Blunt Axe

Blunt Axe

There was an executioner called Beck,

Who was paid to cut off heads by the neck,

But was exceedingly lax,

About sharpening his axe

And of his victims made a terrible wreck.

 

He gave his instrument a mighty swing,

But, though it was a frightening thing,

It just seemed to drop,

It didn’t actually chop,

And simply delivered a slight sting.

 

The prisoner with his head on the block,

Whose knees had already started to knock,

Said: “For God’s sake, you dick,

Get on and make it more quick,

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

 

This caused Beck to issue forth a great grunt,

And for the whet-stone started to hunt,

For it’s no use just tutting,

When you’re meant to be cutting,

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

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd February 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 27^th February 2022 

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

1.      A grim week in The Vize this week, as news came in that the Evil Empire of Trowvegas had launched an unprovoked attack on the sovereign territory of Westbury, under the pretext of being a “peace-keeping” force to drive back the corruption and Nazism of the disputed territories of Paxcroft and Beanacre.  Candlelit vigils of solidarity with the oppressed people of Westbury were held in the Market Place on Friday & Saturday, and a wide range of economic & political sanctions have been imposed as retaliation.  These have included re-rerouting the 49 bus-route to not serve stops along the disputed border, a ban on all milk-float services, and a strict no-drive-to-the-cinema exclusion zone to cover the Trowvegas Odeon complex.  That’ll teach ‘em. 

2.      Equally grim was the experience of watching D-Town Rugby Seniors taking on the Blustering Taffs in the annual Six Districts Rugger Championship.  Both sides played badly, and each side was lucky to have scored no points by half time.  But after s string of unprovoked penalties, sessions in the Sin Bin, and some (frankly) dubious refereeing decisions, D-Town ran out 23-19 winners, thus lifting the coveted Bragging-Rights Cup. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Banger

Banger

I’m a great fan of pork products:

To be deprived would be a great lossage -

So I’m here to sing you the praises,

Of the noble, and various sausage.

                                                    

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

And French ones from the town of Toulouse,

And they’re all bound to get juices running,

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

 

On the Continent you’ve got Saucisson,

In Germany there’s a thing called a Bratwurst.

It’s not Baloney to think of Poloney,

A nation without one should call itself cursed.

 

The flavours come in all shapes and sizes,

To suit the rich and the hoi-polloi.

A chipolata’s good for a starter,

But pales beside the good old Saveloy.

 

You can go the whole hog for a Hot Dog,

But salami, I think, looks perter.

You can be a hanger for a good banger,

Especially if it’s a Frankfurter.

 

But I think we must look rather deeper,

And we’ve got to be really willing,

To delve into methods of production,

And to wonder just what’s in the filling.

 

The casing might be natural or false,

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

You’d be surprised if only you knew,

Exactly what’s on the end of your fork.

 

They like to use up all of the animal,

And be sure that nothing can go to waste,

So everything gets ground up you see,

And reduced to a pink kind of paste.

 

Mechanically-recovered’s the term,

With cereal and rusk they pack and they fill,

And then they do grind, lots of thick rind,

And the snout, the ears and the nostril.

 

Most of the innards, and outwards, are used:

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

The pistle, the gristle and even the whistle,

Mixed all up into hashes and mashes. 

 

Colourings and plenty of flavourings,

Additives and seasonings to begin,

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

That was finally forced into the skin.

 

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

Some spice, some rice, perhaps even some mice,

Then its ground and bound, and gently browned,

That’s the way to make it taste nice.

 

For these are some of the ingredients,

The contents that the makers might favour.

After all, without all the e-numbers,

How would we ever get any flavour?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

A Journey to the Centre of my Fridge

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge 

The door makes a gentle sucking noise as it opens

The yielding gummy seal

Revealing the contents within

The lamp flickering with alarm at my intrusion

Faintly illuminating the gloomy interior

The shelves sparsely populated

With a range of dubious items

Covered and clumsily wrapped

Concealing the substances

Which sit forlorn, congealing

Whose provenance is now unknown

And the subject of fervent speculation

 

At the back there’s something grey

Hiding, cowering unloved

Shrinking from the scrutiny of prying eyes

Crawling from a mouldy plate

Along the wire-lines to the edge of darkness

Oozing towards the side

 

There’s a nameless clammy odour

Emanating from that crumbled blob

Which might once have been cheese

Now building its own dairy culture

As it transforms itself into yoghurt

Inching slowly towards the bottom

 

And perhaps those grey flakes of something

Used to be fine fresh slices of ham

Bought to go with the selection of leaves

Which crouch within their plastic packets

In the special salad crisper below

Transmuting themselves into a liquid form

In three different shades of brown

 

It’s a sorry sight at this time of night

No answer for a hungry man when desperate for nourishment

It offers little hope of satisfaction

And may be a danger to health

So the only practical thing to do

Is to close the door again, sighing gently

And turn elsewhere for comfort

Whilst making a firm resolution

To clean it out tomorrow morning

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Banana & Walnut Loaf

Recipe for: BANANA & WALNUT LOAF 

Ingredients: 

• 100g softened butter
• 140g caster sugar
• 2 beaten eggs
• 225g plain flour
• 1tsp salt
• 2 tsp baking powder
• 4 very ripe bananas
• 85g chopped walnuts
• 50ml milk 

Method: 

1. heat oven to 180C/ fan 170C.  Grease 2lb loaf tin with butter & line with grease-proof paper or baking parchment & grease this also
2. in a large bowl, mix together the butter, sugar and egg, then slowly mix in the flour, salt & baking powder
3. peel & mash the bananas, and add to the mixture with the nuts & milk
4. pour the mixture into the prepared tin & bake for about an hour, or until the top is nicely browned & a skewer comes out cleanly
5. cool on a wire rack then remove from tin
6. if not using immediately, wrap in grease-proof & store in a bread-bin or cake-tin 

What else you need to know: 

1. you can serve this as a pudding, with chocolate sauce or the usual accompaniments, or as a tea-bread with a cuppa
2. it doesn’t keep forever, so use within 1-2 days, or else freeze

Egg

Egg

There’s a single egg in the fridge

Which sits alone and forlorn

Abandoned by the rest of its dozen

The only lonely occupant

Of that plastic frame within the door

 

I’m in a quandary on how best I should proceed

Since it’s simply not enough on its own

It really needs a good companion

To make up a proper omelette

Or to be scrambled with butter

 

If only there were some bread

I could summon some soldiers of toast

And have it soft-boiled

Before roughly knocking its head off

And dunking them in headfirst

 

Or perhaps poached gently in some hot water

Swirling in a vortex of bubbles and steam

Maybe slowly baked in a ramekin

In a low-oven’d bain-marie

Or hard-boiled to make a feeble sandwich

 

Yes, there’s a single egg in the fridge

And it probably thinks that it’s escaped

However I fear it’s much mistaken

Since now that I’ve spotted the bacon

I can configure a Full English

And it’s got a future fried

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Husks

Husks

A gently-trembling hand

Reaches across the beer-ringed table

To grasp the glass half-empty

And drain it to its meagre dregs

Before slowly rolling out a cigarette

With the last of this week’s tobacco

A delicate thread of spittle traced along a line

To seal gossamer-thin white paper

Then tucking it behind the ear

For later consumption

On the way home

Through derelict streets

 

Deep-set wistful eyes

Survey the scene unchanging

Staring out through rheumy windows

Eking out an eternity of endless days

A waiting-room of dejected men

Rejected and pensioned into retirement

Who feel no ease or comfort

Nor expect any better prospects

 

Sitting wordless among the others

Staring across the musty bar-room

Where no-one talks today

Since there’s nothing much to say

Ground down by hopelessness

Arms rendered thin and scrawny

Through life-long labour

On shop-floors and in building-yards

Which sit now silent and abandoned

 

Worn thin by years of heavy toil

Sinew-stretched and weakened

Old muscles worn and wasted

Proud-standing veins show blue

Upon the wrinkled, liver-spotted skin

Of these exhausted men

Insides hollowed out

Husks of what used to be

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Comfort Zone

Comfort Zone

She always said there was a simple choice

To be made each and every morning

When waking out of easy sleep

Her heavy dreams untroubled

By any prickles of anxiety

To lie in tangled bedclothes

Lazy with the feeling that all is well

Comfortable with easy thoughts

About the well-worn path of the day ahead

Merely coasting

Through the normal routines

Along the daily groove of habit

And the same old, same old

 

But then she thought there was another way -

The stringent spirit of adventure

To step outside oneself

And take the plunge

Without anticipation

By diving into the hard, cold water

Of novelty, of originality

And face up to something scary

That uneasy feeling of standing near the edge

The fierce wind blasting from below

A rising vortex of danger

Nerves taut and jangling

With the sheer exhilaration

Of knowing that we’re really alive

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 20th February 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 20^th February 2022

 

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

1.      Great joy in D-Town this week as it started to rain money.  The son of the woman who lives at the Big House on the High Street has had a change of mind.  Instead of facing trial for various offences, including sex-trafficking, lying and possessing an ugly ex-wife, he decided to settle the cases out of court, and to give away large amounts of money, particularly to women he had never met.  Speculation on how this largesse will funded has concentrated on his showbiz abilities – looking in two directions at the same time, being in two different places at the same time, inability to sweat and the capacity to eat world-beating amounts of pizza. 

2.      This joy was tempered, however, by the costs of damage caused by Storm Eunice.  After DMO (D-Town Met Office) warnings of high winds and yellow snow, citizens battened down the hatches.  At least three wheelie bins were blown over, and a lady from the edge of town had her hair a bit mussed up.  A man from the local trade association, Sonny Day, said that shops were delighted however, since their stocks of trampolines, fence panels and roofing slates had actually increased during the storm. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Elizabeth

Elizabeth

She walks and talks at the same time

usually muttering to herself

or shouting her opinions

at anyone who cares to listen

 

Her shambling gait

and aimless wandering

daily through the precinct

an habitual routine

a normal fixture

and commuter landmark

for regular travellers

 

Dirty and dishevelled

unkempt and unwashed

her florid face still lit with a smile

remnant of a faded beauty

 

Swaddled now in layers of clothing

thick coat and floppy hat

cardigans and jumpers

skirts and tights

gloved hands and fingers

gripping, grasping tightly

the string-crossed bags

which she carries with her

wherever she goes

 

She asks for nothing

demanding only time to listen

never seeking shelter

but slides off somewhere every night

living by her own her lights

by her logic and on her wits

A modern crazy lady

seemingly not unhappy

but sometimes over-loud

creating an awkward nuisance

which passers-by would ignore

if only she did not make them feel

so much more uncomfortable

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

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, beaten

·        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

High Wire

                                                         High Wire

To step out into the void

The wire shivering as it takes the strain

Of my weight upon it

Is to walk into an unknown

An empty darkness

The first few paces of the downward stretch

Towards the disappearing centre

High above the watchers who hold their breath

Their eyes pinned upon my every tremble

Until I establish balance

An equilibrium of mind and body

 

The deadly drop beneath my out-stretched arms

Fingers tautly pointing

With limbered legs

And the distance to the hardened Earth

Are of no immediate concern

Nor any aid to concentration

The only point of focus

Being one foot in front of another

Eyes upon the destination

 

Crowds and lights both disappear

Into a faded emptiness

Below my fragile body

As it seems to float along the rope

Blood pumping in my ears

The silence of air

The clarity of perfect quiet

Alone above the world

Determined not to tumble

Into the arms of death below

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022 

Tooth

                                                                 Tooth

You hurt me so much

And made my life a misery

With your endless nagging,

Complaining and worrying,

Your feelings for me hot and cold

And though I tried to ignore you

You were always there in the background

A constant presence

A biting pain

That would not go away

 

In the end I couldn’t stand the pressure

That you placed upon me

The way you made my nerves tingle

The decay in our relationship

So I made up my mind

That life was far too short

For me not to be as happy

As everyone else

And that we just could not go on

Living together any more

 

And I went and took advice

From a professional

Who got to the root of the problem

And laid out all my options

And after I’d chewed the matter over

It was my own decision

To make a complete break with you -

I knew that we must be parted

It was the kindest thing to do

In the circumstances

 

I cannot deny

That it was painful at the time

And I felt a certain numbness

About your sudden going

You left a very big hole in my life

But time has a way of healing

And I’m feeling so much better now

So I’m sure it was the right decision

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Pondering Peacocks

Pondering Peacocks

Rousing slowly from the mist and murk

Of a drowsing sleep

Morning light intruding itself

Creeping unbidden under eyelids

At the very edge of dawn

Faint and frowsing

As the last lingering strands

Of dreams and rambling nightmares

Stretch out longer and longer

Snapping the final threads of contact

With night-time places

Which then recede and fade

Among the tangled bedclothes

 

The day ahead intrudes itself

Grey, mundane, heavy

Insidiously mutters

About tedious tasks and dreary chores

Things that must be done

People to be met, appointments kept

The detritus of relationships

Demanded by one’s daily life

Prompted by the relentless movement

Of digits on the bed-side clock

 

But reluctant yet to make a start

And time, being only relative

The sheets and pillows still warm

Cling womb-like and calmly claim

The tired restless body

 

While the hour is cock-crow early

There is still a fleeting chance

To conserve precious energy

And preserve mindful meanderings

To postpone the inevitable

And hold the last few moments

Of some happiness within

By thinking of better things

Before floating back to vivid colour

And pondering perhaps

Upon peacocks

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

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 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 13th February 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 13^th February 2022 

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

1.      Another busy week in The Vize with the shock news that the local commissioner of police Cressida Knob.  After the mayor confided to reporters that he had no idea what Ms Knob ever did for the town, her position became untenable.  The search for her successor has already begun.  The front-runners include Ivor Plodd, WPC Sarah Distick and Les B. Avennue. 

2.      And tonight (Sunday) sees the biggest sporting clash in the world with the planet-wide screening of Mudbowl LVI (56 in new money).  The final of the Goat-nadgering World Cup will be contested by farmers representing The Sham, and a scratch team of yokels representing the Trowvegas Terrors.  Seven rounds of mud-based activities will take place, including muck-spreading for beginners, wrestling in sewage and advanced fat-ball clearance. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Franken-furter

Franken-Furter (The Monster of Frankenstein food) 

What end is there to man’s ingenuity?

His ability, when he’s in the mood,

To engineer our daily intake,

And bugger about with our food.

 

You’ve just got to read a few labels,

Although the print’s incredibly small,

To discover what it is they’re up to,

And find out how they’re conning us all.

 

Don’t get me started on sausages:

They use lots of the skin, sinew and some bristle,

Rusk, knuckle, a blizzard of gizzard,

And then add in plenty of gristle.

 

From slurry, and factory-floor sweepings,

And bits left over I’ve discovered,

“Chopped and shaped”, and certain “selected cuts”,

And also “mechanically-recovered”.

 

Then to make it frozen, or microwaveable,

You’d be surprised at what they have to do:

Colourings, flavourings and texturings,

With modified starch and other bits of goo.

 

Then they add extra sugar and some salt,

Followed by several e-numbers,

Preservatives and acidity agents,

And God knows what they’ve done to cucumbers.

 

There’s modifiers and regulators,

Emulsifiers and some thickeners,

Stabilisers and other weird stuff -

It’s a wonder it don’t sicken us!

 

They hide the grams of saturated fat -

They don’t like their product to look flaccid,

So they pump in fructose and glucose syrup,

Topped up by di-glycerides of fatty acid.

 

Glazing agents and flavour enhancers,

All the things that we’re supposed to hate:

Add a dash of something not natural,

Plus monosodium glutamate.

 

It all goes in to our processed foods,

Not just Cheesy Wotsits and Turkey Twizzlers,

But chicken nuggets, and ready dinners,

Pizzas, pies and those meaty sizzlers. 

 

But they make it sound so attractive:

Branding family members sounds less messy:

John West, Mother’s Pride and Daddie’s Sauce,

Then there’s Uncle Ben and Auntie Bessie!

 

These packagers have a lot to answer for:

Food scientists mucking about with our cheese,

Selling heart-attacks on a plate,

Hiding the grease and making us highly obese.

 

Never mind the Scots loving fried Mars Bars,

Or cream teas, chocolate or late-night kebab,

They’re pumping too much gunk into our food,

And slowly turning us all into flab.

 

So we’ve all got to wise up a bit,

About calories and carbs – it’s not too late -

Just look out for their “serving suggestions”,

And avoid anything “made from concentrate”.

 

Avoid chicken masala-type pizza,

Don’t eat Dogburgers, unless you’re bent,

And look out for the magic words on labels:

“Beware: May Contain Nourishment”.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022