Barred From Bromham

Sunday, 7 December 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 7th December 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 7^th December 2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1. In an unexpected and unprecedented move, part of the collection of “Bromham Marbles” has been temporarily loaned to a museum in the Northern twinned town of Muckthorpe. Delicate negotiations over a period of two years, held in great secrecy, were necessary to arrange the loan. News of the loan, however, provoked fury in Seend where the marbles were originally discovered in the 1890s in the collection of a local schoolboy. Seend has repeatedly demanded the return of the marbles, and has threatened to withhold its supply of conkers from Bromham schools.

2. The treasurer of Bromham Parish Council made his Autumn Statement on Thursday. He said “hello Bromham, I’m the Treasurer, it’s Thursday, and it’s Autumn. That’s it.” Local historians have struggled to explain the origins of this bizarre ritual, or to interpret its meaning in any way.

3. For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Saturday, 6 December 2014

I Remember Amnesia

I Remember Amnesia (I think)

Have I told you this before?

Can I make this easier?

You can’t blame me for this,

I think it’s called amnesia.

Have I said this already?

I don’t want to tease ya,

It’s not my fault you know –

I think it’s called amnesia.

I don’t remember much.

I forget when I’m breezier,

Now, what was I saying?

I think it’s called amnesia.

My memories are slippery,

Elusive and greasier,

I just can’t hang on to them –

I think it’s called amnesia.

The other day I went – somewhere.

I must have had some sort of seizure,

It could have been anywhere,

I think it’s called amnesia.

I was wrapped up snug and warm,

Wearing something….fleecier,

But I can’t remember what it was,

I think it’s called amnesia.

I was talking to….somebody,

I think they were from Silesia,

But it could have been anyone –

I think it’s called amnesia.

Have I already mentioned?

I’m feeling a bit queasier,

Since whatever it was I ate –

I think it’s called amnesia.

I hope I’m not boring you,

I only want to please ya,

But the thing is that….

I think it’s called amnesia.

Now, have you all got that?

Oh, I wish this was easier,

Have I already told you?

I think I’ve got……

And now, I’d like to read you a poem

Called “I remember amnesia (I think)”

Friday, 5 December 2014

Where's Ya Bin Lately?

Where’s Ya Bin Lately? (or the tale of the bad-tempered domestic waste operative)

I’m up in the early morning -

You could say it’s up with the lark.

But all that I know is -

Outside it’s still bloody well dark.

The alarm sounds like a siren,

Right at the crack of the dawn.

I stumble straight into my clothes.

It’s another freezing cold morn.

Then I’m off down to the depot -

I can smell it before I even get close.

To meet up with the crew & the truck,

But it’s not worth holding your nose.

We put on our caps & thick leggings,

Together with some steel-toed boots,

And reflective jackets, thick gloves -

These form up into our business suits.

Then it’s off down the road to the first job,

Before the manager comes round.

That means parking for breakfast,

At this little café we’ve found.

It’s tea & it’s butties all round.

There’s banter & plenty of talking.

There’s no rush to get started,

On those miles & miles of walking.

The oldest bloke in the team is the driver,

The rest of us just follow behind,

Working at the back of the truck,

Dealing with garbage of all kinds.

The pay & conditions are poor,

So most of our bin-men are dross.

We’ve got no pride in our work,

In fact, I don’t give a toss.

We work our way through the streets,

Making as much noise as we can.

Nobody sleeps through our workings,

As we drop every bin with a clang.

We search through whatever’s left out,

To see if there’s anything worth keeping.

That goes into our special compartment,

And builds a fund that’s ours for the reaping.

Then we run through our reasons for rejections:

Bins that are too heavy for lifting,

Lids not quite closed or overfull -

Well it’s something we’re not shifting.

Bags at the side are not ours to do:

It makes it quite clear in the rules:

We’d be breaking our new contracts:

We just can’t afford to be fools.

Folks chuck away everything that’s messy,

And I don’t care what you think:

There’s no way it can be avoided -

Most of the bins really stink.

There’s rats and dead cats to look out for,

Cooking fats & things dripping with grease.

Watch as we leave a great trail of debris,

Right across the lawn you can follow with ease.

And don’t bother, or dare, to complain:

It’s really not worth your while,

Cause next time we’ll remember,

And leave all your trash in a great pile.

When the truck finally fills up with your rubbish,

We get a short break as we drive to the dump.

It all gets tossed into land-fill,

And lands with a ruddy great bump.

There’s short-cuts & some fiddles,

Too many for me to relate,

But we all go hunting for tips,

Some extra pay to create.

We let the chaps in the big houses

Talk us into shifting their trash.

We’ll shift anything you want, guv’nor,

Provided there’s enough cash.

But we’ve got to get through our quota,

Before we can knock off for the day.

The work is boring and relentless,

So we make sure we do it our own way.

And the toil is hard and it’s dirty:

We smell like the rubbish we’ve carted.

Everyone takes us for granted.

And recycling? – Don’t get me started!

Thursday, 4 December 2014

Tandoori Nights

Tandoori Nights (or why I love an Indian)

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.

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Nativity

Nativity

Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be,

But I can’t help thinking of that day,

Right at the back end of the Fifties,

When I did my first Nativity Play.

We were in the first class of the Infants,

Young and innocent, no more than five or six,

When our teacher announced the production,

And we’d all be thrown into the mix.

There were to be parts for everyone,

Of that fact there should be no doubt,

For the school couldn’t cope with the aggro,

If any of the class were to be left out.

For parents would want to see their darlings,

Deep in the Christmas story engage,

Showing off to their friends and relatives,

Of their first public performance on stage.

None of us knew what to expect,

Because none of us had ever done it before,

But if we couldn’t have a major role,

We decided we didn’t want to play any more.

I didn’t get to play Joseph,

And the role of inn-keeper to me was denied,

I finally ended up as fifth shepherd,

I was so upset that I cried.

My mum thought my skill had been ignored,

And my talent not allowed to shine through,

Which just added to the misery,

But I was only five – what could I do?

Rehearsals were more than chaotic,

The teachers didn’t know how to lead,

And scripts were a complete waste of time,

Since not one of us could read.

So we did it by practising quite hard,

Repeating scenes over and over again,

Learning lines was a complete nightmare,

We were children trying to play men.

There was no proper stage to speak of,

You could see it was heading for a great fall,

So they just draped a large pair of curtains,

Right across one end of the hall.

Costumes were left up to the parents,

For each to interpret as they chose,

With no attempt to co-ordinate,

We ended with an array of odd clothes.

The shepherds used sheets and tea-towels,

There were cardboard gold crowns for the kings,

The Angel Gabriel was a fantastic sight,

Dwarfed by a pair of white paper wings.

Moustaches were drawn with burnt cork,

And false beards stuck on that were itchy,

Nobody could really see what they were doing,

And the inn-keeper’s wife turned a touch bitchy.

Joseph wore specs and a belted tunic,

Mary appeared in virginal white,

As they stumbled into Bethlehem,

And inaudibly asked for a room for the night.

The innkeeper, over-awed by the audience,

Forgot his lines and burst into tears.

Lots of shuffling at the edge of the stage,

Then the fulfilment of our worst fears.

The baby donkey, hired for the occasion,

Peed on stage, as we’d all hoped that he would:

A large pool spread between his feet,

And surrounded the cast where they stood.

You couldn’t get away from the squelching,

Though the actors were never in danger,

But most of the dialogue was lost,

As ox and ass waded into the manger.

The gold, the frankincense and myrrh,

Were dropped on to the swaddled-up child,

But the rising smell of fresh urine,

Was driving the audience wild.

At this point, the star fell from its perch,

And knocked the Angel Gabriel out cold.

The girls and boys started wailing,

And mayhem ensued, it has to be told.

The head teacher appeared with bucket and mop,

Halting proceedings with a bilious wince.

That brought an end to my acting career,

And I've hated Christmas ever since!

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

Black Friday

Black Friday

We had Black Friday when I was a child:

It was a warning issued every year -

A plea to be careful on icy roads,

To protect all that you ever held dear.

But now it’s about something different -

There’s been a big shift in the detail,

An American marketing swizz,

A push to drive up shopping and retail.

A pre-Christmas discounting trick,

Post-Thanksgiving from across the Atlantic,

With bargains and prices knocked down,

Stimulating buying that’s frantic.

They build up the excitement on TV,

Encouraging you to snatch a cheap gift,

As if it’s in your best interest,

Instead of the old stock they want to shift.

Don’t think that they’re doing you a favour,

Don’t believe that one little bit,

You’re just clearing their shelves for them,

So they can sell you even more shit.

Strong elbows are the weapons you need,

To fight your way in for the best,

To get that sixty-inch screen in your bag,

Whilst shoving and pushing over the rest.

You can’t afford to take any prisoners,

If you want a bargain that’s fantastic,

It’s the devil-take-the-hindmost,

When you’re trying to load up your plastic.

The whole nation shows its frustration,

Scenes of fighting that are heart-rending,

There’s grabbing and jabbing and nabbing,

In pursuit of conspicuous spending.

Voices raised high with much shouting,

Like pack animals with their growling,

And the disappointed licking their wounds,

Crying with bitterness and howling.

Their behaviour becomes shameful,

The dominant males are beating their chest,

The women pouting and shouting,

The police move in to make an arrest.

It brings out the worst in human nature,

A vicious competitive streak,

Where only the strong are the winners,

As they rampantly trample the weak.

It’s a long way from the season of goodwill,

Bargain-hunters obsessed and gone manic,

A great bun-fight in the superstores,

With scenes of hysterical panic.

Perhaps we’ve lost sight of the bigger picture,

Of gift selection, or having a fun day.

Now it’s all credit and saving money,

So we can spend it on Cyber Monday.