When The Archbishop Came To Call

When The Archbishop Came To Call

Our village is a quiet sort of place;

You can hear the autumn leaves as they fall,

But strange things started to happen,

Last Sunday, when the archbishop came to call.

St Nicholas is the name of our church,

Where suddenly everything came to a stop,

Expecting the top man from the C of E,

You know – Rowan – for he’s the Archbishop!

It was all meant to be very informal,

To give thanks for our Bishop’s loyalty,

But that’s not how it all turned out on the day -

You’d think they were expecting some royalty!

Now normally there’s not many goes there,

The congregation’s usually measured in tens,

But soon as word started to go round,

The vicar was cleaning his Mercedes-Benz.

The parishioners went into overdrive,

So that His Reverence would be very well-met.

They polished up the Church’s silverware,

And got set to roll out the red carpet.

The Erics, and Dereks, and all of the clerics,

Got themselves into a great fluster,

They pulled out all their best vestments,

And flicked round the vestry with a new duster.

The pulpit was given a make-over,

They made it into such a big deal -

Up in the bell-tower things were afoot,

They arranged to ring a grand quarter-peal.

They practised the bells for two days and nights,

The place was full of crumbly old ringers,

You couldn’t move for them pulling the ropes,

And they made a real set of swingers.

Come the day itself, things started to happen:

The last thing you’d feel would be lonely.

It was like “Songs Of Praise” had come to town:

In the church it was standing-room only.

There was a danger of over-crowding:

It was close to a riot – that’s a fact.

Inside people sat on one another’s knees,

Into the pews they were forcibly packed.

  

There was no outbreak of religious fervour,

Such was the opinion of the Dean,

But more of a social occasion,

As they all struggled to see, and be seen.

Now I’m not of a Christian persuasion,

I’m an atheist I have to confess,

So I don’t get what the fuss was about,

Just to see a bloke turn up in a dress.

Instead I decided I’d go down to the pub,

I just fancied to drink a few jars,

But I couldn’t get into the village,

For the two-mile tailback of cars.

Thousands wanted to get to communion,

There was a queue for road-side conversions,

There was chaos for miles all around,

The police set up road-blocks and diversions.

A helicopter droned low overhead,

Crack teams of snipers were up on the roofs,

And a ring of steel surrounded the pub,

Leaving me wondering just what this proves.

I hope that the moral of this story is clear,

Though some of my tale might be quite tall:

Don’t try to do anything near normal,

When an archbishop comes by to call.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 16th October 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 16^th October 2016

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

                                                        

1.       Plaudits have rained in this week since Thursday’s announcement by the international No-Bells-And-Whistles Committee that this year’s Prize for Literature would be awarded to Bob Dillon, one-time singer/ songwriter from Bromham.  Some of his lyrics have been the sound-track to people’s lives, and include such timeless classic lines as “Farting In The Loo”, “It Ain’t Me Constable”, “It’s All Over Now, Babybel” and, of course, “Just Like A Courgette”.

2.       And the village was cast into mourning on Saturday when the death was announced of Bean Alexander, who played the popular figure of “Builder Ogden”, the hard-bitten but often hen-pecked husband, who meagrely supported his family with bodged jobbing building work, in the long-running soap opera "Coronation Chicken”.  He played the role for over twenty years, and his performances created such now-famous catch-phrases as “oh”, “what?” and “eh?”.   Fellow actors were quick to praise his casual approach to acting, and his at times apparently totally feckless demeanour.  He will be sadly missed. 

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

Drought

Drought

Tramping feet of skinny cattle

Track-herded, raising dust billows

Between brown, empty fields

The earth, dried and caked

Cracked and baked

Crusted solids parched beneath a searing sun

The glaring, cloudless sky

Fierce and rain-barren

Curses and punishes the land

Withholds its water from the needy

Liquid long receded, unreachable

Deep beneath the surface

Leaving not a thing alive in the sterile landscape

Condemned to a gasping, choking death

In the over-heated breeze

Burned, beaten crops defeated by the dryness

Lie strangled, wispy roots withered

Lifeless, straw-like stretchings

Fingering down between cracks of powdered soil

Exhausted by the struggle to survive

Shrivelled and stunted in the cratered furrows

The ground cries out for moisture

Any drop to slake and quench its thirst

Its desiccated loamy texture

Dirt-crumbled in the empty air

Powdered into shifting dust, drifting into piles

Driven by an arid wind, which whispers as it blows

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Blood

Blood

A sudden slice of skin pearls, peels apart

tiny droplets, liquid beads

sitting pert, proud

waiting, welling moments

brimming, holding pause

awaiting further strength to push on

Then the pump and pulse

the stroke of a distant heartbeat

mechanics and hydraulics

forcing fluid pressure

through arteries, veins, capillaries

the cut-confines broken

an inundation, a rupturing

pouring crimson from the wound

a tracered stream of life-blood

red-staining onto flesh-whiteness

The torn and jagged scratch-line

filled and flooded by the flow

drops spotting the ground

AB Positive perhaps

vital to some-one else

but my wasteful gory loss

waiting the staunching, the padding and bandaging

or the subtle clotting power

of life’s congealment

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Cauliflower Curry

Recipe for: CAULIFLOWER CURRY

Ingredients:

·         Large cauliflower, cut into florets

·         2 large potatoes, peeled & cut into chunks

·         1 tsp cumin seeds

·         1 tblsp ground coriander

·         ½ tsp turmeric

·         ½ tsp fenugreek

·         1 tsp ground cumin

·         1 tsp chilli powder

·         Tin tomatoes

·         750 ml water

·         1 tsp salt

·         200g frozen peas

Method:

1.       Fry the cumin seeds in hot oil until they brown

2.       Add coriander powder, turmeric, fenugreek, cumin, chilli powder.  Mix & fry for 30 secs

3.       Add cauliflower & potatoes, frying gently for 5-10 minutes until well coated with spice mixture

4.       Add the tin of tomatoes and fry for another 5 minutes

5.       Add water and salt, simmering for 15 minutes until vegetables are just tender

6.       Add the frozen peas, cooking for another 2-3 minutes

7.       Serve with breads/ rice & pickles

Flushed With Success

Flushed With Success

There was a young man by the name of Ness,

Who to the toilet rushed in distress.

It’s a good job he made it,

Or else I’m afraid it,

Would have led to an embarrassing mess.

I can’t say what he was going to do,

It’s just that he had to get to the loo.

To reveal what then occurred,

Would need to have a rude word,

So let’s just say it was Number Two.

Now he was from a good part of town,

And realised with a puzzled old frown,

That if it’s at all yellow,

You can just let it mellow,

But if it’s brown, you must flush it right down.

Thus it was that he pulled on the chain,

As it hung there above the porcelain,

But it came off in his hand,

Leaving him there to stand,

And deliver himself of this sorry refrain.

“Oh dear!  I can’t see how I can mend,

This thing that’s broken so I can send,

That which sits in the bowl,

To disappear down the hole,

And carry on, right past the u-bend!”

As I say, this man was no navvy,

And with plumbing was not very savvy.

He didn’t wish to dwell,

Or to stay with the smell,

But wanted to escape from the lavvy.

He found himself trapped there in the loo:

He was in a right pickle, it’s true.

He put down extra paper,

To cover the vapour,

And wondered what else he could do.

Upon a solution his mind was now set,

And up to the cistern he wanted to get,

The mechanism to beat,

He stood on the seat,

But his foot went through, into the toilet.

Which caused the said contents to be pushed,

Deep into the water and mushed.

This meant that his floater,

Was no longer a boater,

And decidedly the opposite of flushed.

He heard himself let out a great roar,

As it all overflowed onto the floor.

His foot was all muddied,

As the cubicle flooded,

And it all ran away under the door.

It filled his shoe and got into his sock,

When on the door came a very loud knock.

Someone wanted a wee,

In this here W.C.

And had started to rattle the lock.

Ness knew he needed a proposal,

For the man outside with his nose’ll,

Guess what occurred,

Regarding the turd,

Unless he could conclude a disposal.

He began to feel like an animal caged,

As the intruder grew more enraged.

It always rankles,

With pants round your ankles,

So he shouted out loudly: “Engaged!”

And the moral of this altercation?

Make sure you’ve got good information,

Take plenty of towels,

Before moving your bowels,

And test before your evacuation.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Morning Has Broken

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken

But the coffee’s not yet spoken

The clouds of last night

Still fog up my sight

The daylight’s too bright

I’m not yet ready

Nor feeling too steady

Time to get through the gate

In spite of my state

The newspaper must wait

It remains to be seen

When I get that hit of caffeine

If the day won’t hold any fear

And the clouds in my head will finally clear

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016