All Hung Over

All Hung Over (or the morning after the night before)

If you could all talk a bit quieter, and keep the worst of your noise down,

I’d be grateful to you for the favour, for you see I’ve been a bit of a clown.

My head is terribly throbbing, my mouth’s the bottom of a bird-cage,

And my tongue it’s all coated, my skin is burning up in a rage.

My limbs are all of a tremble, and my throat is feeling all furred.

The room it is spinning round slowly, and my vision is decidedly blurred.

I can hardly bear to open my eyes, I can’t stand this too-piercing light,

I’m suffering real badly this morning for the major sins of last night.

I badly need some Alka-Selzer to settle my stomach real quick.

I can’t stand around for much longer - in fact, I think I’m going to be sick.

I’ve over-indulged, that’s perfectly clear, I obviously don’t know when to stop.

But I’ll be alright tomorrow, and I’ll never touch another drop.

Now I’d like to lie down for a while, at least until I’m feeling more chipper,

And I’d like to get undressed, but my fingers may not cope with the zipper.

The pounding pain in my head is real bad, it feels like I’ve been drinking since November,

But how I made it home again last night, you know – I really can’t remember.

I guess it must have been quite a session - I remember  that we started with beer,

Then we went on to spirits and cocktails, but after that  - nothing’s quite clear.

There were drinking games and some forfeits - I must have drunk lots and lots.

Just a few tequila slammers, then we drank through the bar - using shots.

My clothes are a hell of a mess, and now I’m starting to worry,

For the brown stains on my shirt are evidence that we stopped for a curry.

Or it could have been even worse: if so, I’ll have to go into re-hab,

For the truth is - I might have succumbed to the charms of a doner kebab.

They say the best cure is a full English, or an omelette with ham and quite cheesy,

But now every time I smell food, I start feeling all queasy.

But, I’ll just have to get a grip of myself, and shake off this beer-smelling fog.

For the pub’s open again quite soon, and it’ll be time for some hair of the dog.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

When All Is Said And Done

When All Is Said And Done  (in praise of the lesser-spotted cliché)

When all is said and done you know,

You need to make your point in a rush.

You can’t go all around of the houses,

And you mustn’t beat about the bush.

You’ve got to think outside the box:

I can almost hear your heart sinking.

Then you’ve got to cut to the chase,

And do some blue-sky thinking.

On the other hand, and if I were you,

I’m not sure how you feel,

But if you’re going to let sleeping dogs lie,

You’re going to need nerves of steel.

The truth of the matter is, of course,

That you can have too much of a good thing,

And we know that it won’t truly be over

Until we hear that fat lady sing.

Between you and I, pound to a penny,

If you were to remain in this garret,

You wouldn’t be over the moon,

But surely as sick as a parrot.

You’d be between a rock & a hard place,

As the words you needed to form.

The writing would be on the wall:

A case of any port in a storm.

We can’t throw out the baby with the bath-water:

The buck stops here, I think,

For you can surely lead a horse to water,

But you know you can’t force him to drink.

Let’s run the flag up the flagpole,

To see who salutes, if they’re able.

For to be honest with you,

I’d like to lay my cards on the table.

In the good old days, this was just the tip of the iceberg,

But you know that I won’t grovel,

For when you’ve got your back to wall,

You have to call a spade a bloody shovel.

Now I’ve opened up this whole can of worms,

The whole thing’s a bit of a drag.

For to coin an expression,

I’ve let this cat out of the bag.

For a platitude or an obvious remark

Played such a strong role in my youth,

And now at the drop of a hat,

A cliché’s become the moment of truth.

  

I can’t stay in cloud cuckoo land,

And I really know that I oughter.

I should try & bury this hatchet,

For blood is thicker than water.

For these pearls of wisdom have become run of the mill:

I must bite the bullet: that’s fine,

For if I’m to bring home the bacon,

I’ve got to get to the bottom line.

And now, at the end of the day,

I hope that you’ll find my poem witty.

If that’s not the terrier’s testicles -

Well – don’t that take the McVitie!!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Cornish Nasty

Recipe for: CORNISH NASTY (PASTY)

Ingredients:

• For the pastry:
• 125g butter, chilled & diced
• 125g lard, diced
• 500g plain flour
• 1 egg, beaten, to glaze
• For the filling:
• 350g beef skirt or chuck steak, finely chopped
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 2 medium potatoes, peeled & cut into small dice
• 175g swede, peeled & cut into small dice
• Lots of freshly ground black pepper

 Method:

1. rub the salt, butter & lard into the flour using fingertips or processor until you have fine breadcrumbs
2. blend in 6-8 tablespoons of water to make a firm dough
3. cut into four pieces, cover & chill for 20-30 minutes
4. heat oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
5. mix together the filling ingredients + pinch salt
6. roll out each piece of dough into a circle or an oval
7. spoon a quarter of the filling into the middle of the dough, leaving a pastry margin all the way around
8. brush the pastry around the open edge
9. either fold over to seal the pastry at one side (Cornish), or else gather up both sides to meet at the top (Yorkshire).  Make sure the pastry is sealed all the way round.
10. brush the pastry with beaten egg
11. pierce the pastry at the top with a fork to allow steam to escape
12. lift onto an oiled, non-stick baking sheet
13. make the other three pasties the same way
14. bake in the oven for ten minutes, then lower temperature to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas4 and cook for another 40-45 minutes until golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. can be eaten immediately, cooled & re-heated or frozen
2. serve with LOTS of gravy & a green veg

A New Folk Song For Modern England

A New Folk Song For Modern England (based on an old Wiltshire goat-nadgering ballad). It shows that country pursuits may leave a lot to be desired.

As I walked out one May morning,

My fortune for to seek,

My way was suddenly blocked,

By a Tesco trolley blocking the creek.

I started to push on with my quest,

And tried to cross over using a log,

But the wood was all slippery,

And quickly I fell into the bog.

I came out smelling of diesel & worse,

My clothes all muddy & rank.

I was all soaking & smelly,

As I slowly crawled up the bank.

I carried on with my walk, ever bold,

Hoping a young maiden to sight,

But I’d got twigs in my hair:

And I must have looked quite a fright.

I then came out of those sylvan woods,

Leaving behind my rural bower,

But soon the day turned out nasty,

With gentle rain, later turning to showers.

I pushed on through the country,

And down to the meadow that day,

For I fancied myself dancing,

All among the new-mown hay.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived:

I suppose it was my bad fate.

Instead of the green meadow,

I found a new-built housing estate.

I looked to the woods where I used to wander.

Fences and barbed wire now blocked the way,

And the foot-path was well diverted,

Away from where we used to go play.

I determined not to give in so easy,

And across the valley I attempted to gaze,

But I couldn’t see nothing out there,

Due to all the pollution and haze.

But finally I spied a pretty fair maid,

A-wandering alone on the moor,

And bounding right up to her,

I said I’d walk her back to her door.

“Nay, lad” the maid said unto me.

“It’s not going home that I’m wanting to go.

I’m running away, and I’m starving.

But you can buy me a MacDonalds, though.”

  

I said I hoped we could lie down in the meadow,

For it was a great day to go courtin’.

She told me to get lost and scram,

And with me she wouldn’t be sportin’.

She said she was allergic to rape-seed,

And other farm pesticides:

It was sprayed all over the place,

And I looked such a mess, besides.

We couldn’t walk no farther that way,

We’d have to take different directions.

The fields were all fenced off now,

Due to Health & Safety restrictions.

In the end I gave up on my conquest,

For the day had turned out to be crap

It may be the early bird catches the worm

But the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap!

This folk-song lark’s not all it’s cracked up to be;

My nerves are all knotted & frayed.

Whatever the merits of Olde England,

There must be easier ways to get laid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

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 2017

Everything Is Completely Under Control

(Everything Is) Completely Under Control

Everything here is completely under control

So you mustn’t panic or worry

There’s no need to rush or to hurry

No need to get into a flurry

In fact I’d like to contradict the allegation

That there even is any “situation”

I’ve been very careful myself

So I’ve put my medicines on a very high shelf

Out of the reach of children

And kept the plastic bags away from the babies

So there is no danger of suffocation

Or imminent self-immolation

From the use of flammable materials

(Not that it’s at all immaterial)

I’ve read the warnings on the packet

About allergens and side effects and all of that racket

I’ve read through all the instructions

Before commencing construction

I’ve turned off the power before disconnecting

And done a risk assessment before erecting

I’ve removed any possible confusion

And avoided the risk of electrocution

I’ve used the contents before the Best-By-Date

And so that I wouldn’t become late

I kept the contents sufficiently cool

(You can’t take me for a fool)

And consumed within two days of opening

I’ve kept up my mortgage repayments

It has to be confessed

So my home has not been repossessed

I’ve declared everything I had to do

That to the best of my knowledge is true

As a false statement could de-bar

Any future claims on the car

To retain my complete safety is my goal

I don’t want to end up in a hole

Mister Health & Safety’s my role

Yes, everything here is completely under control

Copyright Andy Fawthfrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 17th September 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 17^th September 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Apparently it was the first day of the new school term for many children this week.  Apart from the buses running different schedules, traffic being completely gridlocked morning and evening and the sweetie shops becoming effective no-go areas, there was hardly any difference to normal life. 

2.      Scientists in D-Town stood and applauded to mark the end of the 20-year-long Cassini Trolley Probe, as the much-travelled supermarket wheeled container finally ran out of power and self-destructed as it entered the outer rings of Trowbridge.  The Probe had, in its long life-time, been wheeled within a few hundred yards of Morrisons in The Vize, Sainsburys in Calne and, in a daring manoeuvre, right past the front door of Waitrose in Melksham.  Data has been gathered that will help shoppers for decades to come and, perhaps, one answer the great mystery of the BOGOF cycle.  The Mission Director said that now Cassini had completed its journey, it was only right that it should end up in a part of Wiltshire with no atmosphere.

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