Blunt Axe

Blunt Axe

There was an executioner called Beck,

Who was paid to cut off heads by the neck,

But was exceedingly lax,

About sharpening his axe

And of his victims made a terrible wreck.

He gave his instrument a mighty swing,

But, though it was a frightening thing,

It just seemed to drop,

It didn’t actually chop,

And simply delivered a slight sting.

The prisoner with his head on the block,

Whose knees had already started to knock,

Said: “For God’s sake, you dick,

Get on and make it more quick,

Much longer and I’ll expire here of shock!”

This caused Beck to issue forth a great grunt,

And for the whet-stone started to hunt,

For it’s no use just tutting,

When you’re meant to be cutting,

And you can’t chop with an axe when it’s blunt.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 9th October 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 9^th October 2016

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

                                                        

1.       One of Bromham’s many celebrities, reality TV star Jim “Car” Crashian, is in shock this week-end as he tries to come to terms with being robbed at gunpoint on Tuesday night.  Masked raiders, whom police think must have been working on an insider tip-off, forced their way into the star’s farm-house and stole vegetables to the tune of several pounds.  “I pleaded with them not to kill me, as I still have a carrot crop in the ground.  They tied me up, locked me in the cow-shed, and made off with valuable brassicas and root crops.”  The star has previously been criticised for flaunting his vegetables on social media.

2.       Meanwhile, the race for the Presidency of the Parish Council continues.  Tonight’s live TV debate is likely to be a hard one for contender Doughball T. Rump, a recent American incomer to the village, who has just been embarrassed by the timely release of a video from 2005, in which he claims to have fondled carrots and parsnips, and got away with it simply because he was a foreigner.  In the video he boasts about groping celery, even though it had already been bought by someone else, and grabbing vegetables by the brassicas.

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

Banger

Banger

I’m a great fan of pork products:

To be deprived would be a great lossage -

So I’m here to sing you the praises,

Of the noble, and various sausage.

                                                        

There’s Cumberland, and there’s your Irish,

And French ones from the town of Toulouse,

And they’re all bound to get juices running,

For soon as you cook them, fat’s starting to ooze.

On the Continent you’ve got Saucisson,

In Germany there’s a thing called a Bratwurst.

It’s not Baloney to think of Poloney,

A nation without one should call itself cursed.

The flavours come in all shapes and sizes,

To suit the rich and the hoi-polloi.

A chipolata’s good for a starter,

But pales beside the good old Saveloy.

You can go the whole hog for a Hot Dog,

But salami, I think, looks perter.

You can be a hanger for a good banger,

Especially if it’s a Frankfurter.

But I think we must look rather deeper,

And we’ve got to be really willing,

To delve into methods of production,

And to wonder just what’s in the filling.

The casing might be natural or false,

But there’s lots of things can call themselves pork.

You’d be surprised if only you knew,

Exactly what’s on the end of your fork.

They like to use up all of the animal,

And be sure that nothing can go to waste,

So everything gets ground up you see,

And reduced to a pink kind of paste.

Mechanically-recovered’s the term,

With cereal and rusk they pack and they fill,

And then they do grind, lots of thick rind,

And the snout, the ears and the nostril.

Most of the innards, and outwards, are used:

The guts, the toe-nails and the eye-lashes,

The pistle, the gristle and even the whistle,

Mixed all up into hashes and mashes.

Colourings and plenty of flavourings,

Additives and seasonings to begin,

You’d wince, if you knew what went into the mince,

That was finally forced into the skin.

The feet are mixed up with wheat, and even some teat,

Some spice, some rice, perhaps even some mice,

Then its ground and bound, and gently browned,

That’s the way to make it taste nice.

For these are some of the ingredients,

The contents that the makers might favour.

After all, without all the e-numbers,

How would we ever get any flavour?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge

A Journey To The Centre Of My Fridge

The door makes a gentle sucking noise as it opens

The yielding gummy seal

Revealing the contents within

The lamp flickering with alarm at my intrusion

Faintly illuminating the gloomy interior

The shelves sparsely populated

With a range of dubious items

Covered and clumsily wrapped

Concealing the substances

Which sit forlorn, congealing

Whose provenance is now unknown

And the subject of fervent speculation

At the back there’s something grey

Hiding, cowering unloved

Shrinking from the scrutiny of prying eyes

Crawling from a mouldy plate

Along the wire-lines to the edge of darkness

Oozing towards the side

There’s a nameless clammy odour

Emanating from that crumbled blob

Which might once have been cheese

Now building its own dairy culture

As it transforms itself into yoghurt

Inching slowly towards the bottom

And perhaps those grey flakes of something

Used to be fine fresh slices of ham

Bought to go with the selection of leaves

Which crouch within their plastic packets

In the special salad crisper below

Transmuting themselves into a liquid form

In three different shades of brown

It’s a sorry sight at this time of night

No answer for a hungry man when desperate for nourishment

It offers little hope of satisfaction

And may be a danger to health

So the only practical thing to do

Is to close the door again, sighing gently

And turn elsewhere for comfort

Whilst making a firm resolution

To clean it out tomorrow morning

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Irish Potato Cakes

Recipe for: IRISH POTATO CAKES

Ingredients:

• 600g medium-size maincrop potatoes
• 50g unsalted butter, diced + 35g for frying
• 30g plain flour
• Sea salt & black pepper

 Method:

1. cook the potatoes in their skins for 20-30 minutes until tender
2. drain, peel & grate coarsely into a large bowl
3. add the 80g diced butter & stir to melt
4. sift in the flour, add seasoning & mix with a spoon
5. use your hands to bring the potato dough together
6. either roll out on a floured surface, or use your hands to pat into shape
7. cut out four 8cm  squares, then cut these in half into triangles
8. heat the 35g butter in a frying pan & fry the potato triangles in two batches until golden brown on both sides

 What else you need to know:

1. serve for breakfast with sausages or crispy bacon

Egg

Egg

There’s a single egg in the fridge

Which sits alone and forlorn

Abandoned by the rest of its dozen

The only lonely occupant

Of that plastic frame within the door

I’m in a quandary on how best I should proceed

Since it’s simply not enough on its own

It really needs a good companion

To make up a proper omelette

Or to be scrambled with butter

If only there were some bread

I could summon some soldiers of toast

And have it soft-boiled

Before roughly knocking its head off

And dunking them in headfirst

Or perhaps poached gently in some hot water

Swirling in a vortex of bubbles and steam

Maybe slowly baked in a ramekin

In a low-oven’d bain-marie

Or hard-boiled to make a feeble sandwich

Yes, there’s a single egg in the fridge

And it probably thinks that it’s escaped

However I fear it’s much mistaken

Since now that I’ve spotted the bacon

I can configure a Full English

And it’s got a future fried

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Brock In The Dock

Brock In The Dock (badgers are again being blamed for spreading bovine TB)

There was a young badger named Brock,

Who was in for a hell of a shock.

There’d been a directive,

That his body’s infective,

And now he’s got to stand trial in the dock.

There’s been a lot of tittle-tattle,

From landowners and farmers who prattle.

They say that it’s he,

Who’s spreading TB,

And causing diseases in cattle.

So Natural England’s got a new will,

To employ marksmen with deadliest skill.

The triggers they’re pulling,

They’ve kicked off the culling,

And now they’ve got a licence to kill.

But it could be a home-goal we’ve scored,

For Defra’s studies are known to be flawed,

Surely it’s insane?

Is it really humane,

To be putting our wildlife to the sword?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016