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 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 8th July 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 8^th July 2018

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

1.   The nationwide shortage of CO2 has had its effect in The Vize.  Citizens have been forced to drink water, real fruit juice and proper craft beer in place of unhealthy carbonated fizzy drinks.  This has led to an outbreak of what doctors in the town are calling “health” and have advised worried patients to eat an increased amount of Cheezy Wotsits, Frazzles and Quavers in an attempt  to increase their intake of E-numbers, artificial colours and additives.

2.  And citizens of The Vize continue to dream their dreams.  Apparently “Football Is Coming Home” (whatever that means), and Social Services have already begun preparations to find adequate affordable housing for the poor mite.  With England progressing to the semi-final of the World Cup for the first time in 28 years, football fans have been restlessly roaming the streets, trying to understand why they are feeling “happy” and not (yet) in the pit of despair, as is their usual four-yearly cycle.  As one citizen commented – “it’s really hard.  Is not the despair of defeat that kills you, it’s the hope that we might actually win something.”  No Welsh, Scottish or Irish people were available for comment.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

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 2018

Toad-In-The-Hole

Recipe for: TOAD-IN-THE-HOLE

Ingredients:

• 140g/ 5 oz plain or self-raising flour
• ½ tsp salt
• Lots of fresh-ground pepper
• 3 eggs
• 2 tsp Dijon mustard
• 300ml/ ½ pint milk
• Mixed fresh or dried herbs
• Chopped onions (optional)
• 6-8 good quality sausages

 Method:

1. make the batter first.  Sift the flour & salt/ pepper into a mixing bowl, adding the herbs
2. in another bowl, beat together the mustard, eggs and milk
3. make a well in the centre of the flour, and add the beaten egg mixture
4. mix to a smooth batter
5. beat the batter until thoroughly aerated – about 5 minutes
6. add the chopped onions (if using)
7. stand the batter, covered, until ready to use (at least 30 minutes)
8. heat the oven to 240C/ fan 220C for 5 minutes
9. put the sausages in a roasting tin with a little oil & place in the oven for 5 -10 minutes, until starting to brown, and the oil is very hot
10. briefly stir the batter then pour into the roasting tin, over & around the sausages
11. replace the roasting tin into the oven & cook for another 25-30 minutes until risen & golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. try to avoid opening the oven door during cooking so as not to lose temperature
2. great with onion gravy, or with baked beans

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 2018

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 2018

Beware - Heavy Plant Crossing

Beware – Heavy Plant Crossing

“Beware - Heavy Plant Crossing”

Is one of the oddest notices I’ve found

I see it in the strangest of places

Sometimes when I’m driving around

I wonder what it might refer to

A phenomenon completely new

What evasive action I should take

Or what it is I’m supposed to do

I have visions of an overweight bush

That’s been stuffing itself on burgers and cheese

With a too-large a Body Mass Index

That’s become clinically obese

Or the lead singer of Led Zeppelin

Robert, or Percy, as he was known

Who’s relapsed into a life of indolence

And whose body has obscenely grown?

But the comfort I take in these situations

Even though I don’t know what I’d do

Is that I’ve never once seen such plants

So I’m wondering – have you?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018