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 2020

My Lips Are Sealed

My Lips Are Sealed (or keeping the secret of my alien visitors)

I’ll tell you a tale to make your blood curdle,

From when I went for a walk in the wood.

I saw lights flashing in the night-time sky,

And I knew somebody was up to no good.

I walked through the trees to a clearing,

Where I saw a very strange sight.

I could see a flying-saucer had landed:

There were aliens there in the night.

Little green men were all walking about,

Investigating the things on the ground.

There were scorch-marks in the grass and the trees,

As the ship emitted a deep throbbing sound.

I wondered what I should be doing now,

This throbbing was making me deaf.

Should I be telling the MoD,

Or even calling in the RAF?

But my musings were interrupted.

I’d no time for more thought.

One of them had crept up behind me:

The creatures had now got me caught.

I was frog-marched into their ship,

And I feared there’d be an abduction.

They’d experiment on my body,

And to my feeble brain - apply suction!

I was afraid of this close encounter,

Of their alien experimentation.

I felt it would lead to great suffering,

To pain, and my final elimination.

But the leader, the greenest one of all,

Regarded me with his single blood-shot eye.

His mandibles touched me with interest.

Then he spoke to me all friendly and said “Hi!”

Amazed that he spoke English, I asked him:

“Have you come from a galaxy far away?

Is your planet collapsing around you?

Do you need Earth for somewhere new to stay?

Have you travelled for vast distances?

From the far side of the Universe?

Are you escaping a world that’s in melt-down?

Are you running away from some cosmic curse?”

“Earthling,” he said in a rich and deep voice,

“Our technology is better than yours,

Your understanding is quite puny,

And we don’t do inter-galactic tours.

We don’t want to take your planet’s resources.

We come here just to keep ourselves sane.

We don’t need your interfering.

Nor are we interested in your feeble brain.

  

We come here to enjoy the peace and quiet,

To get away from our elders and betters,

To have a drink and to take drugs,

And escape from parental fetters.

We can ride our saucers as fast as we like,

And make the weirdest shapes in your sky.

We know that you can’t explain it all,

And we leave you wondering why.

We can’t answer all of your questions,

Nor explain our latest escapades.

You’ll just have to take it from me,

We’ve been visiting Wiltshire for decades.

But, you see, we’d like to keep it that way.

We don’t want our secrets revealed.

You can’t tell anyone what you’ve witnessed.

I’m afraid your lips must remain sealed.”

I don’t remember much after that,

It’s hazy, or so it would seem.

Had I seen those little green men?

Or had it all been just a terrible dream?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Tandoori Nights

Tandoori Nights (or why I love an Indian curry)

As the sun sank down in the West,

I sank pints down the pub without worry,

And I found that I’d developed a craving:

What I needed next was a bloody hot curry.

You see KFC just wouldn’t cut it:

The chicken tasted like some old flab.

Fish and chips were no good at the time,

And I couldn’t go near a doner kebab.

There’s other things I could have had if I’d wanted:

Chinese – but you have to be in the right mood,

You’re usually hungry again an hour later,

And to be honest  it’s not my favourite food.

An Indian it had to be for me then,

It was no time to act like a shrinking lily,

Something to clear my sinuses out,

A meal with a kick of some chillie!

Poppadoms I started with, and some pickles,

Bhajias, pakoras and some tikka –

So hot that it made my throat go numb,

You can tell I’m an Indian thrill-seeker.

I’d no idea what next I should choose

Picking one was something of a great drama.

Dhansak, Madras or a hot Vindaloo -

Patia, Jalfreezie, or Chillie Masala?

Chicken, vegetable or lamb for main course?

A tough question I had to decide.

Cooked in which tasty, spicy sauce?

Cos I always like a bit on the side.

There was bhindi, gobi and aloo –

Vegetable koftas, dhal and some rice.

I had to have all of these dishes:

I didn’t care so long as there was plenty of spice.

I hadn’t even started yet on the breads:

Naans, rotis and chapattis all soft,

I mopped up the delicious sauces.

And four pints of lager I quaffed.

And when it was all ordered and eaten,

When I couldn’t eat one other thing,

When my stomach was finally beaten,

And my mouth continued to sting.

I’d finished my lager and was getting the bill,

I knew that I’d be back again in a hurry.

I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be cured,

Of this addiction I’ve got for a curry.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

The Shopping Forecast

The Shopping Forecast

And now for the Shopping Forecast,

Issued by the Met Office today.

They want to clear out their sales goods,

And they think this is a good way.

There are warnings of Sales in these areas:

The bargains are quite striking.

And to help with this new ploy,

The manager’s dressed like a Viking.

Chippenham High Street and town centre -

Depressing & occasionally poor.

Increasing number of pound shops,

And charity outlets at every door.

Woolworths has long gone now,

And many shops have gone silent.

After dark it gets much worse -

Dangerous, occasionally violent.

Somerfield and The Co-op – moderate,

Though there’s not much in the aisles.

Tesco, Asda and Sainsbury

Are out of town – five miles.

But small shops on the High Street,

And others of such propensity,

Then there’s Bejam and Safeway,

Finally losing their identity.

Lidl & Aldi – very depressing,

But a bargain or two in the process.

Backing up at the checkouts:

Expected to get better – I guess.

Piles of goods – poor visibility.

Bright coloured trolleys – veering.

Unclear why they don’t fix them,

And try to improve on the steering.

Although there are local variations,

Getting around there is erratic.

It takes a Force 8 to push them,

Then you get to the checkout - automatic

The general position in Devizes:

Moderate or good – price marking.

Bear, Pelican and Black Swan:

Market Place – good parking.

Corsham – fast foods & some bargains,

Kebab shops – always increasing.

Markets on Tuesday – improving.

Discounts - never ceasing.

Marlborough – posh shops & Waitrose;

Prosperous and very well-heeled.

Punters with more money than sense,

Though some were born in a field.

  

M4 motorway – veering west:

Bath & Bristol – always enticing.

Wallet - slowly emptying.

At Iceland – moderate icing.

Cribbs Causeway – intimidating.

To get in there’s a big deal.

Debenhams, and House of Fraser -

Credit card – beginning to squeal.

So here is the general Synopsis:

If you run out funds you must borrow.

Depressingly the same I’m afraid,

But improving – better tomorrow.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Lost In Cyberspace

Lost in Cyberspace (or the dangers of the online world to the unwary)

There’s a world out there waiting to be found,

I’m sure you’re willing to agree,

But there’s lots more in cyber-space:

A domain that was quite new to me.

I’d lived happily enough in the real world,

Until in front of my keyboard I was set,

To probe into the mysteries

Of this thing called the Internet.

I started by opening my browser,

And began searching for websites.

And then they came up on the screen,

A whole new world of delights.

You just click on the links – it draws you right in.

I was looking for some “biography”,

And before I knew what I was doing,

I was staring at high-grade pornography.

I saw some things that boggled my mind:

I admit that I was almost quite tempted.

It’s amazing what you can do with your body:

Some positions I’d never attempted.

I thought I’d better move on quickly,

And try to do something worth rating.

So I signed up to this site that I found,

For some online computer dating.

I entered all of my details:

You know - young, good-looking and free,

To see what matches it might find,

And pull up a partner for me.

Before long I’d struck up a friendship,

With this lady who called herself Honey.

But it didn’t take too long in the chatroom,

Before she started asking for money.

She passed on my details to some people she knew,

Who ran a scheme that was a scam.

They bombarded me with emails,

And filled all my inbox with spam.

Before this new time on the computer,

I’d thought that email was often a treat,

And my only experience of Spam

Had been pink luncheon-meat.

I couldn’t believe she’d betrayed me.

The experience had started to suck.

So I sought solace in online friends,

And put my profile up on Facebook.

  

It was then that I discovered,

How cruel the world could sometimes be.

I wanted to be loved, to be wanted,

But nobody ever poked me.

All this was totally depressing.

I began to feel like some kind of frog.

So I told of my disappointments,

And I began writing a blog.

The online community was waiting, I knew,

For someone who wasn’t a quitter.

I decided to go completely global,

And started tweeting on Twitter.

I sent my message out to all who would listen,

In my attempt to be a great hero,

But I found that I wasn’t that popular:

Number of followers – zero.

Then my firewall appeared to crumble,

My anti-virus started to crack.

With Trojans, Worms and Malware,

It appeared I was under attack.

My cursor started jumping around,

Problems all over just erupted.

My cookies turned very soggy,

And my files came out all corrupted.

So I think I’ve learned a good lesson:

It’s a great hint here I’m dropping.

Just be careful when you log on,

And best stick to online shopping.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

The Bottom-Pincher of Old Trowbridge Town

The Bottom-Pincher of Old Trowbridge Town (the latest in a line starting with Milligan/ Goons’ Dreaded Batter Pudding-Hurler of Bexhill-on-Sea, and Milligan/ Two Ronnies’ The Raspberry-Blower of Old London Town)

There’s a town in West Wiltshire,

That stands out proud beyond the A4.

Let me tell you a tale of old Trowbridge,

That you’ve not heard of before.

For in this quiet, peaceful corner,

With its old High Street & its shopping,

Things most nefarious were afoot,

Which would have your jaw dropping.

The old Village Pump had its characters,

Near The Lamb there were girls and old punks,

The bag-ladies, and kebab-sellers,

And the usual winos & drunks.

Trow-Vegas car parks and the toilets,

The back-streets and the alleys,

But surrounded by great country,

With rolling hills & some valleys.

T’was a peaceful town it’s reported:

In the Gazette there was an article,

About the town’s small Hadron collider

And the search for the Chippenham particle.

But then this peace was suddenly broken:

The ladies there broke into a sweat,

For out on the streets one day,

Emerged a terrible new threat.

An elusive figure, a pimpernel,

His crime was a clincher:

Creeping up behind ladies:

The phantom bottom-pincher.

At first they were all in an outrage,

For he didn’t seem really to choose

The attractive younger ladies:

It was the older ones he tended to goose.

But soon they felt themselves flattered:

I just have this to mention,

It may have been a bad thing to do,

But really they liked the attention.

For shopping in Trowbridge was boring,

Thrills could be quite hard to find,

Even if the criminal was unknown

At least someone’d touched their behinds.

So no-one ever reported the crime,

The police were powerless to act,

But the ladies’ husbands became annoyed

And vowed vengeance - that’s a fact.

  

The provisional wing of the Salvation Army

Were brought in to scout,

But they never spotted the crime,

They never caught the chap out.

The bum-pincher became a popular figure,

Of his habit he took fully his fill,

There was no-one to get cross with,

For the victims shared in the thrill

So you’ll find if you go into Trowbridge,

It’s a town of wonderful places,

But now you know the deep secret

Of so many smiling faces.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Health, Wealth & Happiness

Health, wealth & happiness: (or how I was persuaded to seek health & youth, but gave it all up for booze & fags)

Now I’m the first to admit,

Although I’m certainly not wealthy,

I’d like to try & live as long as I can,

And that includes being healthy.

My other half – she looked hard at me,

And cast her critical eye.

“You need to get into shape” she said

And here are some ideas you can try.

She reeled off a number of therapies:

In fact she became quite verbal.

They were mostly New Age & Modern:

Some were Chinese and some were herbal.

I started on aroma therapy

Which created a wonderful smell.

But that just made me sleepy,

And off the treatment table I fell.

So nursing some bumps & some bruises,

I went to see a chiropractor.

She caused me so much pain that I cried.

And I’m afraid that I then sacked her.

So seeking for calmer approaches,

I tried ayurvedic head massage.

It brought a smile to my lips,

And peace to my ugly visage.

Hypnotherapy, meditation & yoga,

And various types of new diet:

Wheat-free, dairy-free and Atkins -

If it was faddy, I just had to try it.

Reflexology, and ear candling,

And all sorts of new medication.

Then finally I built myself up to try

Transcendental meditation.

This led to a new feeling of calmness:

My chakras were all in a line.

I started to feel so much better:

I fact I felt really quite fine.

And this was all very well for a while,

But it merely calmed my mental state:

I needed something else for my body -

A new person I wanted to create.

So I started to become more ambitious:

It’s what you do at such a juncture. -

Manipulation, electro-therapy,

And finally some acupuncture.

  

With needles all over my body,

My wellness began to increase.

If I could just push to the next stage -

Well – wonders might never cease.

I looked out for more treatments:

Anything health-like related.

Until finally I succumbed,

And had my colon irrigated.

It’s called hydro-therapy,

But there’s no need to sob -

It was all quite pleasant really,

And much easier than my later boob-job.

For I’d become addicted to nips and to tucks:

I didn’t need to be urged on.

I was even getting a discount

From my cosmetic surgeon.

But I suppose it’s the human condition,

To look for something more exotic,

When your diet gets increasingly boring,

And everything’s become pro-biotic.

Then finally the treatments stopped working:

What was once tight now only sags.

Anyway I’ve discovered a new diet –

It consists of chips, of beer and of fags.

So let this story become a warning to you:

Don’t think you can make yourself healthy.

Just stick with what you know,

And that way you might keep yourself wealthy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Passed Over Again

Passed Over Again

I’ve waited in all day, pacing up and down,

Hoping that the telephone would ring,

That some flunkey from Buckingham palace

Some long-expected news would bring.

I’d counted on a proper letter at first,

Coming through Her Majesty’s Royal Mail:

Cream envelope, thick embossed writing -

But that route appears to have failed.

Morning after morning, nothing on the mat,

Time getting short as we come up to the date,

Perhaps lost in the post or delivered elsewhere,

I’m on tenterhooks to discover my fate.

After all - I am a firm monarchist,

A believer in our great constitution,

And I’ve been a good chap now for long enough,

So it’s time to recognise my contribution.

For outstanding services to my country,

I’m wondering what my honour will be:

So many types and levels to choose from -

Might it be an OBE or MBE?

I can just see my name up on the list,

You see, I’ve always fancied a knight-hood:

Some sort of title would distinguish me -

“Sir Andy Fawthrop” will look pretty good.

But there is no point printing new stationery,

Nor ordering any new business cards,

Until we’ve settled on the right handle,

Then I’ll be a knight amongst bards!

I can see me going to the palace,

For my investiture with the Queen,

Then photos outside with the medal,

My face all over the press will be seen.

I’ll be gently famous and renowned,

I’ll sign autographs whenever I‘m able,

And merely mentioning my name,

Will secure any restaurant table.

And people will whisper reverently,

When my personage is passing them by,

Speaking of my modest achievements,

And asking themselves the main question: Why?

  

I mean, obviously, why not them?

Well – honours are reserved for the cream!

If they just gave them to everyone,

How do you think that that would seem?

…..But hang on a second – what’s just happened?

The full list’s been announced on the BBC!

There’s nothing in there for services to poetry -

There’s to be no Honour for me!

Surely there’s been some mistake?

It seems, yet again, I’ve been overlooked,

I’ve been looking forward all over Christmas,

But now it seems my goose has been cooked.

Of course I’m not bitter – how could I be?

It’s an anachronistic system of State,

Discredited rewards for old cronies!

I wouldn’t want one of those, mate!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

New Year, Old Year

New Year, Old Year

And so the question comes around again,

About hopes and wishes and resolution,

Determinations for another new year,

Or to simply avoid it – that’d be a solution!

Whether to create new personal targets,

To set oneself up for yet another fall,

Or be more realistic of weaknesses,

And admit that you’ll fail at them all.

As if a New Year creates a new life,

Where things will be different and strange,

Rather than some random point in time,

Invented by humans to mark out a change.

It’s just a certain mark in the calendar,

A cold counting of months and of days,

And to track the moon’s movements,

The lunar waxings and wanings of ways.

Just cast your mind back to last year -

What were all the things you promised you’d do?

No - I can’t remember them either!

All forgotten – isn’t that true?

So what’s the point of doing it all over?

You won’t get any fitter or slimmer,

You probably won’t save any more money -

There isn’t a chance – not a glimmer!

Life will continue the way it always does

The only sure things are death and tax,

So just be a little more practical -

Be at peace with yourself - and relax!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Resolution

Resolution

Oh it will be different this time,

And things are going to change around here.

I’ve made up my mind, you see,

As we head out into the New Year.

I’m going to give up on the smoking:

I’ve got no further use for the fags.

No longer will tobacco hold me in thrall:

I’ve taken my very last drags.

I’ll have to cut down on my drinking,

And make no exceptions for beer.

Cause alcohol’s doing me no good,

And chewing up my liver I fear.

And getting much thinner’s a must:

I’m going to lose lots of weight.

I’ll be a quite different person,

When I get down to nine stone eight!

There’s going to be more exercise,

As part of my new daily routine.

I just can’t wait to get on with it -

Yes – I’m really terribly keen!

And I’m going to get my finances in order –

I’ll be saving more, do you hear?

And I’ll be simply rolling in money,

When we get to the end of the year.

It’s just a matter of discipline,

And plotting progress on a chart.

Oh yes, I really mean it this time -

I’m going to make a completely new start.

You’re looking at someone with resolution,

Whatever it costs me in sorrow.

All I have to do is to get started,

But I can worry about that tomorrow!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Nights Of Terror

Nights Of Terror

It’s several days now since Christmas,

And the danger’s quite close at hand,

For the turkey’s carcase still lives here,

And great fear is stalking the land.

The great beast sits there in the fridge,

And has provided for several meals,

But its body continues to shed flesh -

It goes on and on – that’s how it feels!

The cold sandwiches with stuffing

Were acceptable on Christmas night,

But then the cold cuts on Boxing Day

Weren’t the most welcome sight.

And we just kept on carving and slicing,

Big slices of breast meat, and some of the leg,

But we need relief now from this poultry -

The children, poor mites, have started to beg.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have bought such a big bird,

Been more considered, in less of a hurry,

Then we wouldn’t have spent the next five days,

Eating so many portions of turkey curry.

We’ve had quite enough of it now,

The pleasure has really started to pall,

And even with bowls-full of turkey soup,

We still can’t get rid of it all!

There’s only the bones and skin that are left -

It’s a sight that makes us all queasy.

We’d really like to get rid of the thing,

But it’s a task that’s certainly not easy.

For it’s taken up residence in the fridge,

And at my conscience it worries and nips,

And now I’m starting to have nightmares -

Is this the start of a turkey apocalypse?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Not Lonely This Christmas

Not Lonely This Christmas

The pine’s propped up in the corner

But not for me the lure of the tree

Festooned in baubles and tinsel

Sheltering its stash of carefully-wrapped presents

And shedding its needles for everyone to see

Nor the cupboard-full of mince-pies and stollen

For I’ve frequently had doubts

About the cranberry sauce and the oversize turkey

The stuffing and pigs in their blankets

And the leftover roasties and sprouts

I’ve turned down the invitations to parties

I’ve not sent Christmas cards either

For this annual budget-busting mentality

Is not something I feel I can cope with

Or want to have to endure neither

Santas, elves and their reindeer

Are of any religious purpose totally devoid

The crackers and paper hats leave me quite cold

And the festive specials on the telly

Are things I try hard to avoid

I’ve finally escaped the annual torture

Of listening to relatives as they moan

About the cost of everything these days

And struck out on my singular path

To spend a quiet day on my own

What’s it all got to do with anything anymore?

When did the Feast of Stephen turn into Boxing Day?

And apart from the shops being closed

And no useful services running

Isn’t it just the same as any other day?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Weather Warning

Weather Warning

I used to fall asleep to the weather forecast,

Barely noticed what they had to say,

Just slightly interested in one thing -

What would be the conditions for next day?

On the BBC it was just information,

There was really no need to get frantic,

About average temperatures,

The fronts coming in from the Atlantic.

But now things seem to have changed quite a lot,

The language has turned rather urgent,

The Met Office is sexing things up,

And talking about a “weather event”.

Rain has become “precipitation”,

Gales have suddenly become “cyclones”:

It’s all about “threat levels” and “warnings” -

I can feel annoyance through my bones.

The jet-stream’s gone all over the place,

They’ve ramped it up to a third-tier “yellow”.

“It’s all because of global warming”

The presenters are ready to bellow.

It sounds like a national emergency,

Extreme freezing due to climate change,

Bulletins filled with hyperbole,

Exaggeration that’s out of the range.

And now it’s come round to the Winter,

It’s not just ice, and hail, and winds that blow,

But frightening graphics and huge arrows,

And the apocalyptic “thunder-snow”.

Severe conditions are a “weather bomb”,

Fahrenheit has become centigrade,

The “alert” level rises to “amber”,

Dire predictions are being made.

Panic sets in over a very slight frost,

Melodramas over the isobars,

Alarmist language because of the storms,

The jeopardy in store for the cars.

Hysteria if it drops below zero,

Or if there’s “severe cold weather action” -

We’ll soon be at warning-level “red”,

If things change by just a fraction.

  

Well, you’ll never guess what, but it’s Winter!

It’s been happening for millions of years!

It can get a bit parky this time of year,

But for us it doesn’t hold any fears.

The weather-men seem surprised about this -

It’s time we put them all in the dock.

This is the usual pattern, you know,

Not really a surprise – no shit Sherlock!

We might expect a bit of a cold snap:

Blizzards, snow-drifts, maybe some floods.

It’s on a par with the Pope being catholic,

And bears taking a crap in the woods!

We live in the Northern hemisphere!

This chilliness to us is no stranger,

We’re familiar with these conditions,

And we’re not really in any danger.

It’s good advice to wrap up nice and warm -

We might consider an overcoat,

Perhaps a scarf, or maybe some gloves,

Carry an umbrella would get my vote.

We might have to scrape the car’s windscreen,

Inconveniences in a many a guise,

But I’m sure we’ll work our way through it -

After all, it’s hardly a surprise!

We’re British! Resilient and hardy!

We can cope! We know how to do it!

We’ll use our common sense and survive -

Somehow, yet again, surely we’ll get through it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Post Natal Depression

Post Natal Depression (or thank goodness Christmas is all over)

They’ve all gone back to work,

And the kids are back at school.

Here I am in the middle of all the mess,

Clearing up like a bloody fool.

And as I look around & survey the site,

In the fireplace there’s a fall of soot,

An empty sherry glass & mince-pie crumbs,

And a mark where Santa placed his foot.

The carrots we left for his reindeer,

Have been quite nibbled away,

But the droppings on the carpet,

I think is a price too high to pay.

There’s paper wrap & discarded boxes,

Where presents were pulled out in their haste,

Played with for half an hour,

Before joining the rest of the waste.

There’s food left over in the kitchen,

And I think I’m starting to droop.

If I have to eat one more leftover sprout,

Or face another bowl of turkey soup.

The Christmas tree is looking all forlorn,

As its needles drop upon the floor,

And get blown around the house,

Every time someone opens a door.

We’ve started our own recycling skip,

With empty bottles of every sort.

It’s not just the beer & the mixers,

But the gin, the vodka and port.

We’ve watched all of the Christmas specials

They put on the box this time of the year.

Shame they can’t do it the rest of the season,

Instead of the usual rubbish so drear.

We’ve sent home the old relatives

Those aged wonderful old dears.

Now it’s time to take down the greetings cards,

From people we’ve not seen in years.

We’ll take down the lights that cover the house.

Our neighbours think that we’re soft.

Yes, we’ll pack up the baubles & lights,

And put them all back in the loft.

The sparkle’s all gone from the occasion,

All the drinking & eating & that.

They’ve stopped playing Christmas records on the radio:

At least we can be thankful for that.

  

Now the shops are full of bargains,

The stuff they just couldn’t shift.

Now’s a good time to stock up for next year,

With every possible gift.

I know it’s been quite enjoyable at times,

But now that it’s over for another year,

I’m seeking to get some normality.

So I’ll see you – I’m off down the pub for a beer.

Then I’m off to the dump with the recycling,

But I won’t be coming back in a hurry.

I’m not looking forward to dinner -

It’s turkey & cranberry curry.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Interview For The Job Of Santa Claus

Interview For Job Of Santa Claus

Welcome to our store, dear gentlemen,

If you could please form an orderly queue.

We’ve lots of interviews scheduled,

But we’ll get round to talk to all of you.

Please hand in your Curricu-Claus Vitae,

As you enter the room through the doors,

And we’ll get on with the process

Of picking this Christmas’s Santa Claus.

Of course there’ll be lots of questions,

We have to be careful who we employ,

For we’ve found it’s not just anyone,

That can spread tidings of comfort and joy.

The job description’s a bit wider this year,

As the recession continues to bite:

We’re expecting much more from our Santa -

We’re determined to get our choice right.

So there’ll be lots of questions to answer,

As we try to get right to the root,

Of who’s the very best candidate,

And before we hand over the fat suit.

For example: do you have experience

Of being seated for many long hours?

Are you possessed of rosy-cheekedness?

And is cheerfulness within your powers?

It’s more than just being good with children,

And dealing with all those little cuties,

For you’ll have to muck out the reindeer,

And carry out Elf liaison duties.

You’ll be working with height-challenged workers,

Cos Elf & Safety’s a modern-day fact,

And seasonal work isn’t much of a perk,

For it’s only a limited contract.

You’ll need “Toddler Expectation Management”,

Cos some of their parents can be real rough!

Do you have a current sleigh-driving licence?

Otherwise this role’s gonna be real tough.

For, dealing with demanding children,

You must be brave and not be a-feared.

Do you have enough roly-poly-ness,

And do you think you could grow your own beard?

  

We’ll need your face crinkling, and your eyes twinkling,

A constant yo-ho-ho you’ll have to do.

You can’t have a bad back, if you’re to carry that sack,

And do red-and-white colours suit you?

You’ll be part of the retail experience,

Thus extracting the parental dime,

And there’s through-put targets to be met,

So each child gets limited knee-time.

You’ve got to be endlessly cheerful,

But work-place sobriety  is our motto -

You can’t go out and get yourself beer-full -

Nobody gets blotto in our grotto!

Cos though there’s many temptations,

From all the bottles and beer barrels,

You’ll have to find another way to block out

The endless loop-tape of Christmas carols.

They say “don’t work with animals and children” -

Normally we’d endorse this as a rule,

But if one of you doesn’t take this job,

Nobody’s gonna have much of a Yule.

Copyright  Andy Fawthrop 2017