Leek & Potato Soup

Recipe for: SOUP –POTATO & LEEK (VICCHYSOISSE) 

Ingredients: 

·        25g/ 1 oz butter

·        2 tblsp olive oil

·        4 medium potatoes, peeled & cut into small dice

·        2-3 small leeks, washed, trimmed & finely sliced

·        1 stick celery, washed, trimmed & finely diced

·        500ml/ 18 fl oz vegetable stock

·        100ml milk

·        100ml cream or yoghurt 

Method: 

1.      Heat butter and oil in a large pan

2.      When foaming add the  diced vegetables and fry gently until soft but not brown

3.      Add the stock & bring to the boil

4.      Reduce heat, cover and simmer for 25-30 minutes until the vegetables are very tender

5.      Puree until smooth with a hand-blender

6.      Return to a (clean) pan and add the milk and cream  (or yoghurt), warming through gently

7.      Adjust seasoning

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 2022

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 2022

 

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 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 26th June 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 26^th June 2022 

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

1.      Several venues across the town were turned into an Alternative Not Glastonbury Escape Room (ANGER) this weekend.  All carparks and public toilets were closed, large areas of farmland and roads were fenced off, and a range of chemical and long-drop toilets were installed at various inconvenient locations.  Fresh mud was sprayed everywhere, campsites were established miles away from town, and all takeaway food vendors tripled their prices, in order to re-create that true “festival” experience for the sleepless crowds.  No bands were booked to play anywhere, but a central rumour exchange was set up in the Town Hall.  D-Town is hoping to corner the emerging market for “Not-Glasto” experience days out. 

2.      Meanwhile the political climate in the borough has taken a sinister turn for the worst.  The ruling Blue Party’s confidence was shaken by losing by-elections in two key safe-seat wards, and the Chairman of the Blue Party has resigned in disgust.  In response the leader of the Blues has vowed to carry on regardless, to lead his party into the next ten elections, and to continue his diplomatic mission to change the subject by attending several out-of-borough meetings in distant Trowvegas. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

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 2022

T In The Lounge

T In The Lounge

What’s the attraction of festivals?

The discomfort and the expense?

The downside is really extensive -

Haven’t people got any sense?

 

They’re desperate to go to Glasto

Have a great blast-o

Get absolutely plast-o

Sail before the mast-o

Get stoned fast-o

 

Or that other great festival

The aptly-named Bestival

Where you get no rest-ival

Patience put to the test-ival

The insects are a jest-ival

And you head gets messed-ival

 

Then there’s T In The Park

With rock music to hark

Mongrels to bark

Snort a good narc

Chance to make your mark

As you pee in the dark

 

Nip over to the Isle of Wight

Use all your might

Get in a mud-fight

Or as high as a kite

Not feeling too bright

Well out-of-sight

Go to bed tight

 

I suppose it’s about the music,

But who wants expensive booze?

Cheesy chips, over-priced, greasy food?

And queuing just to use the portaloos?

 

Chemical toilets are a real downer,

And with the exposure to the sun’s rays,

The sunburn, the dehydration,

The not washing for five days.

 

And then there’s the camping,

Sleeping out on lumpy ground,

And even with elegant glamping,

A tent that can never be found. 

 

Watching the stage from half a mile away,

The sound is distorted and loud.

There’s a chance of food-poisoning,

And you get lost in the crowd.

 

The bouncers and security men are rough,

It’s quite a dud, in an ocean of mud,

Plastic glasses and polystyrene cups,

And warm cider’s really no good.

 

I could get very bitter

About all the litter

But I’m not a big-hitter

I get all of a jitter

I’m a miserable critter

I can’t help but witter

You see - I’m sofa-seat sitter

 

I like all the comforts of home:

A bed, a shower, and a good seat.

I can still eat shit food if I want to,

But watching on TV’s quite hard to beat!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Salmon & Leek Lasagne

Recipe for: SALMON & LEEK LASAGNE 

Ingredients: 

• 2 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 medium onion, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, peeled & finely chopped
• 2-3 large salmon fillets
• 2-3 leeks, trimmed, washed & finely chopped
• Salt & pepper to taste
• 12 sheets oven-ready lasagne
• 50g/ 2 oz parmesan cheese, grated
• For the cheese sauce:
• 75g/ 3 oz butter
• 75g/ 3 oz plain flour
• 800ml/ 1½ pints milk
• Grated nutmeg
• 50g/ 2 oz cheddar cheese, grated 

Method: 

1. butter a 3-litre/ 5pt ovenproof dish
2. Steam or bake the salmon fillets for 7-8 minutes
3. remove from the heat & allow to cool
4. when cool enough to handle, flake gently with a fork, discarding any skin & bones.  Set aside
5. heat oil in a large pan & fry the onion and leeks & garlic for 4-5 minutes
6. meanwhile make the cheese sauce
7. melt the butter in a saucepan, add the flour to make a roux & stir constantly for 1 minute
8. gradually add the milk, stirring constantly
9. bring almost to the boil, until the sauce thickens
10. remove from the heat, then add the cheese, stirring until melted
11. heat the oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas 4
12. in the buttered dish, spread a very thin line of cheese sauce on the base
13. cover with 4 sheets of dried lasagne, cutting to shape/ size
14. cover with a layer of the flaked salmon & cooked leeks/ onions, then about a third of the cheese sauce
15. cover with another layer of dried lasagne sheets, then salmon/ leeks, cheese sauce
16. finish with a layer of lasagne sheets, topping with the last of the cheese sauce
17. sprinkle the top with the grated parmesan
18. bake in the oven for about 45 minutes, until the sauces are bubbling up at the edges & the top is golden brown 

What else you need to know: 

1. serve with crusty garlic bread & a green salad

 

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 2022

 

The Lawn Ranger

The Lawn Ranger

I know how everyone looks forward to Summer,

The sun rising in the early day’s dawn,

But they’re probably not gardeners like me,

Locked in a life-or-death struggle… with a lawn.

 

Visitors come round and admire the garden,

How well it’s looking, all lush and so green,

But they’ve no idea what goes into it,

The behind-the-scenes battle unseen.

 

It starts off quite gentle in the Spring,

With a light cut, just to show it who’s boss,

But this just encourages fresh growth,

Of dandelions, and daisies, and moss.

 

So then there’s a bit of raking and forking,

With a bit of added fertiliser and filler,

Some judicious tactical weeding,

And the application of some weed-killer.

 

But then the days lengthen and grow warm,

And the greenery just puts on a spurt,

So I have to cut it harder and more often,

And the effort involved starts to hurt.

 

I get out my mowers in the morning,

And carefully mow for most of a day,

And when it’s finished it looks really lovely,

As pretty as a picture I’d say.

 

That lasts for twenty-four hours at most,

A couple of days if I’m really lucky,

But then it starts bloody growing again,

And I’ve to go out and get mucky.

 

Each time I do a brilliant job,

With my sit-own mower across the expanse,

A carefully-tended large acreage,

That leads me a merry dance.

 

Soon it’s the same day after day,

At my puny effort the garden mocks:

The endless trips to the compost-heap,

As the cuttings pile up in the box.

 

But I come inside and admire my efforts,

Regard the beautiful stripes of the sward:

It looks near enough like a billiard-table,

Good enough to deserve an award! 

 

But a day or two later and all is undone!

It’s as if I’d never cut it – a real mess -

A complete waste of nugatory effort,

So I get to swearing a lot I confess.

 

And so it goes on all of the Summer:

I cut it and mow it, and tend it, and then,

Just when I think I’ve beaten the bugger,

It grows and needs doing all over again!

 

There’s the odd day when I can’t mow,

And that’s when it’s pouring with rain,

But the moisture’s just what the lawn needs,

So all my effort goes down the drain.

 

I think it’s a form of gardener’s punishment -

There’s no glory in which I can bask.

It’s eating away at my very soul,

It’s a never-ending thankless task.

 

There’s only one thing to look forward to,

That’s when Winter at last comes to pass,

I can put the mowers away and relax,

But I still have nightmares… about grass!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Across The Sands

Across The Sands 

From the dark deserted car park, as near as I could get

a thin light, just after dawn

boots in powdered sinking sand, over windswept dunes

scratchy marram on my legs, scrambling along the bank

to drop down into the sweeping bay, cradled among circling coastal cliffs

to hear the strong sea shouting, roaring, its white rollers whipped up over distance

competing with the howling, growling wind, which whips and whistles

blustering bursts of rain in flurries, the soaking wetness coming sideways

tramping unsteadily across the shingle, crunching pebbles under darkling skies

black clouds boiling, scudding, before venturing onto the flatness

of the damp and sucking sand, the final steps to reach him

to stand and stare at his hugeness, his stranded shape

mountain size, black-grey, blubbery

a clouded eye, an open mouth, serried sets of teeth

twisted tail, salty stench of decomposition

his rotting flesh a temptation to the circling, screaming gulls

 

The persistent crashing of the waves

an ebbing tide that stretches up the beach, rippling fingers that fail to make contact

to claw him back into the rolling deepness, time after time, losing strength and reach

whereas I can merely stand here, stretch out and touch him

feel his dead, swollen body

my fingers on his flesh, a simple gentle gesture

whilst I whisper the only word I can think of:

sorry

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 19th JUne 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 19^th June 2022 

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

1.      Political lines were sharply drawn in The Vize this week as last-minute legal protests successfully stopped the first deportation flight from D-Town International Airport from taking off on its journey to the outer wilds of East Grinstead.  The scheme, to deport anyone suspected of being a newcomer (defined as “anyone not having lived in D-Town for at least six generations”) for “processing” in one of the world’s most inhospitable places, has been controversial.  Some argue that the threshold should be lowered as far as four generations.  Others think that anyone born with the abnormal number of ten toes should go.  In contrast, Shearings, the coach firm that specialises in little trips out for the geriatric and feeble-minded, is debating whether to begin running day-trips to East Grinstead’s pleasure gardens and main punishment centre. 

2.      But all of this was as but nothing compared to the sheer colour and spectacle of the Royal D-Town Racing Festival, held this year in Farmer Brown’s bottom field.  All manner of D-Town dignitaries were seen to attend, including the Mayor and most of the Council, although that funny bloke at the end of the Council-chamber was persuaded at the last minute to stay away.  A wide range of hats and fascinators, together with animal-print dresses, tight skirts and very high heels, was on display.  But not to be out-done by the men, the ladies also got a bit dressed up.  The event was deemed to be a huge success, and the experiment of actually piping in prosecco and champagne from a slurry-tanker parked on the edge of the course, rather than the non-eco-friendly single-use bottles, was judged to be an initiative worth persisting with. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

 

Dishwasher

Dishwasher

I thought my wife was looking drowsy:

The old girl seemed peeky, and a little bit frowsy,

So I asked her whatever the matter could be,

And this was the gist of what she shouted at me:

“It’s not surprising – all the work I have to do!

Tidying the house, and looking after you!

There’s washing, and drying and airing,

Then piles of ironing beyond bearing.

There’s cleaning and wiping and dusting,

And polishing, and hoovering, till I’m fit for busting.

There’s the shopping and carrying it home again,

And cooking food, and serving it’s my life’s bane,

Not to mention the washing-up and the drying -

It’s too much, however hard I’m trying:

It’s housework, housework, all of the day -

I’m knackered, and that’s all I’ve got to say!”

 

Well, this outburst knocked me back, I’ll tell you,

But I formed up a plan of what I should do.

It pained me to see the old girl sounding so mad,

And I couldn’t bear having her looking so sad,

So next morning I was sharp out of the door,

And headed straight to the electrical store.

 

That evening, after she’d cooked me my dinner,

Steak and chips, all served like a winner,

Cleared the table and brought in some logs,

Done all the dishes and fed both the dogs,

Put on the kettle and served up my tea,

I patted her arm and sat her down on my knee.

 

She eyed me suspiciously, as if I’d been on the booze,

And with delight, I gave her the good news:

That the labour would be reduced in her working day,

As the new dishwasher would be delivered next day!

I explained to her how it would be a great perk,

And would be arriving whilst I was still out at work.

All she had to do was to speak to the man,

And he’d help her lift it right off of the van,

And, because she knew that it was coming,

Tonight she could make a start on the plumbing.

Once she’d fitted it and cleaned it all out,

It’d be ready for its first loading no doubt.

I’d negotiated delivery that was free -

Not only that, but it came with a guarantee!

I explained the huge improvement this would be,

The advantages were all so obvious to see,

That there’d be more time for many another task -

What else could a good housewife decently ask? 

 

Well – her reaction wasn’t quite what I’d expected:

On her face storm clouds I soon detected,

Then the full force of her anger broke,

Her hands round my neck had started to choke.

Apparently my proposed generosity was fudged,

My solution was completely ill-judged.

I’d swapped one piece of drudgery for another,

She’d had enough, and was going back to her mother.

 

I struggled to understand what was in her mind,

I believe there’s no understanding woman-kind.

Her sad news made my tender heart break,

And suggested I might have made a mistake:

Had I applied the wrong logic and science,

And gone and bought her the wrong appliance?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

It

“It” 

I was born in the Fifties

Ten years after the end of the war

So my hormones were all going bonkers

Throughout the Sixties and Seventies

Which was when I became obsessed with… “It”

 

Magazines featured the “It” Girl

Smart people were drinking Gin and “It”

The hippies wanted to know Did I Dig “It”?

But my mind was on a different track…

I didn’t know what “It” was exactly

But I knew that I certainly wanted “It”

And my whole social life revolved around “It”

Out there with the lads, giving “It” some

At dances and discos in pursuit of “It”

Thinking about “It”, talking about “It”

And we admired the girls who had “It”

Though nobody could agree just what “It” was

But we knew whether they had “It” or not

And we despised the ones who were reputed to put “It” about a bit

The girls who’d do “It” with anyone

All the same I wanted to meet just one who wanted “It”

Who was ready for “It” and who’d do “It” with me

Who wouldn’t tell me to Stuff “It”

Who thought that I had “It” too

Until at last “It” finally happened….

 

And after we’d done “It”

And “It” was all over

I decided that I certainly loved “It”

And I wanted to do “It” again and again

She said “It” would be alright

Even if there was an accident

She would keep “It”, not lose “It”

And we’d bring “It” up together

And that’s how “It” was…

 

But “It” was all so long ago

Now “It’s” nearly over and I’m advancing in years

So much of “It’s” a distant memory

So hard to believe I ever had “It” at all

Whatever “It” was

I think “It’s” got up and gone

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

 

 

 

 

Peach Knickerbocker Glory

Recipe for: PEACH KNICKERBOCKER GLORY 

Ingredients: 

• 300g raspberries, or other soft fruit
• 50g caster sugar
• 200ml double cream
• 4 ripe peaches or nectarines, halved & stones removed
• 8 scoops good quality ice-cream
• Handful flaked almonds 

Method: 

1. blitz half the raspberries with half the sugar & a splash of water to make a fruit sauce, and tip into a bowl
2. in a separate bowl whisk the cream with the remaining sugar until stiff & spoonable
3. thinly slice the peaches/ nectarines
4. in tall sundae glasses, layer the sliced peaches, the raspberries & the raspberry sauce
5. top each glass with two scoops of ice cream, then some whipped cream, then a few flaked almonds 

What else you need to know: 

1. if you can’t get raspberries, you can use jams or jellies or honeys made with damsons, plums or red/ black-currants, provided it’s of a runny, sauce consistency

 

On War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy

On War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy

Oh yes, it’s a gripping story

Tolstoy’s greatest novel

With a panoramic sweep

From the peace of Saint Petersburg

To mournful Moscow

And the savage Russian landscape

Its ikons, dachas, vodka and champagne

And of Society’s wealth and grandeur

The families, fathers, sons and daughters

The Kuragins and the Rostovs

Political power games and emperors

The Tsar and Napoleon Bonaparte

Empires of the French, the Russian, the Austrian

The grand history of the epic war

Of tired troops and generals

And the bloody battlefields

Of Austerlitz and Borodino

Of love and loss, and longing

Of betrayal and death and honour

Of peaceful Pierre and naïve Natasha

So that’s the who’s who and what’s what

I know because I’ve seen it all on telly

Six glamour-packaged episodes

Edited, summarised and condensed

From over eight hundred pages

It’s bold, magnificent and inspiring

….And one of these days

I really must get round to reading it

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

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 2022

Identificatuon

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 2022 

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 12th June 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 12^th June 2022 

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

1.      Protesters gathered in the Market Place on Friday to demand much tougher gun laws, following the near-massacre in Poundland last week, when a spotty youth sporting a hoodie and two fingers in the shape of a fake gun demanded that staff hand over several tubes of Pringles.  Shoppers were left traumatised by the near-robbery, the near-shooting, and the near blood-bath.  This follows the incident the previous week when a man might have been seen with an airgun, although the witness was said to be “not quite sure”.  

2.      And as the threat of a national rail strike looms ever closer, D-Town citizens were left feeling smug.  As the last train left in 1963 following the Beeching cuts, and the entire station complex entirely demolished for a car park and housing estate, locals were left not being able to give a toss.  

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

I Remember What's-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 2022

Picking Up The Poo

Picking Up The Poo 

Picking up the poo

We’re picking up the poo

We’re feeling very righteous

Picking up the poo

 

Banging in the bag

We’re banging in the bag

It’s what we’re forced to do

Banging in the bag

 

Tying up the sack

We’re tying up that sack

Stops it smelling bad

Tying up the sack

 

Hanging in the tree

We’re hanging it in the tree

Nothing to do with me

Hanging in that tree

 

Drying in the sun

They’re drying in the sun

Presents for the birdies

Hanging in the sun

 

Come see the shit-trees

Come see those shit-trees

How happy we will be

Looking at those shit-trees

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Mushroom Pate

Recipe for: MUSHROOM PATE 

Ingredients: 

• 90g butter
• 300g mixed mushrooms (shitake, chestnut, button) wiped & thinly sliced
• 1 small onion, very finely chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
• Juice of one lemon
• Pinch cayenne pepper
• ½ tsp grated nutmeg
• 80g ricotta
• 50g gorgonzola (or other veg creamy blue cheese) 

Method: 

1. melt half the butter in a large frying pan and cook the mushrooms, onion & garlic for 10 mins or until soft.
2. squeeze over the lemon juice
3. divide the mixture in half.  Set one half aside, and blitz the other half in a food processor until smooth
4. in a bowl, combine the two lots of mushrooms, adding in the cayenne, nutmeg, ricotta, gorgonzola + salt/ pepper
5. when thoroughly mixed put the mixture either into a single bowl, or divide between four individual ramekins, smoothing the top to leave a smooth, flat surface.
6. melt the remaining butter, then pour carefully on top of the mushroom mixture to form a seal.
7. cover & place in fridge for a few hours to chill and set. 

What else you need to know: 

1. serve with toast or crusty bread, and onion marmalade (or a chutney)
2. makes a good, impressive dinner party starter, garnished with a little salad.

 

Alcohol Neutral

Alcohol Neutral

In these times of global warming

Every one of us must do their bit

I’m ready & willing to play my part

The time has come, and this is it

 

So I’m making this formal declaration

To encourage others to do the same

I’m aiming to be alcohol-neutral by 2050

So you can see me step up my game

 

To start upon this ambitious plan

I’ll cut down on the beer I’m drinking

By at least one pint a week

But I can figure what you’re thinking

 

That it’s not very much to do

That it doesn’t get us very far

But it’s a step in the right direction

To move on from where we are

 

There’s no point upsetting the present balance

The alcohol economy must slowly adjust

No sudden movements in spending

Where gradual transition’s a must

 

Supping just this little bit less

Will put me on a path to remission

Not only improving my health

But also reducing my gastric emission

 

And before 2050 I’ll use some off-sets

To reduce my alcohol footprint

By sniffing beer-soaked towels on the bar

To ensure that publicans don’t go skint

 

And consumption might actually increase

For the next two decades or so

To reach a peak around 2040

Which is a long, long way to go

 

And of course there’s the alcohol credits

I’ve earned through these many years

By not drinking every single day

In my quota of many rounds of beers

 

Which will allow a gentler transition

On this alcohol reduction drive

Leading to my revised prediction

That it might take till 2055 

 

By then I’ll be a hundred years old

With my level of consumption diminished

Only eking out a gentle existence

Just alive, but not quite finished

 

But in the meantime I’ve got a further plan

One that will bring me to a rapture

I’ll be keeping beer cans in my second fridge

I call it “alcohol storage and capture”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

The Fair & The Dark

The Fair And The Dark

See the mighty waltzer as it spins around

And hear the piercing cries and screams

It’s every teenager’s great night out

Full of thrills, of hopes, of dreams

 

Watch folks emerging from the ghost train

Faces wearing masks of joy and fear

Stumbling down the exit steps

Wondering what other treats are near

 

The flashing of coloured bulbs and neon strips

Lighting up the night-time sky

The blasting and pounding of the music

As the cars go whizzing by

 

Catch the drifting smells of sizzling hot dogs

The candy-floss and buttered popcorn

The slowing of the circling wheels

Rides ended by the hooting of the horn

 

The swing-boats and the carousel

The helter-skelter and the ferris-wheel

But best of all the dodgem-cars

Dashing round on their plates of steel

 

But behind the scenes things are rather darker

Amongst the shadows where there’s little light

A different world of trucks and cables

Hidden in the foldings of the night

 

The rusting, oily lorry couplings

A glamorous world this surely ain’t

The sooty smell of burning diesel

The peeling layers of gaudy paint

 

Here the engines keep on running

The generators pumping out their smoke

Dumping out their blackened fumes

Keeping power flowing with every stroke

 

And in those hidden spaces round the back

When the teenagers collect and huddle

Where there’s no-one around to see

The occasional kiss and cuddle

 

And in the morning, when it’s all been shut down

And the heavy men knock it all apart

Collapsed and loaded on the painted lorries

The magic’s gone and they’re ready to depart

 

Only the tyre-ruts that cut into the Green

Shapes of faded, trampled grass

Betray the evidence of what was once here

But not its story, nor how it came to pass

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022