Faith

Faith

Unknown where it comes from

Unbidden, worm-weaving

Inside hidden potential

Tendrils snaking into the crevices

Invading cells

And filling holes we did not even know we had

Casting a lifeline to the drowning

Helping the hopeless

Distracting the deluded

Succouring the simple-minded

With the power of anecdote

The personal testimonial

And imbuing simple correlations

Between unrelated phenomena

With the power of mystery and magic

Quasi-scientific language

Image and advertising

Belying of belief

Trading on trust

And the gap of gullibility

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Mince Pies

Mince Pies

To make 12 mince pies:

·         200g/7oz Unsalted Butter

·         Pinch of salt

·         100g/3.5oz caster sugar

·         1 large egg yolk

·         250g/9oz Plain Flour

·         Beaten egg to glaze

·         12 tsp mincemeat

·         Granulated sugar for sprinkling

·         Icing Sugar for dusting

1.       Beat the butter, salt and caster sugar together until soft and squidgy.

2.       Add the yolk and flour and mix to make a stiff dough (if it looks dry just keep kneading it, it will come right without needing water).

3.       Wrap in cling film and chill in fridge for 30-40 minutes.

4.       Preheat the oven to Gas Mark 4/180C/350F.

5.       Lightly grease a 12-hole bun tin with butter.

6.       Roll out two thirds of the pastry on a lightly floured surface.  With a fluted cutter make 12 pastry rounds and place them in a 12-hole bun-tin.  

7.       Brush beaten egg round the base and edge of pastry case and place 1tsp of mincemeat in the middle of each one.

8.        Roll out the rest of the pastry and cut out 12 rounds for the lids.  Place the lids on top, pressing the edges to seal each pie.

9.       Brush the tops with beaten egg, sprinkle with granulated sugar and make a slit in the top of each one for the steam to escape.

10.   Bake in the oven for 15 – 18 minutes or until pastry is golden.  Leave to cool in the tins for a few minutes then transfer to a wire rack.

11.   Dust with icing sugar before serving.

Lost - One Pigeon

Lost

I’m sorry, but I’m too upset to talk,

I’ve had one awful helluva day -

My life has suddenly become empty,

Now that my pal, young Bob, has gone astray.

I’m going to offer a reward:

It doesn’t matter - whatever the cost,

For I’ve got to have that little chap back,

Now that he’s gone missing, now that he’s lost.

You’d probably do the same thing as me,

If you were feeling as miserable and down,

I’ll print some posters with his picture,

And pin them to poles all around town.

You see Bob could easily get lost in a crowd -

He’s just a pigeon, when all’s said and done,

But he was always my bosom companion,

And together we’d always had such fun.

As a pigeon he’s just a common breed,

Not fancy, not tumbler, nor homer.

I never thought that he might wander away,

That he’d become restless, or a roamer.

He’s a very special little bird,

Of which any man would be proud,

So I’ll give you a detailed description,

To distinguish him from the rest of the crowd.

He’s only about ten inches long,

Six inches tall and quite sweet.

He’s covered in black and grey feathers,

And he’s got dainty orange and pink feet.

He weighs just under a pound,

When he’s walking around on his deck.

There’s a special look in his beady eye,

And there’s little green hues round his neck.

His absence has left a hole in my heart -

I don’t know what I’m doing,

So your help I am wooing,

His little habits I’m ruing,

I miss his billing and cooing,

And even his constant pooing.

 I need him back for my sanity -

The feeling is cutting,

My insides it’s gutting,

Hear me cursing & tutting,

I miss his beak jutting,

When he’s doing his strutting,

In his season of rutting.

I fear that he may be a target -

It hurts, but it must be confessed,

He’s quite a well-fed little bird,

And he bears a very plump breast.

He’s easily tempted by a few crumbs,

Just like the other birds in the town.

He flaps his wings quite a lot,

And his little head bobs up and down.

So please keep all your eyes peeled -

Together we can do a good job.

Mind, he could be dangerous if cornered,

So, remember, he answers to Bob.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Theft of Baby Jesus

The Theft Of Baby Jesus

There’s always some-one who goes too far,

Whose judgement seems somewhat defective,

Getting Christmas all out of proportion,

And losing their sense of perspective.

The bloke in our village was one of these:

Went over the top for Noel-time tradition,

Thought the number of lights on his house,

Was some sort of yearly competition.

He had everything on display,

Such a mess, it was really a sin:

A complete mish-mash of every sort,

Every blessed thing that you might imagine.

There was Santa with all twelve of his reindeer,

Delivering presents piled up on his sleigh.

It took so many bulbs to light up this scene,

You’d have thought night had turned into day.

There were snow-men and snow-women,

Cartoon characters, the holly and ivy,

Illustrations of every blessed carol,

And tunes in a tape-loop to keep it all lively.

This guy was more than a fanatic -

Of under-statement there was no danger:

And his central tableau showed a great star,

Hovering over the scene in the manger.

There were Mary & Joseph in the stable,

With the Holy Infant, shepherds and then,

A hovering Angel of The Lord,

And a gathering of the three wise men.

And there were great piles of presents,

As if no detail could be allowed to pass,

Every type of farm-yard animal,

Not merely the ox and the ass.

A twenty-foot Christmas tree capped off the scene,

Which became a local attraction,

And the passing traffic became so bad,

That we decided we had to take action.

A group of us hatched our plot in the pub,

Which is not the best place to think straight,

But it seemed a good idea at the time,

When we’d had a few, and the hour got late.

  

The plan was to hit him where it hurt,

Something to make that daft bugger feel.

We were going to remove Baby Jesus,

Yes! – the Son of Man we plotted to steal.

We decided we’d hold Him to ransom,

And that, as the fruit of our labours,

He’d then scale down the size of his display,

And we’d be the toast of his neighbours.

We thought it’d be the simplest of raids,

To sneak in among that barrage of light,

To just steal the youthful Son of Man,

And disappear back into the night.

But we counted without so many wires,

That would cause us so many glitches -

The complex inter-connectedness,

The circuits and timers and switches.

Electricity don’t mix with stupidity –

We were pissed (to use the vernacular),

And as we made our grab for the infant,

The meltdown was truly spectacular.

Our theft was far from deft,
Taking the hostage created a ruction.

The air became blue, as the fuses all blew,

And that was the end of abduction.

The lights went out all over the house,

As the circuits became overloaded,

And there was a short-term glow in the sky,

As the whole of the creation exploded.

Then in the street and the village,

There was an end to illumination.

It carried on all down the valley,

And finally blew up the sub-station.

It was a case of a simple crime gone wrong,

And in later years, folks were heard to say,

It made a great change from the usual -

The most spectacular one-off display!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Christmas Rhymes

While shepherds washed their socks by night,

All seated on the ground,

The Angel of the Lord came down,

And passed the soap around.

“Fear not”, said he, for mighty suds,

Had filled their washing sink.

“Persil washes whitest of all

And does not leave a stink”.

Good King Wenceslas last looked out,

From his bedroom window.

Silly fool, he fell out,

On to a pile of red-hot cinders.

How his bum shone red that night,

Though the frost was cruel.

Then a poor man came in sight,

Riding on a mule.

We three kings of Orient are,

One in a bus, and one in a car,

One on a scooter,

Pipping his hooter,

Wondering where we are.

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 11th December 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 11^th December 2016

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

                                                        

1.       After four days of intense and, at times, gripping detailed legal argument in Bromham High Court this week, absolutely nothing was finally decided.  Their lordships, having practised how to enter and leave the room, how to sit down, how to call a recess, and how to take an extended lunch, decided that they were far too tired to go on listening to the evidence for any longer.  Instead they have decided to recess for six weeks and read some books about it, before delivering their judgement in January.

2.       Several more ex-farm hands have come forward to allege vegetable malpractice in the 1960s and 1970s.  Bromham police are now inundated with cases to investigate, as more and more people are encouraged to speak out.  The offences, involving inappropriate usage of both carrots and courgettes, were apparently committed behind farm buildings by gang-bang-masters, and sometimes even out in the open fields, particularly after dark.  One victim, with bulging eyes, is said to have suffered severe trauma from a marrow.

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

Pass Me The Doodah

Pass Me The Doodah

My other half’s got me under the thumb -

She told me the sink I had to go and un-gum

Even though I think DIY’s a total pain in the bum.

I tried using every one of the tools that I’d got,

And soon I was covered in debris and grot,

Not only that – I was in a very tight spot.

I was getting all bothered and hot,

My temper snapped, my patience was shot

“What I need,” I thought, “is a long whatnot”.

My brow with cold sweat became beaded,

And I’d no idea what it was that I needed,

But at last to my cries she finally heeded.

I was in the narrowest space I could fit,

But if I could just turn that doodah one little bit,

So I shouted to her,  “pass me the wotsit!”

“The thingummy, the oojah, the one with the knob,

That effort, the dingle-dongle,” I cried with a sob,

“You know, that big thingamabob!”

She passed me a gubbins that looked quite tricky,

And I said, “I don’t mean to be too picky,

But that’s not it at all, that’s not the doohickey!”

“The whatchamacallit, the one that’s quite big,

The wossit, the gizmo that looks like a pig,

Oh come on! Just gimme the thingamajig!”

“This widget’s no midget, it’s making me mad,

It’s gnarled, and it’s snarled, it’s really quite bad,

The only thing that’ll shift it is that doodad!”

Well, she got in a big huff, started passing me stuff,

But it were wrong for the job, it just weren’t enough,

And I started getting narky and all of a huff.

“If you’d just give me what I need, you great divvy,

I could stop behaving like a snivelling skivvy.

What this job needs is a deedum, or an oojah-capivvy!”

My fingers on the dingus was doing no good,

And the water were spurting, turning to mud:

My ineptitude had created a black flood.

  

An unknown tool, whatever handle I picks,

Just something from there in the mix,

Just a thingy, or a doozy, would get me out of this fix.

So if anyone knows the name that is right,

Pass on over here, as quick as you might,

Or else be stuck here for the rest of the night!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016