News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 14th February 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 14^th February 2016

                                             

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

1.       To celebrate Valentine’s Day, Geoff ‘Call Me Romantic’ Piglet is taking his girlfriend Wendy Boatcumsin to The Wounded Ferret for their bargain basement “Valentine Special Meal Deal” (available 5pm to 7pm only), which features a romantic two-for-one offer.  The meal features a starter of pickled onion sandwiches, main course of lightly-poached badger in fertiliser sauce (to share) and a dessert of Bromham Mess (meringue, cream, fruit sauce and beetroot).  Drinks are not included.  Indigestion tablets optional.

2.       After decades of research at the Bromham Associated Science Institute Corporation (BASIC), and using specialist sensitive equipment, the existence of gravitational waves of a faint morality have been detected emanating from the deep space of Wiltshire Council in Trowbridge.  The famous Bromham scientist Albert Piglet had predicted the existence of such a moral force in the Universe more than 80 years ago, but only now has actual proof been established.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Organic Panic

Organic Panic (or why mud can be good)

Each time I go off to the market in town,

There’s something I see,

Which brings to my face a terrible frown.

It annoys me and it’s getting me down.

I feel they’re treating me like I’m a clown.

It’s when I see the label organic,

That I enter a mood near to panic,

And people nearby think that I’m manic.

It’s when I read the back of the label,

That it alarms me.

For in among all the country fable,

Is all the truth that’s not on the table.

This really ought to bug and annoy you,

That even in summer, and this is not new,

Green beans are being flown in from Peru.

What madness is this that they are doing?

To fool us all badly.

It’s causing pollution we’ll be ruing,

On this planet that’s now started stewing.

There’s trouble ahead that we’re brewing.

We can’t go on madly.

We’re killing seasonality and taste,

Raising food in too much hurry & haste,

Leaving behind us trails of carbon waste.

I don’t want hormones or drugs in my meat:

It’s not natural.

Nor genetically modified wheat,

But nor do I want a planet that’s beat,

Or a climate that will soon over-heat.

But we’re exhausting what’s left of the land,

And it’s time that we took it back in to hand,

Before the time comes that it’s panned.

The supermarkets must share in the blame,

With their approach.

They are taking us for fools in this game,

And their excuses are becoming more lame.

They ought to be reddening in their shame,

For covering up all of these airmiles,

And all of their plastic packaging guiles.

I’m putting their marketing in the frame,

Cos knobbly veggies taste just the same.

They don’t need to be perfect & straight,

To be edible.

Nor do they need to have a sell-by date.

We can work it out at our own rate,

Whether it’s best to eat now, or to wait.

But I’d certainly object if I could,

That farmers’ markets shouldn’t try to be good,

And charge more for carrots covered in mud.

This whole thing’s become tattered and frayed,

At the edges.

Words like “free-range” and “pure” have become greyed,

And nobody’s sure any more what’s Fairtrade,

Or who’s making the profits or being paid.

There’s something confusing about food,

Where real meanings have become skewed,

And the labels try to shape our attitude.

Wasn’t all food once “organic” and real?

Or am I naïve?

What we want back right now is the real deal,

With veggies that you can fondle & feel.

Let’s get rid of the packages and labels,

Get the stuff all laid out on the tables,

And banish this marketing-house Babel.

So let’s have dirty spuds and bent parsnips,

And let us get back to having real chips.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Thief In The Night

A Thief In The Night

Awoken by a bump in the night, a noise I wish could have resisted,

I didn’t want to investigate, but the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand, I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs, to discover who might be there.

There was a light on in the kitchen - so there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him: “Hey! I’m armed with a ruddy big poker!”

I heard a noise, so I thought perhaps he’d gone, and dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes, was one that beggared belief.

The youth, he was just sitting there, in the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes - with cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening, slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

He wasn’t armed and dangerous, and there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t have a long stripey jumper, nor bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me; in fact, he didn’t even frown,

But said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! - and put those curling-tongs down!”

I said: “A man’s home is his castle – about that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes - in fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that, as I was a reasonable sort, he could guess how I must feel,

That he didn’t have the heart to burgle, and from me he’d better not steal.

Seems house-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be, the risks hardly make it worth-while,

And biting dogs and alarm systems were really cramping his style.

By the time I’d heard his story, I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him, well, I very nearly cried.

I saw him out through the door, once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future, and then I wished him “all the best”.

I locked the door behind him, reflecting on what we’d both said,

And, knowing that crime doesn’t pay, made my way happily, back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered my wallet and keys had been lifted -

He’d been back again in the night, and all my valuables shifted.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Waiting Room

Waiting Room 

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead lying slack,

Just one look at you, it’s no wonder

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees,

And they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

And you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And, on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

This visit is one way – it can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me and the children,

You’ve always been faithful and loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture -

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm and steady.

You don’t need to be pushed into this,

We can do it when I’m finally ready.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Beer & Cheese Bread

Recipe for: BEER & CHEESE BREAD

Ingredients:

• 4 tsp sugar
• 2 tsp dried yeast
• 450ml/ 16fl oz brown ale, at room temperature
• 520g/ 1lb 2½ oz strong white bread flour
• 320g/ 11oz wholemeal flour
• 200g/ 7 oz cheddar cheese, grated
• 75g/ 2½ oz parmesan, grated
• 50g/ 2 oz powdered milk
• 1½ tsp salt
• 1½ tsp mustard powder
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 2 tsp fennel seeds
• 1 egg, white only, for glazing

Method:

1. in a large bowl, dissolve the sugar & yeast in the brown ale & set aside for 5-6 minutes
2. in another large bowl, mix the two flours, cheeses, powdered milk, salt, mustard powder, eggs & fennel seeds
3. add in the beer/ yeast mixture & mix well with your hands until if forms a soft dough
4. using floured hands, knead the dough on a clean, floured work surface for 20-25 minutes until smooth & elastic (if the dough becomes too dry, add a little warm water)
5. divide the dough into two loaves & place them on baking tray(s)
6. using a sharp knife, score the tops of the loaves with a criss-cross pattern
7. cover with a clean damp tea-towel & leave for two hours in a warm, draught-free place until the dough has risen & doubled in size
8. preheat oven to 200C/ fan 180C
9. when the loaves are ready to cook, brush each with the egg white
10. bake for 25-30 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. great served with a hearty soup

The Flip Side - A Poem For Pancake Day

The Flip Side

What did I ever do to you, that you should batter me this way?

You’ve got me all stirred and mixed up – is there something special about the day?

You started by egging me on with your sweet, floury words,

You milked it for all it was worth - well, save it for the birds!

You really bowled me over, but I took it with a pinch of salt,

So you just let me stand around - I’m sure it wasn’t my fault!

Then things started getting heated, you charmed me as if butter

Wouldn’t melt in your mouth - I thought you must be some sort of nutter.

You pushed me across the work-top, and I wondered what was my fate?

Out of the fire, into the frying pan - what a desperate state!

You tipped me right over the edge, I felt completely beaten,

Getting me all hot and bothered, I felt so flat that with rage I was eaten.

You attacked me with that spatula, and soon I became set in my ways,

Underneath, I became quite browned off - the atmosphere was a haze.

You just threw me up in the air, tossed like any play-thing,

But when I came down so suddenly, I nearly hit the ceiling!

By now, I’d completely flipped and I landed back in the same place.

You just carried on regardless, as if you couldn’t lose face.

I felt as if I was now ready, and I thought I was going to crack,

But you just pushed me to one side, and said I’d have to wait in the stack.

You said you had other things cooking - you started to mutter and chirrup,

Then you came over all sugary, giving me the usual syrup.

Then you couldn’t get enough of me, your appetite I just couldn’t sate.

You said that you really loved me, but that you had an awful lot on your plate.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Across The Sands

Across The Sands

From the dark, deserted car park

A thin light, just after dawn

As near as I could get

My boots in powdered sinking sand

Over the windswept dunes

The scratchy marram on my legs

Then scrambling along the bank

To drop down into the sweeping bay

Cradled among the circling coastal cliffs

And hear the strong sea shouting, roaring

Its white rollers whipped up in the distance

Competing with the howling, growling wind

Which whips and whistles

Blustering bursts of rain in flurries

The soaking wetness coming sideways

Now tramping unsteadily across the shingle

Crunching pebbles under darkling skies

The clouds boiling and scudding

Before venturing out onto the flatness

Of the damp and sucking sand

For the final steps to reach him

To stand and stare

His hugeness and his stranded shape

Mountain size

Black, grey, blubbery

A clouded eye

An open mouth

Serried sets of teeth

A twisted tail

A 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

Whose rippling fingers fail to reach him

Time after time, losing strength and distance

Whereas I can simply stand here

Stretch and touch him

Feel his dead, swollen body

My fingers on his flesh

A gentle gesture

Whilst I say the only word I can think of:

Sorry

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016