that single-celled organisms might, and primeval life able to fight

Its way out of the primordial soup -  indeed out of that gloop

Came all forms of life as we know it

Natural selection of life, in years measured over four billions

And humanoids spanned out in the merest two millions

 

And every one of your ancestors had to last until reproductive age

For a hundred and fifty thousand generations in an unbroken lineage

And if each one had not happened in the right combination

Each person would have been a different creation

And so on, and so on, back to beginning of time, so count yourself lucky

If you want to know how it’s done

The odds are 400 trillion to one

That’s four times ten to the power of fourteen, that you might never have been

Which makes the odds on football pools, the lottery and bingo look exceedingly keen

So just a single slip, a connection that didn’t quite meet

And you’d have possibly been your own sibling or cousin, which is quite sweet

Although you never really liked them, which is quite neat

 

The next part of this string, is the whole boy meets girl thing,

And the possibility of your specific parents meeting at all

The chances of talking to each other, dating and mating

The relationship developing, having a ball

And having sex with a suitable exchange of…. bodily fluids…

 

Did you know - a fertile female has a hundred thousand eggs

And a fertile man produces twelve trillion sperm

Over their respective lifetimes….that’s quite a long term

And whilst those are figures are relatively firm,

He’d have had to have been very firm (don’t squirm)….on the nights they made love

Including Saturday nights, after the pub,

For her to get in the club…

 

Now into the workings of reproduction we’ll peek

For each egg and each sperm is genetically unique

And you are the result of the fusion of one egg with one sperm

One exact unique meeting and fertilisation coming to term

And so was each of your parents, and each of their parents -

That’s your grandparents - going all the way back into history

It’s therein, that lies all of the mystery…

 

Now if only one of these combinations had been different you see

Or not happened, you wouldn’t be here listening to me!

The chances against you existing are greater than the number of particles in the universe

Which is a very, VERY big number, and what is much worse,

Thinking about it could make your head explode, which would be even worse

The mathematical pinnacle of a sequence

The frequence of which is almost infinitesimally small

It’s nothing short of a wonder that you’ve made it here at all…

 

So the chances are basically infinite… or maybe they’re zero

Which may mean that none of us ought to exist, and here is the gist…

Perhaps we’re figments of our own fertile imaginations

Just pigments in paint, a permutation that’s faint

But, either way, it’s almost a miracle

So you are something special, or even a hero

And it means you’re unique, almost a zero

You’re an “only”… doesn’t that make you feel lonely?

Except for doppelgangers of course

And triplets and twins…but I’m not going there

In case it does all of our heads in…

 

So what are the chances, what are the odds?

So many forks in the road never taken

Let’s hope that you’re suitably shaken

So many alternative paths

Well – you do the maths!

 

On the other hand – and here is the fun -

The fact that you’re here shows we’re virtually done

The probability of your existence is actually one hundred percent

Which in mathematical terms… is equal to one

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Emergency Poet

Emergency Poet

It’s not easy being a poet you know

Sometimes your powers can wane

You start feeling the strain, as you bang out another refrain

I know it’s difficult to believe

As you see me here reciting my verse

But sometimes it feels like a curse

It’s easy to become rather terse

And when things start going really badly

It’s time for medical help, to call in the nurse

 

It started quite gradually for me, I noticed my verse was turning quite free

But the problem wasn’t obvious to see, I wondered what the hell it could be

My limericks were….lacking, my sonnets were….sickly

My ballads were… just bollocks, my couplets just wouldn’t couple

My quatrains came out queasy, and it was no longer so easy

Lyrics and haikus became mangled, my epics and epitaphs all entangled

My rhythms all rambling and strangled

 

It was then that I fell, into a villanelle from hell

I forgot all the parameters, for iambic pentameters

You should have seen, the state of my Alexandrine

Each sestina could have been keener, and my cadences cleaner

My metre was a mess, and soon I confess

That my long lyrical canto sounded like something from panto

 

I couldn’t carry on at that time, I’d lost my powers of rhyme

I’d finally arrived at the point to know it, I felt that I must owe it to myself

To call on the Emergency Poet….

So I called one night after nine…the number was… Line, Line, Line

After waiting with some frustration

I got through and had my consultation

 

She seemed to know the problem at once

Made me feel like a poetic dunce

She said I was over-tired and run down

No wonder I was rhyming like a clown!

To keep me from depression and wallowing

She prescribed treatments as following…

Starting with an exercise of blank verse, but nothing too taxing at first

My diet consisted of a little thin doggerel, to be written twice in each day

Then to try a quick clerihew, don’t mind if I do, just one or two

She said in this gentle mode, I could work up to an ode

Until some new verses flowed

Then she’d be willing to bet, I could manage a sestet

 

So the moral of this saga is clear:

If your stanzas turn queer, get treatment, don’t fear

Drink plenty of beer

And if you liked this saga – then give us cheer!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Smoked Salmon Souffle Tart

Recipe for: FISH – SMOKED SALMON SOUFFLE TART

 

Ingredients: 

·        ½ x 375g pack shortcrust pastry

·        50g/ 2oz plain flour

·        50g/ 2oz butter

·        300ml/ ½ pt milk

·        3 large eggs, separated

·        Zest of ½ lemon

·        1 tblsp chopped dill

·        100g smoked salmon pieces

·        150g goat’s cheese, crumbled

 

Method: 

1.      Heat oven to 180C fan

2.      Lightly grease a 22cm tart tin

3.      Roll out the pastry on a floured board and line the greased tin with it, leaving excess overhanging the edge

4.      Line with baking parchment and baking beans

5.      Bake blind for 15 minutes

6.      Remove paper and beans and bake for another 10 minutes

7.      Meanwhile make the filling, starting with the sauce mixture

8.      Heat the butter in a small pan, adding the flour, letting it cook out

9.      Add the milk and stir until the sauce thickens

10.   Stir in the egg yolks, lemon zest, dill and seasoning

11.   Take off the heat

12.   In a clean bowl beat the egg whites until they hold their shape

13.   Fold carefully into the sauce

14.   Once the pastry case is ready, build the tart

15.   Place torn pieces of smoked salmon on the base

16.   Add half the crumbled goat’s cheese

17.   Spoon over the soufflé sauce

18.   Finish with more salmon pieces, the rest of the goat’s cheese and a few sprigs of dill

19.   Bake for 25-30 minutes until puffed up and golden

20.   Remove from the oven and trim the pastry edges

 

Being English

Being English

I hear you claim that you’re English,

English through and through -

You wrap yourself up in the flag,

Proud of the red, white and blue.

 

You want people to know where you stand,

Not sitting on the rickety fence,

Descended from a long line of the English -

Well let’s examine the hard evidence.

 

Your heritage is a complex mixtures of genes:

Normans, Angles, and Saxons are all in the mix,

As are Romans and Moors and the Jutes,

That’s not forgetting the Celts and the Picts.

 

An Englishman’s home is his castle,

Living elsewhere would be such a wrench  -

There’s just one fly in this ointment -

All the great English castles are French!

 

Saint George is your national symbol,

A dragon-slaying heroic saint,

But he’s from the Levant, that’s Turkey to you,

So English he certainly ain’t!

 

And your great institutions of state?

English? Surely that’s what is meant?

The monarchy?  The Royal Family?

Nah – you’re ruled by a Queen of German descent!

 

There’s very little to find that’s true English,

No matter how deeply you seek -

Even Parliament’s an imported idea,

And your democracy is Greek!

 

Fish and chips are your national dish,

Eaten with gusto across your great land,

But the spuds were brought back from America,

And the cod’s imported from Iceland!

 

Your favourite car is German

Your vodka is Russian, your pasta Italian

Kebabs are from Turkey, curry from India

Coffee from Brazil, tea from India

Your shirts are sewn in Indonesia

Even your numbers are Arabic, and letters are Latin

Your oil is Arabian, your software is American

And on top of all these,

To add insult to injury,

Your electronics are Chinese! 

 

For it’s waves and waves of immigration,

Other races coming to England to stay,

A continuous genetic melting-pot

That carries on up to this day.

 

Inter-marriage and natural selection

Have created a strong, heady brew.

We’re all multi-racial mongrels now -

Yes - English through and through!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

We need to talk about hair

The stuff that covers the human body

The stuff that everyone knows

From the tops of our heads to (in some cases) the tops of our toes

That’s how it generally goes

Yes, we need to talk about hair

The stuff that can be dark or oftentimes fair

Of how it goes in a cycle through life

With little to start with when we’re born

Then growing and sprouting and flourishing

So we spend fortunes on shampoos

And conditioners for nourishing

Cutting and styling and shaping

Plucking and singeing and shaving

We’ve developed the knack

For back, sack and crack

A devious desire to dazzle

Perhaps even a cheeky vajazzle

In an orgy of depilation

A whole industry that’s addressing

Our copious needs for hair-dressing

 

But that’s only the upward trajectory

Of hair’s growth and our vanity

Before the onset of insanity

As towards old age we’re spinning

When fading and falling and thinning

Create a look that’s no longer winning

But that’s what happens up on the head

You start losing it faster instead

And also down there below

You’ll find it’s starting to go

 

But there’s an exception to this general moulting

That some find personally revolting

When the orifices of the head

Start to take over instead

For there can be no doubting

About the range of new sprouting

A new flourishing that fills

The eyebrows, the ears and the nostrils

But I’m willing to bet

It’s not finished yet

It’s just the same hair that you get

Simply looking for a new outlet

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Loyalty

Loyalty

When approaching the checkout at Morrisons

There’s an anxiety that grips me

It’s not, I confess, whether I have “Five items or less”

Nor the grammatical skewer

To know whether it should be “Five items or fewer”

 

No, it’s deeper form of worry, that causes the sudden flurry

Of bone-chilling angst and anxiety

You see shopping in Waitrose

Doesn’t get up your nose

That’s how it goes

And, if I may be so bold,

That’s what you’re told, so you’re exit is usually bold

When you’re Never Knowingly Undersold

 

And at Asda and Aldi’s there’s no fiddle

Nor attempt to diddle, when you’re shopping at Lidl

Even Sainsbury’s no riddle

But back here at the Morrison’s conveyor

I’m stopped from being much gayer

I’m a dithering, nervous payer

With my Match N’ More loyalty card

My enjoyment is marred

I’m quite on my guard, the calculation’s too hard

I feel uncertainty in my joints

Perspiration my face anoints, as I calculate my points

Hoping the till will correctly count

Special offers, as the totals gradually mount

Towards my overall discount

 

I need my bargains - I’m no toff

I’m forced to a cough, if I don’t get my BOGOF

When I pay my bill, waiting there at the till

It’s not my intention

To cause the queue a detention

But I just thought that I’d mention

This disquiet, this tension

That it might have been cheaper at Tesco

Perhaps I should change, switch where I go

For as any fool know

Every Little Helps

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine (an anti-dote to the hearts-and-flowers sentimentality of Valentine’s Day).

 

I have to say it’s been a bit slow lately,

In the “bedroom department” you know,

So I thought I’d tempt my dear beloved,

And try to bring back the old glow.

 

February four-teenth looked a good bet,

For that, as you know, is Valentine.

I thought that if I put in some effort,

Once again, our hearts could entwine.

 

I went and bought her some fine roses,

The best ones I could see in the shop.

It cost me an absolute fortune,

My funds had already started to drop.

 

Undeterred, I continued my bounty,

And I added a selection of chocs:

Nothing cheap, I really must emphasise,

Not a small one, but a very large box.

 

I wrote her poem, declaring my love,

And put it into her Valentine card.

It’s not easy writing poetry, you know,

It fact, I’d say it’s quite hard.

 

And finally I worked at the cook-book,

To present her with a very fine dinner.

I felt sure that this would win her heart,

I’d even say I was on to a winner.

 

I made our dining arrangements,

And over the details I took some pain.

There was soft, gentle lighting,

Mood music, and some pinkish champagne.

 

I hoped that she’d be impressed,

As she swooned over the effects,

And hopefully, when she’d eaten her meal,

There’d be kissing, and cuddling and sex.

 

But the best-laid plans of mice and of men,

Are often reputed to go far astray.

The course of true love rarely runs smooth:

I was in for a disappointment that day.

 

She was allergic to the chocolates I’d bought,

And she burnt her mouth on the soup.

The meal I’d cooked was truly awful,

And the sauce just tasted like gloop.

 

She thought my poem was real corny,

She scratched her arm on the roses’ thorn,

She got drunk on the champagne,

Which left my hopes all forlorn.

 

She went off to bed with a headache,

As can be a fair creature’s fashion.

I had to do all the washing-up,

And that was the end to all of my passion.

 

I was left on my own,

To sigh and to moan.

I’d wined her,

I’d dined her.

I’d thought that we two,

Would bill & would coo,

But it’s easy to see,

It just wasn’t to be.

 

So what lesson can we draw from this tale?

What should we take as love’s sign?

Well - if you think pink,

It’ll drive you to drink.

You know in your head,

That it won’t lead to bed.

So he’s got a lot to answer for, that Valentine!

 

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Shrinking Congregation

Shrinking Congregation

I watch with some puzzlement

As our local vicar modifies his church

He’s closed down the meeting rooms

And he’s had his pulpit made a smaller size

Now he’s installed much smaller pews

And he’s had the stained-glass windows lowered

And, with the bishop’s stern approval,

The altar’s on a lower table than it was

I enquired about these modifications

So he confided to me in a recent conversation

He says he’s dealing with a shrinking congregation

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

The Impossible Dream

The Impossible Dream

What a joy it is to be rational,

To only believe what’s in front of your eyes,

Yet look at the evidence all around us,

You’d be in for quite a surprise!

 

Man’s capacity to imagine

The weird, the oddball and the bizarre,

Can take you to a whole new planet

Of experience that’s stranger by far.

 

Perhaps it came from man’s superstition,

His attempt to explain the universe,

Perhaps it just came out of old folklore,

To explain bad fortune and worse.

 

Mythical creatures come to the fore:

The Yeti, or Bigfoot or Unicorns,

Ghosts and griffins, werewolves and wyverns,

Pixies, sphinxes, sylphs and leprechauns.

 

The bogey-man, the sand-man, Santa Claus,

Flying pigs, Pegasus the winged horse,

Fauns and fairies, angels, devils and demons,

And the Loch Ness Monster of course.

 

Frankenstein’s monster, and Count Dracula,

Vampires and zombies, the walking dead,

Hobbits and hydras, warlocks and witches,

And for chimeras there’s a lot to be said.

 

Goblins and dragons, and doppelgangers,

Satyrs and sirens, mermaids and mer-men,

Cerberus and cyclops, and the Phoenix,

And shape-shifters far beyond our ken.

 

But beyond the three-humped camels,

What’s the point in this day and age?

Isn’t it Elf and Safety gone mad?

Isn’t it time to turn a new page?

 

Haven’t we yet finished with orcs and with trolls?

Do we still need imps, ogres, the manticore?

Wraiths, The Grim Reaper and Santa Cluas?

Shouldn’t we ask what it’s all for?

 

It’s the twenty-first century now!

We know how things work, covered every angle -

Shouldn’t we bundle up all of this nonsense,

And lose it in the Bermuda Triangle? 

 

Or perhaps someone has an interest

In keeping this in front of our eyes?

The franchises, the branding, the products,

And a chance to sell us more merchandise?

 

Or maybe a need for some fantasy,

To forget that life can be a bit gritty,

To indulge our imaginations,

To escape from a reality that’s shitty?

 

Anyway, I’ve bent your ears for long enough,

I need to run along, I’ve got plenty to do -

I’ve got an appointment later night –

It’s the new series of Doctor Who!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Parmesan-fried Brie

Recipe for: PARMESAN FRIED BRIE 

Ingredients: 

·        225g/ 8oz ripe Brie

·        75g/ 3 oz white breadcrumbs

·        40g/ 1 ½ oz freshly grated parmesan

·        2 large eggs beaten with 2 tblsp milk

·        Oil for frying 

Method: 

1.      Cut the wedge of Brie into triangles

2.      Combine breadcrumbs with parmesan, adding salt & pepper, spread out on plate

3.      Dip each piece of brie into the egg, then into breadcrumb mixture

4.      Repeat by dipping again into egg then breadcrumb

5.      Place crumbed wedges on a plate and place in fridge to firm up

6.      When ready to cook, heat oil in pan until fairly hot

7.      Fry brie wedges briefly, about 45 secs on each side until browned

8.      Remove with slotted spoon and drain on crumpled kitchen paper 

What else you need to know: 

1.      Serve with a dipping sauce such as sweet chilli

Still More Greetings Cards

On returning from your first New Age retreat: 

Welcome home again, old thing

It’s good to see you in the flesh all pinky

Years have fallen from your features

Your skin is smoother and less wrinkly!

 

Welcome back to meat and chocolate

Let your hair down, and have a flirt

There’s much more to life than muesli

And yurts, and yoga, and pro-biotic yoghurt!

 

On having to pay 5p for a plastic bag: 

It’s so nice that you can do your bit

Supporting the environment’s fantastic

To make you think about re-useability

Rather than simply using plastic

 

But there’s one thing bothering me

A problem that we must take in hand

If they’re charging now for carriers

Can they still call it Poundland?

 

On realising you’re driving a diesel: 

Oh my God how awful!

VW are speaking like a weasel

They’ve been cheating on the tests

And sold you a sodding diesel!

 

I’ll bet you’re as mad as mad can be

And furious that you’ve been taken in

It doesn’t matter what your engine type

It seems that you just can’t win!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021