Everything Changes

Everything Changes (you can’t count on any of the old certainties, these days – what’s happening?)

Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold:

It’s all entropy, we’re told,

But you get to depend on the way things are,

And certainties that never fold.

But now everything’s changing:

It’s enough to make you feel faint.

They’ve finished the Forth Road Bridge:

They used up their last pot of paint.

And as they lock the brushes all away,

Packing in a big shed all of their kit,

I’d love to look up at the great structure,

And say: “here – you’ve missed a bit!”

They’re telling us GMT will be no more -

Greenwich is going to the dogs.

They’re running now on atomic clocks,

In Paris! – it’s a plot by the Frogs!

They say there’s a new particle:

They’ve seen a bump in the data.

It might be the missing Higgs-Bosun:

I hope they find it sooner, not later.

They call it the “God Particle” -

They’re sure that it’s there -

It’s been missing for quite a while now,

They’re looking down the back of a chair.

The Universe is expanding faster,

Faster than ever they thought.

It’s getting ever so big you know,

And the edges are still being sought.

Then they said that it’s full of dark matter –

That’s stuff that nobody can see.

So how they know that it’s there,

Well, it’s way beyond me!

Now they’ve come up with a new theory,

Which has got them all ensnared.

It’s buggering up all of the physics -

E might no longer equal MC squared.

Neutrinos are travelling faster than light,

For which there’s no reason or rhyme,

And if that’s true, which I very much doubt,

It just makes a right horlicks of time.

But it could explain some phenomena,

Like Doctor Who and Star Wars and Stargate,

Why things happen in the wrong order,

And why the buses always run late.

No, the old certainties have gone,

But there’s things you can always depend on -

Like bills and debts, and like death and taxes,

And toast always falling butter-side down.

Then there’s new promises that seem to be true:

Politicians will always keep lying,

And peeling very strong onions,

Will always leave you sobbing and crying.

The banks and corporates will make big profits,

And of tax loopholes make the very most,

But when they owe you any money,

You can be sure – “the cheque’s in the post”!

They’ll fiddle the interest rates if they can,

They’ll lie, they’ll cheat and they’ll steal,

Then they’ll lie to cover their crimes,

And live on bonuses of a level surreal.

Men will always chase women and girls,

Who never seem to heed the old warning.

For the worst of their promises will be:

“Of course I’ll still love you in the morning”.

So, you see, despite all this frightening stuff,

The Universe – we can’t do without it -

It’ll all carry on just as before,

And there’s buggar all we can do about it!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Truman Nature

Truman Nature – an apocryphal cricketing story for Summer.

When I were a young lad in Yorkshire,

Lived the greatest bowler, it’s said.

His name was sometimes Truman,

Always known as Fiery Fred.

He was fast and he was fierce,

And he took many a Test wicket.

There’s many a batsman’s took shelter,

When Fred was playing at cricket.

Eventually, the time came to retire,

And opponents heaved sighs of relief.

In Australia and the West Indies,

Heads would come no longer to grief.

So Fred took his missus on holiday at last,

And went to Antigua to take of his ease.

He soaked up the sun and the sea and the sand,

With only his good self to please.

One day, he wandered down to the village,

And watched the young lads there on the green.

They were playing knock-about cricket,

The finest young batsmen he’d seen.

A youngster came over and asked if he’d like to play.

He explained that they were a bowler short.

They didn’t know who Fred was,

So to be friendly, he felt that he ought.

He thought he could still show them a thing or two,

How he could make a ball swing:

He’d bowl some medium-fastish

And send the ball down with some zing.

The young batsman came up and took guard,

Aiming to hit Fred’s ball straight out for Four,

But Fred sent the ball down sharpish,

Pitched it up, and there it was - plum Leg Before.

Fred turned round to the Umpire,

But he soon became quite amazed,

For in answer to his shout of “Owzat, then?”

The official’s finger was not raised.

Fred couldn’t believe what he’d seen,

Walking back to his run-up with many a mutter,

He decided he’d get this bugger out,

By bowling his famous daisy-cutter.

He came roaring in like a train,

Delivering a venomous ball that was short.

The batsman swung and missed,

But it clipped his glove, and was caught!

  

“Owzat?!?!” shouted our Fred once again,

But the batsman refused clearly to walk.

To Fred’s chagrin, the umpire agreed.

And under his breath started to grumble and baulk.

What was going on here? He thought,

I know that these things are sent to try us,

But I’m the best bowler that ever there was,

How can I get past this cheating and bias?

He took an even longer run-up this time,

Tossing the ball from hand to hand in his ire.

His blood was up, his face was red:

Like days of old, he was breathing fire.

He sent down a delivery the fastest he could,

Down the pitch with its lumps and it bumps.

The batsman got nowhere near to it,

And the ball demolished his stumps.

The wickets went cart-wheeling through the grass,

The bails flew high into the air.

There was not a thing left standing;

In fact there was nothing left there.

Fred jumped in the air with delight,

Hopping from foot to foot in a mime,

Then he turned to the umpire with a smile,

And said, “I think I nearly had ‘im this time!”

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

An Idiot Abroad

An Idiot Abroad (or the dilemmas of trying to choose a holiday this year)

I could be gay, with a good holiday,

If there was any point choosing,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

No, not even for boozing.

I’d be keener to be in Kenya,

It’d be neat to go to Crete

No, I just can’t compete.

I could do loads, over in Rhodes,

Or be well fed, while in the Med,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So I’ll stop home instead.

It’d be bliss, on the canals of Venice,

Or have a nice piece, walking in Nice,

I can’t even afford Greece.

I’d get fresh in Marrakesh,

The streets I’d comb, when in Rome,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

I think I’d better stay home.

I wouldn’t be at a loss, if I went off to Kos,

It’d be a great day in Montego Bay,

But I guess in Wiltshire I’ll stay.

I could take her to Jamaica,

She’d be glad in Trinidad,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So she’ll only be sad.

I wouldn’t fear her in Madeira,

I’d talk to her in Majorca,

But we can’t even get to Minorca.

She said I was a wanker in Sri Lanka,

Why couldn’t we loll, on the Costa del Sol?

Cos it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

(She’s not always a doll).

I could be ruder in Bermuda,

Or be a dago in Tobago,

But I just can’t afford to go.

It might be finer in China,

I long to be in Hong Kong,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

So it’s here I belong.

It wouldn’t be hell in The Seychelles,

My heart reaches for their beaches,

It’s what economics teaches.

I hear it’s grotty in Lanzarote,

I’d be a goer over in Goa,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

Morale just couldn’t be lower.

I wouldn’t be a charley in Bali,

But I’d be free in gay Paree,

And it’s the World I want to see.

  

Just a breather in Ibiza,

Or we could booze on a long cruise,

But it’s not funny, when there’s no money,

There’s just nothing to choose.

So no more of package tours,

My best friend just wouldn’t lend

So it looks like a week in Southend.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

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 2015

Birthday Boy

Birthday Boy (reflections on being yet another year older, otherwise known as my take on “existential angst”)

It’s funny how things can easily change,

How your view on life drops through the gears,

But your perspective can turn right around,

When you find yourself advancing in years.

I remember the early excitement,

When I was just a very young boy.

The anticipation of birthdays,

Would bring weeks of advancing joy.

How many cards and presents would there be?

When would my mother begin to bake?

How big and what kind of icing,

On top of my own birthday cake?

Would there be a party and some treats?

With games and plenty of laughter,

A day that would stick in the mind,

And provide memories for long after?

But things are all different now,

And I find my trepidation mounting.

After I’d got as far as sixty,

That’s when I really stopped counting.

There’s no special cake I’m having today,

But if bought from a shop you’d need handles.

It would have to be a massive confection,

If there was to be room for all of the candles.

They’d make up a blazing conflagration,

Of that you should have very little doubt,

And I don’t think I’d have the breath these days,

To blow every one of them out.

I’m no longer sure that the day’s all that special.

Why make such a fuss of one single day?

Yesterday had no unique features,

And tomorrow’s just an ordinary day.

The few cards I get from those that remember,

Fall limply through my letter-box.

There isn’t enough of them to make up a pile,

And my birthday hopes are all mocked.

I don’t want to make any bother or fuss:

It would be good to get a nice present,

For I don’t want to be forgotten quite yet,

Or just seen as an ancient monument.

Once I hoped I’d die before I got old,

But you can see I’m not getting younger,

I’ve still got a great zest for life, though,

And for new things I continue to hunger.

  

And as I reflect on this anniversary,

And I head towards some veneration,

I begin to think about my own children,

Cos I’m talkin’ ‘bout my generation.

So don’t give up on me too soon,

Just because I’m advancing in years.

I shall still go down to the pub most nights,

Yes, I can still sink a few beers!

And as I enter my seventh decade,

I’ve vowed to remain healthy and fit,

I’ll annoy all my friends & family,

And just become a miserable old git.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Bit On The Side

Bit On The Side

I said that I could never do this -

Give myself up to words and waiting, wishes and whispers

Which disappear like mist in the morning

When I awake alone

With the sun rising, poking its light through blinds

Hastily drawn last night

I said that you should not come

Whenever the mood just took you

Leaving her alone with alibis

And feeble excuses

To sneak your way to me

Turning your key in my lock

To find me always alone, ever-waiting,

Desperately pleased to see you

Aching for your smile, your touch, your kiss

I said I would not live like this

Sharing short hours of stolen time

Mistress of your hidden desires

Fed by promises, endearments

And guilty late-bought offerings

A life unnaturally discreet

Behind closed doors

A kept pet within a cage

Your plaything, what you will

I said I could not exist alone

Caught between blind hope and cold despair

Bereft at your every going

Angry at each desertion

Hanging on, spoiled but tortured

Our coupling in the early evenings

No longer love nor lust, but only longing

For you to stay with me and stroke my face

And hold me through till morning

I said that I should live a life more normal

Being with you all the time

Together every day

Not just when you can steal away

To scramble all my feelings

And tangle all my sheets

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 1st March 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 1^st March 2015

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

1.       The secretary of the Parish Council has been dismissed after being secretly filmed whilst promising access to Parish Councillors in return for vegetables.  In the sting operation mounted by the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), Les “Big Man” Piglet is seen boasting of the connections he has, as well as the size of his parsnips.

2.       Police have now confirmed the identity of John “Jihadi” Piglet.  His real name is John “Jihadi” Piglet, previously a resident of Bromham.  He is known to have evaded detection when he slipped over the border into Seend, from where he has been directing terrorist operations and producing a series of badly-shot videos, which purport to show vegetables being topped and tailed at an unknown rural location.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015