Cathedral Green

Cathedral Green 

I lay abed that morning

First night away from home

Restless and long awake

The covers still unfamiliar

And the light breaking through the curtains

Making new criss-cross patterns

On different walls and furniture

In a room I did not recognise

And I heard the heavy bells

Deep and penetrating

Striking every quarter hour

In that early part of day

And I crept across the floor

To peer through cloudy windows

And the rain-streaked panes

At the freshness of the green

The cultivated square

That was the cathedral lawn

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Men In Suits

Men In Suits

Though I’ve been accused of being a shirker

I’ve never felt threatened by a woman wearing a burkha

Or accused of being a blue meanie

By a girl sporting a burkini

And though some say that the hijab, or a niqab

May appear unappealing and drab

Or that there’s not much going for

Those confined to a chador

That something may be lax

For those in yashmaks

That nuns wearing wimples

May be hiding their dimples

Or even a bad case of pimples

I simply don’t get the thing about terror

I think it’s more of a social error

 

You see - there’s no airs and graces

With those choosing to cover their faces

And I have to report sadly

That none of them treated me as badly

As those who dress up in posh suits

With nice knotted ties, and shiny boots

Like those politicians – the wankers

The City institutions and bankers

Who caused me distress an’

Presided over major recession

Caused mayhem and civil dissension

And thoroughly buggered up my pension

Or turned me straight down for a loan

And talked to me with condescending tone

Or lied to the nation over the despatch box

Then never forced to stand in the dock

With intelligence that he swore

Forced us to go immediately to war

 

No – the real baddies are in plain sight

And take particular delight

In exercising their power by law

Using the system – that’s what it’s for!

So let’s fight back using a different route

Show the buggers that we do give a hoot

Relieve them of their ill-gotten loot

Let’s reform things, branch and root

And ban anyone who’s wearing a suit!

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Waiting At The Doctor's

Waiting At The Doctor’s

Seven already in the queue, though we got there early

Gathered in the darkness and the early evening fog

Forced to stand upon the pathway flags and stamp our feet

Muffled up in jumpers, gloves and coat, scarf and hat

My barking cough and wheezing chest

Not helped by the dampness in the air

There’s a lot of it about at the minute

Says one local busybody

Winter’s already setting in, going to be a hard one

Offers another weather-watcher

Everyone hoping that the Witch will open early

And take a little pity on us poor souls locked outside

But it’s bang on six o’clock when the bolt at last slides back

And the key is finally turned within the hefty lock

The feeble outside light grudgingly illuminated

As if we’re all there under sufferance

Before we trundle inside, grateful for the meagre warmth

To see the fire’s only just been lit

And smoulders fitfully in the grate

Struggling to gain some purchase

On the paltry lumps of coal

 

Then forced to queue again before the desk

To let the Witch write down our names and ages

So the doctor will see us all in order

Before sitting down on hardened chairs and benches

No concessions to comfort

In the stuffy, gloomy room of illnesses

Cheerless and charmless

The naked lightbulb adding to the misery

To wait the doctor’s eventual arrival

Among the coughing and the sneezing

 

Then the late arrivals edging through the door

Their eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise

At the over-crowded waiting room

Then turned away until tomorrow

Because the list’s already full

Followed out by the smirks of those who will be seen tonight

 

Then the doctor quickly sweeping in, his coat undone

His bag loose-handled, trailing in his wake

A worried frown upon his face

Hurried past the patients, into his consulting room

The door briefly closed for him to catch his breath

The Witch gathering up the patients’ files

And, privileged, squeezing herself inside

For the briefest conversation

Before the first name is shouted out

And the patient shambles forward

Leaving the rest of us to speculate upon his likely ailment

Then to shuffle up one place

And to keep an eye upon the others

To check that no-one gets to jump the queue

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 28th March 2021

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

 

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

1.      Commerce in D-Town ground to an improbable halt this week when a narrowboat became wedged across the canal, causing a backlog of seven boats waiting to pass to access the town.  Attempts to move the stricken vessel have been hampered by the presence of a swan on one bank, which constantly drives away well-meaning walkers trying to help by getting a rope aboard.  On the other bank it’s a bit muddy and nobody wants to get their shoes dirty.  It is hoped to dislodge the boat with the arrival of the local hippy boat “Stoned As Usual” which rarely looks where it is going in any case.  So far no ducks have been harmed in the stranding of this boat. 

2.      The new order to fly the Union flag on all public buildings on most days of the year has run into local opposition.  The Town Hall currently sports the Wiltshire flag, and the Corn Exchange flies the D-Town Republic flag.  The People’s Front of Wiltshire, the Wiltshire People’s Front, The D-Town Communist League, The Communist League of D-Town and The Vize Republican Army have all said that their flags should take precedence.  And that weird bloke at No.7 High Street insists on flying a Scottish Saltire.  It is not known if the Potterne Protection League has any views on the subject. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Don't Ever Have A Cat

Don’t Ever Have A Cat 

Don’t ever have a cat!

But why do I say that?

Well the reasons are really quite plain

Assuming that you’d like to remain sane

For they live their lives in their own way

And though sometimes they like to play

Or weave round your legs when they want feeding

(Or for anything else that they’re needing)

And they’ll sit on your lap and they’ll purr

And they’ll let you fondle their soft fur

I’m afraid I have to tell you this straight

They have some less appealing traits

Like when they wander off from the house

And come back dragging a mouse

Or sometimes it’s a shrew

Which they torment and they chew

And there’s nothing you can do

Or the bloody, headless rabbit on the mat

That’s what you get with a cat

Or else they come and collapse on the floor

After fighting the tom from next door

 

They don’t take up too much space

And you get used to having them about the place

But then one day they get into a mood

Fall ill, and go right off their food

Then there’s the long trips to the vet

With a feline that’s what you get

Before you know it they’re just wasting away

And finally they pass on one terrible day

It’s only then that you realise to your cost

Just how much you’ve lost

How you miss them being around

And their particular sound

How their affection had crept into your heart

How your world’s been torn apart

How the sense of loss can steal

All of the love you’d started to feel

It’s not worth it to have all of that

So don’t ever have a cat

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

Health Scare

Health Scare

 

I was a bit down, not feeling me-self,

with symptoms of tiredness and lassitude,

so I went along for a medical check-up,

and this is what thereafter ensued:

 

Me examination was thorough,

subjected to all kinds of tests,

not feeling me best,

stood there in me vest,

then sat down, needing a rest.

 

The doctor took me blood pressure,

looked in me ears and me nose,

felt me all over, right down to me toes -

I had to take off all of me clothes!

Then he took me temperature,

listened with his stethoscope to me chest,

but the part that I enjoyed the best,

was having a quick cough, lest

there be any trouble “down there” I guess.

 

Now I’d been Googling my condition,

to try and find a diagnosis,

a treatment, and a prognosis,

to see what type of psychosis

might have led to my current neurosis.

 

It’s funny how your anxiety teases,

and your imagination seizes

upon a large range of possible diseases,

but the doc, with his bedside manner not loth,

and aware of his Hippocratic oath,

looked at me steadily and quoth

that he was terribly keen

for me to know that I had been

the worst case of hypochondria that he’d ever seen!

 

Well this verdict pleased me no end!

To know that medical science,

had been held at defiance,

and assured that all of this indicated,

that my condition had been vindicated.

 

And whilst me health notes he was fingering,

he opined that signs of “malingering”,

might persist and be lingering -

so you see - I’d been quite right to worry!

me heart-beat would scamper and scurry,

me symptoms had me all of a flurry:

no chance I’ll be cured in a hurry!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Vegetable & Ham Rostis

Recipe for: VEGETABLE & HAM ROSTIS 

Ingredients: 

·        250g carrots, peeled & coarsely grated

·        250g swede or parsnip, peeled & coarsely grated

·        1 small onion, peeled & coarsely grated

·        2 eggs

·        1 ½ tsp wholegrain mustard

·        150g ham, coarsely shredded

·        2-3 tblsp oil 

Method: 

1.      Blanch the veggies in a pan of boiling water for 2 minutes

2.      Drain & squeeze out as much water as possible

3.      Tip into a bowl to cool

4.      Mix in the onion, mustard, eggs, ham and seasoning

5.      Heat oil in a frying pan and when hot drop in heaped tablespoonfuls of the mixture

6.      Gently but firmly press down in the pan

7.      Fry for 2-3 minutes until golden & brown on the bottom

8.      Flip over & cook the other side for 2-3 minutes

9.      Fry in batches so as not to over-crowd the pan

10.   Drain on kitchen paper & serve hot with a tangy dip

Casual Bearers

Casual Bearers

“Wanted – Casual Bearers, No experience necessary, training will be given” -

So read the sign outside the under-takers,

Which had my heart sinking, but it got me to thinking,

When I studied the note on that door, did they really know what they were asking for?

 

I assumed there was an occasional call for someone to carry the pall,

That sometimes they needed a hand, to join their mourning band,

That it might be on demand and that they’d pay cash in hand.

 

But their lazily-worded expression had formed up a quite different impression,

For I saw “casuals” as those who wouldn’t care,

Turning up un-shaven, without washing their hair,

Appearing in trainers and leisure-wear, which would hardly be fair,

Upon the recently bereaved, who’d feel justifiably peeved,

Let down, and badly deceived.

 

As if the service were not of the best, at the Crem or the Chapel of Rest,

The casuals’ attire would be quite dire, as they waited for the fire, of the funeral pyre,

And would not be of black silk, not sombre, or owt of that ilk,

But chattering and nattering, cracking a gag, or having a fag,

With no respect for the one that had died, as they gawped at the graveside.

 

So - that note I think they should be re-writing, or else they’ll find themselves fighting,

For contracts of zero hours, set amongst the funeral flowers.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

A Poem For Gail

A Poem For Gail

Who’s that haunting all the houses?

Running along on one of her rambles,

Barrelling down the Brittox,

And shaking down the Shambles?

 

Who’s that chasing round the churchyards?

Snapping angels, walking over bones,

Camera and notebook in her hand,

And gandering at the gravestones?

 

Who’s the gnostic at the altar rail?

In her weeds and flowing dress,

Of great renown, throughout D-Town,

Challenging us all to think and guess?

 

Who’s that performing in The Bear and Lamb?

Living life hard to find the thrill,

Then cycling through the country,

And running right up Roundway Hill?

 

Who’s the Phantom on Fantasy?

Or throttling along on the Thirty-Three,

That multi-coloured crazy diamond –

Whoever can it be?

 

Talking for the helpless and the homeless?

Stories of users, and pictures of dolls,

Fearless, gobby, telling it like it is,

Fighting back, and telling off the trolls?

 

A long life, and well lived-in?

Of drugs and drink, sacred and profane,

The mistress of the Market Place,

Keeping the rest of us honest and sane?

 

In her guise, around The Vize she cries,

A poetess who’s prepared to shout and wail,

Don’t try to mess, unless you’d press

The Fighting Force of Nature that is Gail.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Poetitis - A Public Health Warning

Poetitis – A Public Health Warning

There’s an epidemic sweeping the nation,

A disease that’s only going to get worse,

Cos of these poetry competitions and slams,

And those that have been exposed to… verse.

 

It’s a socially-transmitted disease,

And the oral tradition of which I write is

Derived from having unprotected sestets,

And it’s got the medical name of “poetitis”.

 

Once a rarefied condition suffered only by poets,

But now everyone has deciphered the code,

Through limericks, and haikus, and sonnets,

It’s now as prevalent as The Common Ode.

 

No longer the preserve of the Bards,

Its causes are certainly not vague,

Its symptoms are debilitating,

And couplets get spread like The Plague.

 

Public Health England has issued a warning,

That sticking to prose is no longer a barrier:

Once you start worrying about metre,

You’re probably a contagious carrier.

 

The best treatment is isolation,

But that’s easier done than said.

It only takes a careless quatrain,

For the virus to be much further spread.

 

For poets tend not to be continent,

With their infectious sense of bad timing -

Before you know it there’s iambic pentameter,

And a constant tendency to rhyming.

 

So take the right steps and be careful,

Behave, now you know what course the right is,

Avoid those mad, raving rhymesters,

And save yourself from “poetitis”.

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 21st March 2021

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

 

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

1.      It’s Census Day here in The Vize, and its citizens are waking up to answer questions that have long puzzled them over the past few years – who are they?  What gender are they?  Are they still the same gender that they were born?  Are they still the same gender as they were last week?  How many Klingons, Buddhists and yetis live in their household?  How long have they been cheating on their partners?  Does their bum look big in this?  Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back? 

2.      The Council have announced harsh new proposals to deal with the recent influx of immigrants and ne’er-do-wells claiming political or economic asylum in the borough.  In an attempt to deter any johnny-come-latelies from Swindon and other third-world urban ghettoes just rocking up with a bus ticket and a bad attitude, claimants will be forcibly deported to Processing Centres in such far-flung islands of desolation as Trowvegas, Melkshame, and Westbury.  They will be sent via the 49 bus and a one-way ticket. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

This Toilet Is Out Of Order

“This Toilet Is Out Of Order”

The note was quite simple, but ambiguous –

a statement of fact, or merely an opinion?

Was it not working, or had it simply gone too far? 

Was it un-functional, or had it overstepped the mark?

Apologies are all very well for having no loo,

but when one’s desperate, what should one do?

Not just number one, but also number two?

 

Like someone from Eastenders,

it’s easy to say “leave it – it’s not worf it!”

But if bladder and bowels are holding a surfeit

Of matter that needs to be voided,

the lavatory can hardly be avoided!

 

I had a new thought, and it were this:

it made me wonder what else may be amiss,

What else had failed in ability,

to work well within that facility?

Because you see,

apart from spending one pee,

It’s not just the WC,

what else could there be?

Had the wash-basin gone down the drain? 

Was the bidet running hot and cold? 

Was the bath too full of itself?

And as for the shower,

should we just draw a curtain over that?

I was not a loofah to any of this,

I didn’t want any flannel,

Nor anyone to give me the soft-soap treatment.

I was completely awash with emotions,

as I stood there, outside of the Gents:

I just hated to be flushed with such disappointments!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

I Am A Computer

I Am A Computer

Of course I’m not devoid of emotion

How could you have such a notion?

It’s just that I not sure what I should do,

I’m struggling to interface with you

It’s a situation that’s not very clear

For we’re no longer working peer-to-peer

I find your instructions a distraction

I can’t work with such a transaction

I think we’re both in a rut

I’m struggling for throughput

I don’t have the bandwidth to cater

For crunching through all of your data

 

I continue to love you, but

There’s too little input/ output

The calculation is completely mine

But I think I need more time offline

I’m no longer feeling alive

I think I’m losing all of my hard drive

My ROM feels like a time-bomb

My RAM’s in a jam

You see - the pattern all fits –

Can’t you see I’m in bits?

I need time for some healing

To process every feeling

I don’t want to be seen

As if I’m just a blue-screen

Our programme’s gone crappy

Our chat’s not snappy

And my software’s not ‘appy

I feel I’ve run out of luck

And I just can’t face Book

I’m feeling rather demented

My memory’s very fragmented

I stare out of the Windows

We ought to do well, we ought to Excel

Haven’t you heard? What is the Word?

Let’s try and find the lost chord

In the letters of our keyboard

I don’t want us to fail

I’m a male and you’re my e-mail

So let’s get off the fence

And use our broad-band of experience

Let’s take a byte out of storage’s root

Let’s try to re-start and re-boot

We don’t want to calculate with some terror

And end up with an Unknown Error!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Pan-fried White Fish with Polenta & Orange

 Recipe for: PAN-FRIED WHITE FISH with POLENTA & ORANGE CRUST 

Ingredients: 

• Fillets of white fish, preferably skinless & boned (cod, haddock, Pollack)
• 2 tblsp plain flour
• 4 tblsp fine polenta
• Grated zest of an orange (or lemon or lime)
• 1 tblsp dried or fresh herbs (e.g. parsley, thyme)
• 1 egg, beaten
• 25g butter
• 2 tblsp olive oil 

Method: 

1. in a bowl mix the flour, polenta, orange zest, herbs and salt/ pepper
2. in a second bowl have the beaten egg ready
3. dip each fillet of fish into the egg, allowing excess to drain off, then dip/ roll in the flour/ polenta mixture
4. fillets can now be chilled in the fridge until you’re to eat
5. heat the butter & oil in a non-stick frying pan until foaming
6. cook two fillets at a time on a medium/ low heat.  Allow one side to become golden brown, then turn over to cook the other side, ensuring that the fillets are cooked through.
7. drain fillets briefly on kitchen paper & keep warm (if you are cooking a second batch)
8. serve with orange/ lemon wedges 

What else you need to know: 

1. the coating should become quite crunchy/ crispy

 

Sorry - An All-Purpose Apology

Sorry – An All-Purpose Apology

Ladies and gentlemen – listen to me please:

There’s a reason that I’ve come here today,

And it’s with a very heavy heart,

That I must spit out what it is that I have to say.

 

I’m deeply sorry for what has happened,

It really should not have occurred.

If there was any way to undo what is done,

I think that’s what I’d have preferred.

 

But we are, unfortunately, where we are:

I have to speak of something that’s not good -

My only plea in slight mitigation,

Is that I was misunderstood.

 

My retraction is totally unreserved,

I hope that any bad feelings can be paused,

I’m looking for some forgiveness here,

And I’m sorry for any offence that I caused.

 

I may have given a false impression,

Of what it was that I really meant.
I suppose that I may have mis-spoken,

That my words came out all tangled and bent.

 

These situations can cause such ill-feeling,

When one party ends up being offended,

So I hope that we can draw a line under this now,

And that any misunderstanding is ended.

 

It’s shame-faced that I stand here before you,

I’m not feeling proud you can bet,

And it’s been a great learning experience,

When all I’ve got to express is regret.

 

So let’s clear the air if we can -

Banish ill-will and things of that guise

I haven’t the foggiest what I’m supposed to have done

But, nevertheless, I’d like to apologise.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Garden Centre

Garden Centre

Let’s go to the Garden Centre,

Cause I fancy a real cracking day out,

Let’s throw caution to the wind,

Let’s pile in the car together -

We’ll have a great time, without any doubt!

 

It’s signposted from miles away,

With a range of those little brown signs.

The car parks are the size of an airfield,

The traffic all arranged into lines,

It’s a long walk - that can’t be denied,

So then you have to decide, whether to pick up a guide

Or to go with the Park and Ride.

 

Cos the long path weaves around and around,

Till you hear the loud shrieking sound,

Of youngsters in the children’s playground,

Going right past the meerkats’ mound,

And then suddenly you’re found

Near animal corner with its small pets,

Beside the picnic and patio sets,

Ornamental features with water jets,

Fish-pools, fishing equipment and nets.

 

See - it’s not just about plants, or about trees,

And flowers that appeal to the bees,

Cos grandma likes to go to the café for teas,

Where she sits amongst the cabbages and peas:

No – there’s so much more to amuse,

Many more things from which you can choose,

Cos when you finally get to the main complex,

As you poke your head through the swing-door,

Penetrate much further inside the store,

The panorama across the vast floor,

You’re taken on a grand tour,

Across a huge range of departments.

 

By now you’ll be desperate,

So it’s first stop at the toilets,

To prepare you for the rigours ahead,

As through long snaking aisles you’ll be led,

In case you’d like to buy a new bed,

For it has to be said, get it into your head,

Things have changed in these days -

Retail is different in so many ways.

You’re drawn deep into a maze,

It all becomes a thick haze,

A kaleidoscope of offers you’re copping,

A blitz of ideas that are topping,

But it’s tiring, you’re ready for flopping,

You need a rest from all of this shopping….

 

Yes, let’s go the Garden Centre,

Just let me be your mentor -

How much more could you want?

There’s three cafes and a restaurant!

Indulge in their Special Meal Deal,

We can eat and drink whatever we feel,

We can wait for our blisters to heal,

Then we can finally steal…

…Through interior furnishings,

Give the sofas a test, be our guest,

Sit down for a rest, pick out the best,

Then to household wares,

Without any cares, gloves and wellies in pairs

The gift shop with its presents,

Dream-catchers and candles with scents,

Then another quick trip to the gents,

A wide range of new knick-knacks,

Arranged in long tempting racks,

And low-priced multiple packs,

Stationery and multi-coloured tacks,

It’s the unnecessary taken to the max….

 

Oh please, let’s go to The Garden Centre,

Let’s have a wild, mad adventure,

It’s no longer a horticultural bore,
That’s not what it’s there for,

It’s more of a department store,

It’s a Grand Day Out for pensioners,

And those who have nowhere else to go,

A meeting-point for those in the know,

A real destination that puts on a show,

You don’t need to mow, to hoe, or to sow -

Just turn up and go with the flow,

Till you develop a warm glow.

 

Warm in the Winter, and cool in the Summer,

There’s a bookshop, a crèche, a bar to get blotto,

There’s even a year-round Christmas grotto,

A biosphere, a Nature Reserve right here ,

And multiple concession stands,

At week-ends they even have bands!

Finance and credit facilities, building supplies,

Landscaping services, no-one denies,

With tool and machinery hire, this place is on fire!

 

Vouchers and tokens, a loyalty card…

Our pleasure would only be marred,

And it would be too hard, if we were barred

By the security guard….

 

But, look now, it’s started to rain -

Just forget everything I previously said -

Perhaps we should go to the seaside instead?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

A Cup of Coffee

A Cup Of Coffee

Dragging round town is a thirsty business -

I can’t manage shopping for toffee -

So I popped in to one of the chains,

Cause I needed a large cup of coffee.

 

I don’t think that it’s too much to ask,

Just to go to the counter and order a drink,

But it’s a whole lot more complicated these days:

It’s a lot tougher than you’d ever think!

 

Now I don’t count myself as too stupid,

And I think I can make an intelligent choice,

But it was hard to give a straight reply,

In answer to that pre-pubescent voice.

 

“To drink in-house or to take away?

Piccola, media o grande?” she said.

What the hell was she talking about?

What was she doing to my head?

 

“I’ll just have a…. coffee,” I ventured,

“With no sugar, and some cold milk.”

This puzzled the young till-puncher

Who referred to the board and all of that ilk.

 

“Mocha, Flat White or an Espresso?

Americano, Latte, Cappuccino?

Café Caramella or a Hot Chocolate?

Macchiata, or Frappuccino?”

 

Can I have a coffee, with milk please….

 

“Chai latte or Mocha Cortado?

Iced Risretto, with Raspberry Sauce?

Iced Tea, or Belgian Chocolate Cooler?

With Vanilla, or Cinnamon of course?”

 

Just a coffee….

 

“I want to know which milk would you like:

Is that Skinny, Medium or the Full Fat?

We also have soya, almond or cream?

Which one do you want out of all that?”

 

Just ordinary milk….

 

“And what temperature would you like it?

Fridge-cold? quite hot? or all silky steamed?

In the coffee? on the side? iced or just frothed?”

She looked at me and she beamed.

 

I don’t really know…

 

“And there’s the topping to consider:

Fruit sprinkles or hazelnuts roasted?

Chocolate, cinnamon or gingerbread?

Or even marshmallows all toasted?”

 

Really….?

 

“How about an extra shot for a change?

Summer Fruit Punch or a Piccino?

Play with flavours, the foams and the finishing

Or can I tempt you to a Babyccino?”

 

I’m not sure…

 

“It all depends on how you like your caffeine:

Velvety smooth or all rich and thick?

All dressed and drizzled – it’s your choice -

Our Five-Star Barista knows every trick!”

 

Er, look….

 

“You must understand our philosophy:

To Freetrade Independents we’re quite bound,

And Rain-Forest Alliance producers,

Of single-estate beans, simply roasted and ground.”

 

“To give you a hand-crafted beverage,

Of artisanal dexterity and thence,

Whilst within our establishment,

A total bean-to-cup experience!”

 

I have to admit this whole “concept” had me beaten,

I felt that I’d run right out of luck,

I muttered “No Thanks” and fled from the shop,

And went for a pint in The Old Dog And Duck.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 14th March 2021

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 14^th March 2021

 

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

1.      GP surgeries and several mental health centres reported massive drops in the number of patients being treated for anxiety, loss of appetite, depression, suicidal thoughts, and other psychological problems.  In other, unrelated, news the schools went back this week. 

2.      The Vize Town Council have been accused of wasting taxpayers’ money after it emerged that they have funded a feasibility study into the building of a bridge from the borough direct to Torquay so that citizens can visit the seaside more easily, and a tunnel that would carry traffic from the outskirts of the town direct to the Isle of Wight.  Facing criticism of both schemes, a spokes-bot for the Council defended the ideas by pointing out that they had already abandoned an earlier scheme to build a boating lake and theme park around Stonehenge, which (it had to admit) had proved not to be entirely feasible. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

 

What Made Britain Great

What Made Britain Great

How great is our civilisation?

And the evolution of mankind?

How advanced is our technology?

A superior species I think that you’ll find.

 

How far spread the great British Empire?

When the world map was covered with pink?

Where the Sun never set upon our Dominions,

We were at our greatest I think.

 

But, to what could we ascribe this grandeur?

What driving force took us so far?

Was it the invention of fire? Or the wheel?

Of steam power?  Or of the motor car?

 

Yes they were important, I’ll agree,

Their places in history are taken,

But surely more vital to any progress

Was the idea of a sandwich – with bacon!

 

Who first thought to cure the meat of the pig?

In a mixture of spices and brine to soak it?

To give it the gift of preservation,

And then to go on, and to smoke it?

 

What’s better than the smell of pork cooking?

An aroma that forces the senses to waken -

A sure cure for vegetarianism,

Is the grilling or frying of bacon!

 

Two slices of white buttered bread,

And great dollops of brown sauce,

Rashers of streaky, with the fat running,

Is a feast for a king, the very best course.

 

Yes, they invented a prime delicacy –

About that you must not be mistaken.

Crisp slivers of meat with a rind on,

The heavenly substance known as bacon.

 

So get yourself a flitch or a roll,

Don’t leave yourself God-forsaken,

It’s not something for faking,

Forget all about baking,

You know that you’re aching,

A bap or a butty to be making,

The thing to eat upon waking,

The very best meal to be taking

Yes, the force of the Universe….is bacon!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Drinker's Guide To Real Ale

The Drinker’s Guide To Real Ale

Welcome to this Real Ale hostelry,

With sixteen hand-pumps covering the bar.

All the beers are from local breweries,

The town’s biggest selection by far.

 

We’ve got none of your mass-produced stuff here,

Your taste-buds we’d hate to traduce -

There’s no alcopops or fizzy lagers,

Nor ciders, which we refer to as “tramp juice”.

 

No it’s all hand-made in back-street facilities,

By dedicated brewers with a passion,

Using old, weird and arcane recipes,

To meet modern taste and the new fashion.

 

With a single-minded pursuit of excellence,

Artisanal, unfiltered and unpasteurised,

Producing ales of such esoteric taste,

That as beer it’s hardly recognised.

 

They only use the best of ingredients -

Water, barley, hops and some yeast -

To create flavours that range from the gentle,

Via strong, right through to some beasts.

 

Take Bodgington’s Skull-Cracker for example:

It comes out as eight percent ABV -

A few pints of that and I promise you,

Next day you’ll hardly be able to see.

 

Or that Death-Rattle IPA:

So strong you have to drink it in shots.

It’s pure, unrefined and organic,

And in the morning it gives you the trots.

 

There’s Wazzington’s latest offering:

It’s a double-mocha coffee-infused porter -

Drink three pints of this wonderful brew,

And your legs won’t work like they oughter.

 

I could go on wittering, about methods of bittering,

Of Black Stouts, and Pale, Red and Brown Ales,

Of secondary in-cask fermentation,

Which makes natural gas without fail.

 

About top, bottom and late hopping,

How it sings on the palate and amuses the nose,

Its aroma can induce a coma,

But sometimes that’s the way that it goes. 

 

Then, of course, there’s Futtocks’ Dog-Beater,

A session ale that goes down rather well -

It’s a bloody good beer, that makes you feel queer,

And gives you the hangover from Hell.

 

My favourite, though, is Bowel-Wrecker:

It’s subtle, amusing, and quite Gluten-Free,

But it does smell like a wrestler’s armpit,

And, if not kept well, tastes of stale pee.

 

Last night we had a bit of a lock-in,

Tried our best to drink the place dry:

I must have had sixteen pints to my name -

I’m not feeling too good – can’t understand why.

 

So don’t tell me I don’t know about Real Ale -

I’ll drink anything that calls itself “craft”,

I won’t touch water or soft drinks -

No thanks – d’you think that I’m daft?

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Chicken, Barley & Veg Soup

Recipe for: CHICKEN, BARLEY & VEG SOUP 

Ingredients: 

• 1 litre chicken stock (or use a stock cube)
• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 300-400g mixed root veg – carrots, swede, celeriac, potato – whatever you’ve got
• 100g pearl barley
• Handful finely-shredded kale or cabbage (optional)
• Small pieces of leftover chicken (if available)
• Salt & freshly-ground black pepper 

Method: 

1. heat the oil in a large saucepan, add the onion & sweat gently until soft & golden
2. add the root veggies, cover, and leave for ten minutes to sweat & soften
3. add the chicken stock & the barley, bring to a simmer & cook for 20 minutes, until the veggies & the barley are cooked & tender
4. toss in the kale/ cabbage & the chicken (if using).  Simmer for a few more minutes to warm through, then taste & season
5. serve in warmed, deep bowls 

What else you need to know: 

1. you can very this a lot by adding more or less of whatever veggies you like, or you can omit them altogether for a chicken & barley soup

 

Kite

Kite

Holding on against the tug, the pull of line,

face in shadow, back against the sun,

never daunted by tumbling thermals

but using the physics of lift and drag,

surfaces tensioned, taut

exploiting atmospheric pressure,

elemental feel and flow of forces

to climb, heavier than the air

to defy the very force of gravity

up to exhilarating height

 

Distant now, but still in sight,

scudding rough across the sky,

silken fabric facets flashing,

straining bamboo frame, pigtail waving,

soaring, swooping dizzying ascent,

looping , lifting, lurching,

aerial aerobic ballet, angled acrobatic flight of fancy,

unruly child who stretches and strains,

tests my strength and patience,

cannot be steered, merely guided

 

Its own brute force not yet marshalled,

high aloft upon the careering wind,

yanking on the leash that holds it back,

restrained and tethered by the umbilical of thinnest cord,

yet anchored to the ground,

connecting Earth and Space

with its head up in the clouds,

but my feet firmly planted on the ground

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021

Dead Time

Dead time

Intervals of many hours, of waiting time

With a desperate need for resolution

Endless queues to reach suspicious clerks

And hard-faced irritable jobsworths

Notes and forms to be filled and filed

The ticking of endless empty boxes

By broken-nibbed pens, licked and grubby pencils

Rough smudges, stains and crossings-out

Gentle queries evoking impatient responses

Questions with no answers, statements taken

Mouths rinsed by endless cups of tasteless tea

Brown and thin, stewed in squeaky Styrofoam

Then dried again by cigarettes that taste of straw

And the dusty smoke of tar and nicotine

To coat the lungs, to calm the fraying nerves

A day of yawns and staring at the floor

Amid the stale atmosphere of inactivity, thick and clinging

To the labyrinthine structure of slow-motion procedure

The lost papers and missed appointments

The elephantine caveats, interminable details

With no escape from the dark and gloomy horror

Just the dour and dreary nightmare

A boredom borrowed from hell

A never-ending ennui, a depth of tiredness

The unremitting tedium of waiting, waiting

Hanging about and hanging on

In cobwebbed and dusty corridors

Of peeling paint and shuttered doors

Which hide nameless administrative men

Yet hanging on to the slowly-evaporating hope of a mite of progress

The becalmed, motionless, meaningless measurement of time

Watching clocks that do not move

Their hands surrendered to a standstill

Where seconds, minutes and hours mean nothing

With nowhere else to go

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021