A Crash In The Woods

A Crash In The Woods

Sometime late, deep in the middle of the night,

Something woke me from slumber’s deep delight:

A whoosh, a wallop, a screech and a big loud bang,

Thunder and lightning, and an almighty clang,

Then a pause, silence, almost nothing at all,

Followed by an explosion, a boom, a fireball -

It sounded like the crash of an airplane,

Crack, then all quiet, then crack all over again.

 

I ran to the window, and looked into the dark -

It was cold, and starlit, and all of that lark.

It was hard to make out, I couldn’t see all that good,

But it seemed as if something had come down in the wood,

Something was burning, a great tower of flame -

I needed to get out there, this wasn’t no game,

So I pulled on my clothes, and made for the scene -

It was an emergency, you know what I mean?

 

The site of the accident was pretty easy to find,

A scene of destruction of every possible kind.

It was hard to know where I should start,

But in the midst was what remained of a cart,

Blown to bits, scattered every which way,

What could only be described as the remains of a sleigh,

With smoking and burning bits of debris -

A helluva smash had occurred, it was easy to see.

 

The bloke that had been driving was stuck up a tree,

And from his red & white outfit he struggled to get free,

So I helped to get him down, along with his sack.

His face and beard were all burnt nearly black,

He smouldered and sizzled, he was in a right state

Berating his rotten luck and cursing his fate,

His looks and his temper were really not sweet,

And his language was far too foul to repeat.

 

There was fear and panic written all over his face,

And barbecued reindeer running all over the place,

There were parcels and packages spread all about,

And small green elves, crying, and starting to shout -

A small-scale disaster so deep in the woods,

Meant that Santa would fail to deliver his goods,

So I asked if there was anything I could possibly do,

To which Santa replied “I think I’m buggered, don’t you?”

 

I thought he was worried about the waiting girls and boys,

If he didn’t turn up at their houses to deliver their toys,

But he said that was the least of his worries,

It was bound to happen to a chap that always hurries.

He’d be in big trouble with the delivery firm -

They’d be sure to bring his contract to term:

To his sacking this situation was obviously leading,

And the police’d figure out he’d been speeding. 

 

“It’s this zero-hours contract that’s to blame:

Too many deliveries to make – it’s a loser’s game!

I’ve got to do every blessed thing, all in one day,

And all they give me is eight-reindeer-power sleigh!

It’s relentless, and there’s no breaks for meals!

It’s simply awful – you’ve no idea how it feels!

Now they’re gonna catch me all bang to rights,

I just knew it would happen one of these Christmas nights!”

 

I felt sorry for him – he was pitiful and very forlorn,

And I couldn’t do much to help him, but I was torn -

He was a victim of our modern capitalist culture,

Working for a firm that was an asset-stripping vulture,

So I helped him round up the reindeer and the elves,

Told them to grab what they wanted, just help themselves,

Then I took him back to my place that was close by,

And gave him a sherry and a mince pie.

 

Now I’m not relating all this just for some fun,

But don’t worry – my tale’s almost over and done,

There’s a happy ending to this miserable verse!

You know – things could have been much worse –

They cleared up the crash, and Santa’s out on probation.

He took it easy for a while, then had a vacation,

Got himself sorted out and jumped back on the horse,

And now he’s a delivery driver for ParcelForce!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 11th December 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 11^th December 2022 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      In a week that saw the sad news that the last Boeing 747 has rolled off the production line in Seattle, equally bad local news came when it was announced that the D-Town factory which produces the ferrules that fit on the end of walking sticks is to go on short-time working.  A spokesman for owners blamed not enough people going lame or requiring knee and hip replacements these days.  “People are far too healthy.  Besides they can just get in a car, or order goods online.  It’s not like the old times when folks used to risk life and limb to struggle down to the shops for a copy of The Racing Post and a packet of Woodbines.  Happy days.” 

2.      Meanwhile, in a controversial move against its own zero-sugar policy, the Clowncil has announced the green light for the sinking of a new treacle mine on the outskirts of the town.  This is the first new treacle mine for 30 years, and will create upwards of 500 refining jobs.  It is suspected that some-one may have sugared the deal, or else paid some form of sweetener.  And in other industrial moves, Planning Permission is being sought to build a dam across Pewsey Vale in order to create Britain’s largest Gravy Reservoir. 

3.      And citizens were transfixed by puzzlement and sheer boredom by the release of the first three episodes (of a seemingly endless series) of a new D-Town-based streaming service called Netfucks.  It features the needy younger brother of the chap at The Big House on The High Street, and his vapid incomprehensible wife.  Together they launch a range of attacks against local people who may have wronged them, such as the Post Office clerk who served another lady in a different queue, the cashier in Lidl who wouldn’t accept their promise to pay later, and the chap who got served first at the bar.  Other gripping series are promised by Netfucks – a seven-part adaptation of a novel about watching paint dry, and a 24-part expose of the activities of ursines when entering forested areas. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Nativity

Nativity

Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be,

But I can’t help thinking of that day,

Right at the back end of the Fifties,

When I did my first Nativity Play.

 

We were in the first class of the Infants,

Young and innocent, no more than five or six,

When our teacher announced the production,

And we’d all be thrown into the mix.

 

There were to be parts for everyone,

Of that fact there should be no doubt,

For the school couldn’t cope with the aggro,

If any of the class were to be left out.

 

For parents would want to see their darlings,

Deep in the Christmas story engage,

Showing off to their friends and relatives,

Of their first public performance on stage.

 

None of us knew what to expect,

Because none of us had ever done it before,

But if we couldn’t have a major role,

We decided we didn’t want to play any more.

 

I didn’t get to play Joseph,

And the role of inn-keeper to me was denied,

I finally ended up as fifth shepherd,

I was so upset that I cried.

 

My mum thought my skill had been ignored,

And my talent not allowed to shine through,

Which just added to the misery,

But I was only five – what could I do?

 

Rehearsals were more than chaotic,

The teachers didn’t know how to lead,

And scripts were a complete waste of time,

Since not one of us could read.

 

So we did it by practising quite hard,

Repeating scenes over and over again,

Learning lines was a complete nightmare,

We were children trying to play men.

 

There was no proper stage to speak of,

You could see it was heading for a great fall,

So they just draped a large pair of curtains,

Right across one end of the hall.

 

Costumes were left up to the parents,

For each to interpret as they chose,

With no attempt to co-ordinate,

We ended with an array of odd clothes. 

 

The shepherds used sheets and tea-towels,

There were cardboard gold crowns for the kings,

The Angel Gabriel was a fantastic sight,

Dwarfed by a pair of white paper wings.

 

Moustaches were drawn with burnt cork,

And false beards stuck on that were itchy,

Nobody could really see what they were doing,

And the inn-keeper’s wife turned a touch bitchy.

 

Joseph wore specs and a belted tunic,

Mary appeared in virginal white,

As they stumbled into Bethlehem,

And inaudibly asked for a room for the night.

 

The innkeeper, over-awed by the audience,

Forgot his lines and burst into tears.

Lots of shuffling at the edge of the stage,

Then the fulfilment of our worst fears.

 

The baby donkey, hired for the occasion,

Peed on stage, as we’d all hoped that he would:

A large pool spread between his feet,

And surrounded the cast where they stood.

 

You couldn’t get away from the squelching,

Though the actors were never in danger,

But most of the dialogue was lost,

As ox and ass waded into the manger.

 

The gold, the frankincense and myrrh,

Were dropped on to the swaddled-up child,

But the rising smell of fresh urine,

Was driving the audience wild.

 

At this point, the star fell from its perch,

And knocked the Angel Gabriel out cold.

The girls and boys started wailing,

And mayhem ensued, it has to be told.

 

The head teacher appeared with bucket and mop,

Halting proceedings with a bilious wince.

That brought an end to my acting career,

And I’ve hated Christmas ever since!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Interview For The Job Of Santa Claus

Interview For Job Of Santa Claus

Welcome to our store, dear gentlemen,

If you could please form an orderly queue.

We’ve lots of interviews scheduled,

But we’ll get round to talk to all of you.

 

Please hand in your Curricu-Claus Vitae,

As you enter the room through the doors,

And we’ll get on with the process

Of picking this Christmas’s Santa Claus.

 

Of course there’ll be lots of questions,

We have to be careful who we employ,

For we’ve found it’s not just anyone,

That can spread tidings of comfort and joy.

 

The job description’s a bit wider this year,

As the recession continues to bite:

We’re expecting much more from our Santa -

We’re determined to get our choice right.

 

So there’ll be lots of questions to answer,

As we try to get right to the root,

Of who’s the very best candidate,

And before we hand over the fat suit.

 

For example: do you have experience

Of being seated for many long hours?

Are you possessed of rosy-cheekedness?

And is cheerfulness within your powers?

 

It’s more than just being good with children,

And dealing with all those little cuties,

For you’ll have to muck out the reindeer,

And carry out Elf liaison duties.

 

You’ll be working with height-challenged workers,

Cos Elf & Safety’s a modern-day fact,

And seasonal work isn’t much of a perk,

For it’s only a limited contract.

 

You’ll need “Toddler Expectation Management”,

Cos some of their parents can be real rough!

Do you have a current sleigh-driving licence?

Otherwise this role’s gonna be real tough.

 

For, dealing with demanding children,

You must be brave and not be a-feared.

Do you have enough roly-poly-ness,

And do you think you could grow your own beard? 

 

We’ll need your face crinkling, and your eyes twinkling,

A constant yo-ho-ho you’ll have to do.

You can’t have a bad back, if you’re to carry that sack,

And do red-and-white colours suit you?

 

You’ll be part of the retail experience,

Thus extracting the parental dime,

And there’s through-put targets to be met,

So each child gets limited knee-time.

 

You’ve got to be endlessly cheerful,

But work-place sobriety  is our motto -

You can’t go out and get yourself beer-full -

Nobody gets blotto in our grotto!

 

Cos though there’s many temptations,

From all the bottles and beer barrels,

You’ll have to find another way to block out

The endless loop-tape of Christmas carols.

 

They say “don’t work with animals and children” -

Normally we’d endorse this as a rule,

But if one of you doesn’t take this job,

Nobody’s gonna have much of a Yule.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

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 2022

While Shepherds Washed

 While Shepherds Washed

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”.

 

“To you, in Devizes Town this day,

Is given a washing-line,

A tumble-drier, built by Bosch,

And this shall be the sign.”

 

“An extended warranty you shall get,

But in the smallest print,

All meanly wrapped in weasel words,

Until you’re nearly skint.”

 

Thus spake the seraph, and forthwith

Appeared a shining throng

Of Currys salesmen on the make,

Who thus addressed their song:

 

“All discounts be to you the buyers,

Please accept your guarantee,

And if it should go wrong all too soon,

Please don’t you bother me.”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 4th December 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 4^th December 2022 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      Being the first weekend in December, this marks the start of the official denial season for the town’s menfolk.  Ignoring all blandishments, TV advertising, carollers in the streets, special window displays and supermarket offers, males will traditionally forget that they need to buy their wives and girlfriends a Christmas present until approximately 10pm on Christmas Eve.  Special arrangements are being made at petrol stations and 24-hour convenience stores to stock up with flowers, chocolates and general Christmas tat in order to deal with the expected last minute rush. 

2.      And a huge row has broken out after one of the servants at the Big House in the High Street demanded to know where one of the oiks attending a civic reception was really from.  The yokel was shocked to be interrogated for several minutes about his origin.  His first answer of “Trowvegas” was met with bafflement and incredulity, since the man was standing almost upright and hardly dragging his knuckles on the ground at all.  His lack of tattoos and body piercings had confused the servant, and it was only when he admitted to actually living on the outskirts of Wiltshire’s roughest town that the matter was finally resolved. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022