Reasons To Be Cheerful

Reasons To Be Cheerful

Lift up your eyes, lift up your hearts, put back the smile on your face,

Keep your pecker up, the glass is half full – well, let me make you the case.

There’s the National Health Service, if treatment you’re needing to seek,

And two days each week-end, and only one Monday per week!

Radio Four, the Shipping Forecast, I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue,

Desert Island Discs, Saturday Live, and Broadcasting House too.

Coronation Street, Eastenders, and Emmerdale soap operas on the box,

Solar power, Blackpool Tower, Stonehenge, and Grandfather clocks.

There’s porridge and Spam. and pots of Strawberry Jam,

Marmite, Oxo and Bovril, pork chops and joints of roast lamb.

There’s Mars bars and Kit-kats, corned beef and Colman’s mustard,

Fish and chips, full English breakfast, chocolate and Bird’s custard.

We’ve brass bands, banjos, ukuleles, harmonicas and acapella singing,

Male voice choirs, open fires, great music and church bell ringing.

Bookshops, proper coffee on the High Street, the great British weather -

It’s not as sunny as the Caribbean, but at least we’re all in it together.

We’ve a free press, great journalism, as proved by many a Guardian article,

Richard Dawkins, the Great Hadron Collider, and the search for that God particle.

The museums and the parks are all free, you can go wherever you like,

The countryside’s green, there’s walking and hiking, or you can even get on your bike.

And you’re in England, not America, which sounds a positive benefit to me:

We’ve got Attenborough, Mirren, Nigella, the Hairy Bikers and Hockney.

The Samaritans, the RNLI, the RSPCA, the Coastguard – of these organisations I’m a fan,

Holidays on the beach, donkeys, steam engines, heavy horses, and the smoking ban.

So you see, there’s lots to be thankful for, there’s no need to wear a frown:

Try to be an optimist – have a drink, and don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Reunion

Reunion

So long since I’d seen him, the old dog,

Lost contact for so many years,

The wonders of social networking,

It’d be good to go for a few beers.

He was always the life and soul,

Forever laughing and joking,

Causing lots of trouble at college,

Partying, drinking and smoking.

The leader of the old gang,

When getting drunk wasn’t a crime,

Leading us all a merry dance,

And always up for a good time.

Doing no work, skipping lectures,

Essays usually handed in late,

Always knew how far he could push it,

Lousy student, but a cracking good mate.

Perhaps my imagination

Had done something strange

And built up the expectation,

Left me unprepared for the change,

As I turned up far too early,

And the time for reunion neared,

For I could hardly recognise him,

When he finally appeared.

We got through the pleasantries –

I’m sure you know what I mean –

How was each of us doing?

Really?  How long had it been?

Each of us eying the other,

Looking for any tell-tale signs,

Eyes less sparkling, thinner on top,

Hollower cheeks, wrinkles and lines.

Just a Coke please, no longer drinking,

Gave up smoking decades ago,

Marriage didn’t suit him, no children,

On his own for ten years or so.

Down on his luck, out of a job,

A crazy catalogue of strife,

And at a complete loss to explain

The vicissitudes of his life.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Insomnia

Insomnia

Twisting, tossing, turning,

Side to side, over and over

Restless limbs chasing round the bed

Fighting to find perfect position

Moving, itching, fidgeting

Exhausted and desperate to fall

Into the deep abyss

Where nothingness starts

And the conscious goes amiss

Too cold, then sticking-hot

No ticking-tock of the clock

But hours crawling by, moments only creeping

As if Time might have stopped

Sharp, red digits standing still

How slowly they change, from one to another

But remain implacable, accusing

The mind wanders where it will

Chasing off down rabbit-holes

Following tunnels and corridors

Leading nowhere

Floating, wandering

Falling slowly past cliff-faces rocky and steep

Never quite reaching

Never getting there

Never hitting bottom

Night-time has a density

An unchanging, unyielding quality

Never ending, giving nothing in return

Silent, dark, impenetrably deep

Eyes and body both yearn and ache

Pursuing elusive snatches of sleep

The brain rattles on chuntering, chattering

An ever-running engine ticking over, never stalling

Too busy, too many things to do

Names to remember, tasks not to forget

Slowing down finally, it seems

To a new steady rhythm, a gentle quiet

Regular heartbeat, softer breathing

Heading at last toward dreams

Then suddenly racing and speeding again                                                

Around the next corner, solving another puzzle

Remembering names, thinking about tomorrow

Tired, so desperately tired                                                

Another tangle of blankets and sheets

Fighting the covers, thrashing around

Gasping and grasping for rest

Snatching at hope after hope

That somehow the torment will end

Then, quite suddenly, an alarm ringing

New light piercing, a Dawn Chorus of singing

Night, it seems, has stolen away

And bedraggled, be-drowsled

Not calm, not even rested

Head still aching and throbbing

It’s time to start the next day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 11th January 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 11^th January 2015

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

1.       After the euphoria of the New Year, it was back to normal business with a bang in Bromham this week.  In a return to the bad old days of South Western lawlessness, vegetable terrorism reared its ugly head in the village.  On Tuesday a gang of masked men armed with sacks and crates raided various warehouses in remote areas and stole large quantities of root vegetables, making their escape on a tractor with out-of-village plates.  In a massive police operation involving the village bobby and a panda car from nearby Devizes, the perpetrators were tracked down to a barn in Seend.  After being surrounded, and refusing to come out quietly with their roots in their hands, the carrot-rustlers were finally captured after falling for a police ruse involving a bribe of several pounds of Jerusalem artichokes.

2.       And, in another piece of extremely bad news, the starting gun was prematurely fired in this year’s campaign for the Parish Council elections in May.  FLOP, CRAP, WHO and SELF all held press-conferences to (apparently) announce their manifestos.  We would like to bring you news of what each party was promising but, despite our best efforts, our intrepid reporter managed to sleep through each one.  However, in one piece of brighter news, it was announced that Mr Piglet Farage will again be manning the fruit-cake stall at this year’s Spring fete.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Vertigo

Vertigo 

Yes, it’s all part of the tour,

The thing we’re doing today.

We’ll shoot to the top of the tower,

In the bullet-like elevator,

The vomit-comet, they joke,

Up to the observation deck,

For the best view of the city.

It’s only ten dollars -

Can’t miss it – what the heck!

Looking out through the windows,

Acres of armour-plated glass,

Protecting camera-toting tourists,

Who don’t think to be afraid.

It’s a matter of no moment,

To see how close they can get

To the outside world,

With its roaring wind,

And the edge of the parapet.

And for a few dollars more,

There’s more adventure out there,

Beyond the doors on the sky-deck,

Walking outside of the rails,

Or even bungee-jumping,

Into the wild blue yonder,

With just a thin safety-harness,

That will set their hearts pumping.

There’s laughing and joking,

Daring each other to look down,

Hundreds of feet to the ground,

Why live on the edge when you can jump off?

It doesn’t take any skill,

Just the bottle to defy gravity,

To stare danger in the face,

And experience the thrill.

But I’m pinned against the back wall,

Legs heavy, like jelly,

Breathing shallow and thin,

Feet clamped hard to the floor,

Convulsed by a shake,

The very idea of falling,

Plummeting earthbound,

Is more than my nerves can take.

The edge has a way of drawing me in,

Pulling my body towards it.

A total loss of control,

A force too strong to resist.

Coming up here today was an error,

My sense of balance is failing,

As I slide slowly to the floor,

Filled with feelings of terror.

Clammy hands, sweating,

Mouth and throat dry,

Trembles and shivers increasing,

Sense of balance not trusted,

Dizzy, head spinning,

I can feel myself shaken.

Stuck here, transfixed,

Hanging on to the floor,

This spot is already taken.

Get me out of here, away from this place,

Take me slowly to the earth again,

Past the chattering crowds,

The souvenirs, the momentos,

And the photograph-sellers.

Help me again to feel sound,

Till this vertigo vanishes,

The nausea passes,

And I’m back down on the ground.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Dave

Dave

Collar turned up, usual style,

Clothes and hair that’s the latest,

In the best possible taste,

Fashion that’s all the rave,

That’s my modern mate Dave.

He looks a bit shifty, I guess,

A bit of a wide-boy, if I’m honest,

Thriving on ducking and diving,

But his company I always crave –

That’s my magic mate Dave.

Never sure just what he does,

Or how he makes any money,

Deceiving, bobbing and weaving.

Dismisses it all with a wave,

That’s my murky mate Dave.

He comes and he goes,

Seeing a man about a dog,

Dubious trades, not sure if they’re legal.

Fortune favours the brave:

That’s my moody mate Dave.

That’s the way he lives his life:

Trading, selling, bits of this and that,

Import, export, the usual stuff,

That’s how he’ll go to his grave -

My mysterious mate Dave.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Caravan

Caravan

Just off a track by the cross-roads,

Down the old lane, near the ash-trees,

On an autumn day dark and damp,

At the back of the verge, in the long grass,

A faded caravan parked up in its camp.

A horse tied up nearby, cropping the turf,

In its small circle of freedom,

Rangy, mangy and thin,

With its thick, matted coat,

Collection of bones and of skin.

At the door of the vehicle,

Insolently staring, unsmiling.

Stands a pinched, dirty-faced child.

Watches as we walk past her home,

With the look of a creature run wild.

Thin, tattered clothes on the wash-line,

A twist of smoke from the chimney,

At the back, one broken wheel,

Roof that’s seen better days,

And paint-work starting to peel.

No pretty picture postcard,

This scene of rough rural life,

No romantic tale to be told,

But a cramped, hard life on the road,

A struggle against damp and the cold.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015