Potholed

Potholed

It’s been a long, hard Winter for sure,

The weather’s done damage that’s easy to see,

There’s potholes down both sides of our road,

And that they need fixing’s obvious to me.

So I phoned up the Council, as you do,

Who said they’d put the job onto their list,

That I was to await for developments,

But it’d be a while, if you’re getting the gist.

The weeks went by, and many a day,

And nothing happened, as you’d expect,

But the holes got much bigger and deeper,

And I was waiting for cars to be wrecked.

There were joltings and bangings and bumpings,

Suspensions damaged without any doubt:

I was worried we’d lose some-one one day,

That we’d never get the poor bugger back out.

Then one day, it seemed there was action of sorts,

When two men turned up in a marked van,

Who inspected the holes from a good distance -

They just sat there, believe this if you can.

They held some sort of a conference,

Whilst sitting there at obvious leisure,

Then reluctantly got out of the van,

And approached the holes with a tape measure.

There was some shaking of heads, if you please,

By The Council’s pothole-repairing guys,

As if they couldn’t quite figure the problem,

Nor grasp the depth of the holes or their size.

They walked away muttering sadly,

Then stood there having a cigarette break,

Looking at all of the pros and the cons,

Undecided what action they should take.

Finally it seemed as if they’d decided,

How they should restore smoothness to the lane,

But it must have been too complicated,

Cos they got in the van, and drove off again.

Obviously the problem was too great,

To be tackled by only these two men -

They’d probably gone for reinforcements,

And would return again who knew when?

The mystery resolved itself next day,

When a task-force invaded the by-way.

We were over-run by men in hard-hats,

Who’d come to restore our rural highway.

  

A full Risk Assessment was in progress:

With impatience my nerves had started to jangle,

But they wanted yet more measurements,

To view the holes from every possible angle.

After a tea-break they at last started -

It was one of Wiltshire’s terrific sights,

But the barriers made it single-file,

And there were two sets of traffic lights.

There were five vans, and at least twenty men,

Hazard warning lights and lots of tricks,

Then they unloaded from out of their vans,

Shovels and spades and couple of picks.

The poor holes were now fairly surrounded,

The repair problem was starting to crack,

But when they all stood back from the action,

They’d only dropped in a small lump of tarmac.

It wasn’t big enough or of the same size,

There were still several jagged edges.

The road was even more of a switchback,

As it snaked between the country hedges.

Then all further work was suspended,

As they beat a retreat hell for leather.

They said it was more than their jobs’-worth,

To go on working in bad weather.

And that’s how it remains to this day,

It’s weeks since they finally departed,

And now the road’s in much worse condition,

Than before they ever got started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 14th May 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 14^th May 2017

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

                                                  

1.      In the annual Devize-O-Vision song contest, broadcast live from the Corn Exchange and Ethel Sidebottom Memorial Banqueting Rooms, the Devizes entry (Boom-Bang-A-Lang-On-A-String) met its inevitable Waterloo, and came an honourable last.  The winning entry from nearby Trowbridge featured a heavy-metal band dressed in pink feathers and leopard-skin outfits, singing something in Wiltshire dialect about the perils of travelling on public transport in a post-apocalyptic world.  The ghost of Terry Wogan was seen moving across the Market Place at midnight.

2.      The Devizes Cottage Hospital was thrown into chaos after being hit by a sophisticated cyber attack, possibly masterminded from the remote province of Potterne.   Medical staff were unable to access patient records when the hospital’s only computer, an early gas-driven model, had its ventilation system blocked by some form of bug.  A sinister message appeared on the screen saying that the computer was due for its annual service, which would not be carried out without payment of a “fee” or “bill”.  Devizes’ only MP, from the Wiltshire Wailers Party, was on holiday, and not available for comment.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Masterchef

Masterchef

I’m all for a successful format,

But the BBC thinks it’s in clover,

If, for its tenth anniversary series,

It doesn’t give Masterchef a make-over.

The temperature’s reduced in the kitchen,

There’s boredom all over the nation:

Junior, celebrity, professional -

We’ve had every possible combination!

John Torode’s a chef, and knows how to cook,

But can we all stand yet one more outing,

For that great pudding Gregg Wallace,

Who doesn’t know when to stop shouting?

Too many contestants’ back-stories,

India Knight’s plodding and steady:

It’s getting like warmed-up leftovers,

A dish we’ve had too often already.

Combination recipes drive me mad,

Invention tests that feature just fish,

And all the fudging, over the judging,

As they deliver their “Signature Dish”.

Poached this, stuffed that, the drizzles and foams,

Smears, juices, crumbs, and the crispiest fat,

The sweetness finally coming through,

And the sharpness of this, cutting through that.

Fondants, creamings and, of course, salads,

De-constructing a favourite dinner,

Creating some fanciful new twist,

In an attempt to knock up a winner.

Then there’s dustings, little plates and purees,

Fondues, concasses and those ganaches,

There’s textures, baby-sick sauces and flavours,

Everyone’s in there, giving it a bash.

But the results can be disappointing,

Like a cheese soufflé that’s failing to rise -

The bizarre lengths these guys can go to,

In pursuit of that Masterchef prize.

It’s all getting to be too technical,

Using blow-torches, vacuums and suction,

And I swear I’ll scream hard at the TV,

If I’ve to look at one more “reduction”!

  

Good flavour’s a strange and fickle thing,

It’s not enough when you can only see -

Food’s all about how it smells and it tastes,

But you can’t do either when watching TV.

I don’t know what to do, when given a jus,

Too many things graded and marinaded:

I think I’m losing my appetite,

And my palate’s decidedly jaded.

I’ve come to deride whatever’s pan-fried,

My whole stomach has come to feel bloated,

I no longer care for salting, wilting or grating,

Whether it’s steamed, or creamed or roasted.

I can’t take much more slurping and burping,

It’s over-cooked, boring and tough.

My whole attitude to contestants’ food,

Has changed - I’ve just about had enough!

Crispy outside, or melting within,

This tired formula I’m ready to miss.

I think I’ll just have a cheese sandwich -

Cooking’s really no tougher than this.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Royal Visit

Royal Visit

The earliest of starts

Forcing everyone to be there on time

With hurried diagonal parking

In the designated distant spot

And the long, hurried walk to the venue

Through the exclusion zone’s lines of security

The checking of passes, invitations and identities

To gather with the hoi-polloi

In best bib and tucker, dressed up to the nines

Who pretend to have made no special effort

The men in shiny suits and tightening ties

The women in frocks and high hair-dos

The Lord Mayor in polished chain of office

And the councillors and dignitaries

Getting hot under their collars

Affecting not to want to be there at all

But ready to get to the front

When push comes to shove

And the long, long standing around

Labouring through meaningless small-talk

Murmuring amongst groups of gathered strangers

Waiting for the clock-hands to slowly creep round

Towards the long-appointed time

Having fun picking out the low-key security men

Obvious with their nervous tight faces

Darting eyes, short haircuts and thick necks

The wires from their walkie-talkies

Curling round the back of their ears

And the drifting aromas of fresh paint

Cleaning fluids and laundry

Floating on the air in a floral bouquet

A pre-agreed agenda

A palace-approved programme

The timings nailed down to the minute

In a carefully-choreographed series

Of visits, moves, walks and chats

Through the venue, past the people

And groups of obligatory children

Then a flurry of arrival activity

Sweeping her in through the doorway

A small head obscured by the huddle

An entourage descending

Heads nodding and bobbing

Murmured questions and answers

And the forced amusement of the moment

A flash of a smile and some hair

Between the bodies that surround her

The party moving inexorably forward

In line with the timetable

Orchestrated and organised

Through displays and demonstrations

Exhibitions and presentations

Chatting and stopping, stopping and chatting

And then she is suddenly upon us

Presented to the group

A hand held out limply for taking and shaking

The couple of questions

Feigning interest in the responses

Ma’am rhyming with jam

Tweedy twin-set and pearls

Bad hair and teeth at close quarters

Before being urged gently forward

By the lady-in-waiting, a hand upon her elbow

Towards the final station of the tour

The speeches and spouting

A cascade of polite applause

The unveiling of another new plaque

A replacement for its predecessor

Inscribed at great expense

By a guilded local craftsman

Using certified recycled materials

And time-honoured traditional skills

At last she is whisked away again

Towards the next appointment

In another market town

The special cakes left un-eaten

And the tea and coffee undrunk

Which the rest of us may now fall upon

Before drifting back to our normal realities

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Night School

Night School (time they offered some more interesting sessions to tempt the jaded palate)

It’s time to brighten up your evenings!

All Welcome! Don’t sit there being uptight!

There’s a new syllabus starting this week,

Tuesday at seven p.m. is orgy night!

You’ll find us to be a real friendly crowd,

Just sign up for a starter session inside,

And after your first hour with the team,

You’ll find no-one’s got much left to hide.

We’ve got the heating turned up cosy and warm,

So there’s no need for you to be thinking,

There’s a risk that your willy will become chilly,

Or that there’s any danger of shrinking.

Beginners don’t need to be shy:

The experienced will show you what to do.

Our guiding text is the Kama Sutra,

But after that it’s mostly up to you!

Intermediate and advanced classes,

Are provided as an education.

No limit on the number of partners,

And we provide free lubrication.

We cater for every possible position,

Men and women in all of their guises:

Forwards, backwards and even sideways,

And there’s no rules on shapes or on sizes!

Whatever kinks you’re into we handle:

All types of frotting, gavotting and knotting,

From complicated sliding and riding,

To quite simple plotting and slotting.

Whether it’s frigging you’re really digging,

Cheer up!  There’s no need to wear that frown -

You can come at it from any direction:

Left to right, inside-out, or upside down.

If you’re hard and firm, or soft as a worm,

If there’s wrinkles and folds, or you’re just lumpy,

We’ve no preference for one or the other,

So long as you’re up for rumpy-pumpy.

All of your body parts are catered for:

Boobs and moobs, bums and tums, legs and thighs,

Whatever ripples, and tipples your nipples

Just go with whatever may arise!

  

It’s all about your participation,

So don’t hang back looking all soppy.

You might get an ovation for your stimulation,

Instead of remaining all floppy and sloppy.

We each have our lengths, and must play to our strengths,

It’s not endurance that wins all the prizes,

But enthusiasm counts for a lot,

And a desire to go with that which arises.

So no need to get yourself stuck in a rut,

But come and join us, you’ll have such a ball!

If you fancy a sess, where there’s plenty of flesh,

It’s Orgy Night at The Village Hall!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Disoriented Express

Disoriented Express (didn’t we have a lovely time, the day we went to Blackpool?)

I’m sorry, Your Honour, that I failed so badly,

It’s my own fault for being such a fool,

And I should have known an awful lot better,

Than to go on their day-trip to Blackpool.

They were from the Home of The Bewildered,

They’d only been let out for the one day,

A day without luggage or medication,

A Mystery Tour for their holiday.

The ladies and gents had all boarded the bus,

When, behind me, they closed up the doors.

It was only then that I spotted the sign,

That this was a trip with “Twilight Tours”.

I thought I was being public-spirited,

When I volunteered to go with my Gran,

There on the coach with the old folks,

Only to find I was the youngest man.

They were all in their eighties and nineties,

Dressed up in their wind-cheaters and beige slacks,

And a wide range of woolies and macs,

Were packed and stuffed in the luggage-racks.

We set off for Blackpool, all in good cheer,

But much forward progress was hard to make,

Because every ten miles down the road,

We had to stop for the next toilet break.

Each stop lasted an hour or more,

When the charra we had to disembark.

They needed some help, so came out two by two -

At times, it was like emptying an Ark.

The bus was so noisy, you wouldn’t believe,

Not from the exhaust or from underneath,

But from the vibration of walking sticks,

And the ghostly rattling of false teeth.

There was one geriatric, called Patrick,

A cheeky and mischievous old boy.

He made passes at elderly lasses,

And tried to bring the old dears some joy.

And another crusty, who answered to Rusty,

Ex-military, a dashing old blade.

He made a great fuss all over the bus,

And made great play of his hearing-aid.

  

But the girls were the ones you had to watch,

And for me the trip got rather risky.

Once they woke up from their sleep,

And had their tablets, they were quite frisky.

They might not know what day of the week it was,

Or the meaning of my frightened laughter,

But in their condition, they were on a mission,

And they knew what they were after!

But once I’d barricaded the gangway,

The adventure turned out pleasant and nice,

They couldn’t remember what you’d told them,

And you had to say everything twice.

(I say – YOU HAD TO SAY EVERYTHING TWICE!!)

But I got caught up in the moment,

And my punishment I’ll have to take:

Tho’ the promenade’s a place for fun and games,

The wheel-chair races were a mistake.

In the end I should have known better,

I wouldn’t want you to think that they were abused.

After a whole day in their company,

I think it was me that was really confused!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Walking At Ephesus

Walking at Ephesus

It may be a simple effect of light, of the whiteness of rays

of the shimmering blinding sunshine flickering between columns

glittering particle sparkles in the crystalline texture of marble

but these careless tumbled liths appear restless, uneasy

heavy and broken, a jumbled jigsaw among the stunted grass

poking through rough gravel, rising up, re-assembling

resolving into many-godded  temples, triumphal arches, fountains, houses,

palaces, tombs and theatres, gateway carvings still fresh

features crisp and sharp, markings new-minted clear

no longer rough abandoned Roman ruins, nor the broken back of Byzantium

but a living space, a breathing place, where ghosts may freely roam

The death-heat of Anatolia, barely relieved by the coolness of water

or by fountains plashing into placid pools and baths

and the leafy colonnaded avenue of a tree-shaded Arcadian Way

its side-street walkways busy with the simple sound of feet, sandal-clad

people about their business, voices of slaves and masters

traders in the marketplace, and the client-busy brothel

clients inspecting the flesh on offer

the girls alert for someone new, perhaps an interesting stranger

a darkened sailor from the harbour-side

climbing the shining hill, far up into the heaving city