Missing In Action

Missing In Action

I see you very clearly at the start - a living, breathing boy

a Victorian green certificate carefully clerk-inked in neat copperplate,

hard clear evidence of your entry to the world

Again, newly brothered with your Mum and Dad, my unknown great-grandparents,

family members grouped in rows and columns, neat names in the census

together at century’s turn

And yet again, a decade later, stone-mason’s apprentice, following your father’s trade

young, strong, single, patriot to the country’s cause , enlisted, marching away with the Pals,

and then – nothing, vanished from the face of the Earth,

swallowed by Belgian mud, but I’m only guessing,

your service records destroyed, ironically lost in another Blitz

Never married, no death recorded, no longer there when you were needed

dead-ends, as if you had never existed, a withered branch of the family tree

no twigs, no buds, no leaves

gaps in the photographs where you should have been standing

gatherings you ought to have attended, children you never had

cousins you failed to provide

and sometimes I can hear your voice filling empty spaces in conversations

in the folk-lore of family

Already long departed before I came, not here to meet my arrival

I could never reach out and touch you

it’s as if you’re still missing in action

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Independence For Wilsher

Independence For Wilsher

Seems the country’s fast falling apart,

And the United Kingdom’s set to rot,

With independence for the Cornishman,

For the Irishman, the Welshman and Scot.

So what about the claims for Wilsher?

The county of white horses and downs,

The shining jewel of South-West England,

The chalk hills and the market towns?

Our claims for EU recognition,

Would be composed of many factors:

We’re much more interesting than Gloucester,

And we’ve got an awful lot more tractors.

So here is my Wilsher manifesto,

To protect all we have in great bounty.

Let’s have belonging, our own identity,

A plea to be a Sovereign County.

We have our own history and landscape,

Our mythology and literature.

We’re a persecuted minority,

But the people are odd – that’s for sure.

Look at Marlborough and Avebury,

Malmesbury Abbey’s beautiful font.

Then there’s Trowbridge and Melksham,

Places that nobody else would want.

But what about Bradford and Salisbury Plain?

Lacock, Castle Combe and Devizes?

And lots of lovely little villages,

Whose names on-one ever recognises?

We’ve got the Great Western Railway,

Legacy of Isambard Kingdom Brunel,

And that corridor, of the bloody M4,

Also known as the Highway to Hell.

There’s our Wilsher Ham and our bacon,

The cheese and the bread, and cider-makers,

And there’s great myths and some weird legends,

Silbury Hill, and the tale of the Moonrakers.

Our patron saint could be - St Michael,

Our flower the burnt orchid, neatly cut,

Our bird must be - the Great Bustard!

And the Vly Be On The Turmut.

  

Our special sport could be - goat-nadgering,

And on our peculiar accents I’m banking,

To award a new protective status

To the practice of gander-flanking.

From Fosse Way, Ridgeway and Kennet & Avon,

Our great county will have its revenge,

And the roar of the lions at Longleat

Will be heard beyond the site at Stonehenge.

So let’s assert our independence -

Recognition for Wilsher’s the goal!

We should put barricades on the borders,

Impose some form of passport control.

And fair enough to old Cornwall -

What they’ve achieved is all very fine,

But I’m afraid that I’ve got to now -

I’m walking right round the Wilsher coastline!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Potholed

Potholed

It’s been a long, hard Winter for sure,

The weather’s done damage that’s easy to see,

There’s potholes down both sides of our road,

And that they need fixing’s obvious to me.

So I phoned up the Council, as you do,

Who said they’d put the job onto their list,

That I was to await for developments,

But it’d be a while, if you’re getting the gist.

The weeks went by, and many a day,

And nothing happened, as you’d expect,

But the holes got much bigger and deeper,

And I was waiting for cars to be wrecked.

There were joltings and bangings and bumpings,

Suspensions damaged without any doubt:

I was worried we’d lose some-one one day,

That we’d never get the poor bugger back out.

Then one day, it seemed there was action of sorts,

When two men turned up in a marked van,

Who inspected the holes from a good distance -

They just sat there, believe this if you can.

They held some sort of a conference,

Whilst sitting there at obvious leisure,

Then reluctantly got out of the van,

And approached the holes with a tape measure.

There was some shaking of heads, if you please,

By The Council’s pothole-repairing guys,

As if they couldn’t quite figure the problem,

Nor grasp the depth of the holes or their size.

They walked away muttering sadly,

Then stood there having a cigarette break,

Looking at all of the pros and the cons,

Undecided what action they should take.

Finally it seemed as if they’d decided,

How they should restore smoothness to the lane,

But it must have been too complicated,

Cos they got in the van, and drove off again.

Obviously the problem was too great,

To be tackled by only these two men -

They’d probably gone for reinforcements,

And would return again who knew when?

The mystery resolved itself next day,

When a task-force invaded the by-way.

We were over-run by men in hard-hats,

Who’d come to restore our rural highway.

A full Risk Assessment was in progress:

With impatience my nerves had started to jangle,

But they wanted yet more measurements,

To view the holes from every possible angle.

After a tea-break they at last started -

It was one of Wiltshire’s terrific sights,

But the barriers made it single-file,

And there were two sets of traffic lights.

There were five vans, and at least twenty men,

Hazard warning lights and lots of tricks,

Then they unloaded from out of their vans,

Shovels and spades and couple of picks.

The poor holes were now fairly surrounded,

The repair problem was starting to crack,

But when they all stood back from the action,

They’d only dropped in a small lump of tarmac.

It wasn’t big enough or of the same size,

There were still several jagged edges.

The road was even more of a switchback,

As it snaked between the country hedges.

Then all further work was suspended,

As they beat a retreat hell for leather.

They said it was more than their jobs’-worth,

To go on working in bad weather.

And that’s how it remains to this day,

It’s weeks since they finally departed,

And now the road’s in much worse condition,

Than before they ever got started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 3rd February 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 3^rd February 2019

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

1.      D-Town residents were once again in a state of total shock after they discovered that it was once again very cold and that Winter had arrived.  People with only 20 pints of milk and 8 loaves of bread in their houses waded out through shoe-deep drifts of barely-settled snow and slush, to once again efficiently strip supermarket shelves of such essential items as bacterial floor wipes, bags of frozen ready-cut onions, dishwasher sanitisers and super-strength toilet bleach.  A concerned resident said, ‘I don’t know – it seems like it’s Winter nearly once a year now.  Is this one of the effects of Global Warming them scientists keep on about?’  A Council spokes-bot said, ‘No it isn’t.’

2.     And, in other news, the Faresaver bus company dealt a body-blow to hopes of retaining jobs in The Vize, by announcing that they will recruit their new bus driver from Trowvegas after all.  A local councillor said ‘this is a kick in the teeth for the local community.  After teaching Fred from the chip shop how to drive, the whole community had hoped that this would result in another full-time position being filled.  Alas, this is not to be.’  It also means that Fred is now over-qualified for chip shop work so, in addition to the job he didn’t get, he will now lose the job he already had.  That’s the market economy for you.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Masterchef

Masterchef

I’m all for a successful format,

But the BBC thinks it’s in clover,

If, for its next interminable series,

It doesn’t give Masterchef a make-over.

The temperature’s reduced in the kitchen,

There’s boredom all over the nation:

Junior, celebrity, professional -

We’ve had every possible combination!

John Torode’s a chef, and knows how to cook,

But can we all stand yet one more outing,

For that great pudding Gregg Wallace,

Who doesn’t know when to stop shouting?

Too many contestants’ back-stories,

India Knight’s plodding and steady:

It’s getting like warmed-up leftovers,

A dish we’ve had too often already.

Combination recipes drive me mad,

Invention tests that feature just fish,

And all the fudging, over the judging,

As they deliver their “Signature Dish”.

Poached this, stuffed that, the drizzles and foams,

Smears, juices, crumbs, and the crispiest fat,

The sweetness finally coming through,

And the sharpness of this, cutting through that.

Fondants, creamings and, of course, salads,

De-constructing a favourite dinner,

Creating some fanciful new twist,

In an attempt to knock up a winner.

Then there’s dustings, little plates and purees,

Fondues, concasses and those ganaches,

There’s textures, baby-sick sauces and flavours,

Everyone’s in there, giving it a bash.

But the results can be disappointing,

Like a cheese soufflé that’s failing to rise -

The bizarre lengths these guys can go to,

In pursuit of that Masterchef prize.

It’s all getting to be too technical,

Using blow-torches, vacuums and suction,

And I swear I’ll scream hard at the TV,

If I’ve to look at one more “reduction”!

  

Good flavour’s a strange and fickle thing,

It’s not enough when you can only see -

Food’s all about how it smells and it tastes,

But you can’t do either when watching TV.

I don’t know what to do, when given a jus,

Too many things graded and marinaded:

I think I’m losing my appetite,

And my palate’s decidedly jaded.

I’ve come to deride whatever’s pan-fried,

My whole stomach has come to feel bloated,

I no longer care for salting, wilting or grating,

Whether it’s steamed, or creamed or roasted.

I can’t take much more slurping and burping,

It’s over-cooked, boring and tough.

My whole attitude to contestants’ food,

Has changed - I’ve just about had enough!

Crispy outside, or melting within,

This tired formula I’m ready to miss.

I think I’ll just have a cheese sandwich -

Cooking’s really no tougher than this.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

After Snowfall

After Snowfall

Stepping through icy piles of snow

Cracked and broken tracks

Worn by many careful feet

That once picked their way

Crunching through virgin snow

Now hard-packed into holes

Thawed a while by a thin sun

Then frozen and re-fractured

Pressed and polished in places

To a glittering sheen

Of slippery treachery

The slush and sludge

Across the tattered landscape

Black and grey lines showing through white

Scarring and spoiling

The once-perfect shroud

That fell and cloaked the world

So many days ago

Its beauty faded and forgotten

The picture postcard image spoiled

And but a distant memory

The dirty, muddy edges

Of heaps of filthy snow

Thrown aside by cars

Broken, crumbling residues

Of smiling snow-men

That fall into formless shapes

And drip into icy puddles

Which drain slowly, bleakly

Into untidy, swirling pools

Ruts gashed into the ground

A smashed mess of frozen water

The dark, ugly secret of winter

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Irish Barmbrack Loaf

Recipe for: CAKE – IRISH BARMBRACK

Ingredients:

·        375g mixed dried fruits

·        50ml whiskey

·        250ml strong cold tea

·        Butter for greasing

·        225g plain flour

·        1 tsp baking powder

·        ½ tsp mixed spice

·        125g soft brown sugar

·        1 large egg, beaten

Method:

1.      Put fruits into large bowl with whiskey & cold tea, stir, cover & allow to soak (preferably overnight)

2.      Heat oven to 140C (fan)

3.      Grease & line sides & base of 900g loaf tin

4.      In large bowl put the flour, baking powder, sugar and spice

5.      Make a well in the centre and add the beaten egg, and two tblsp of the soaking liquid

6.      Strain the soaked fruit & add to the bowl

7.      Mixture should be a soft cake mix that will just fall off a spoon.  If too dry add more soaking liquid, but only a tblsp at a time

8.      Spoon mixture into cake tin

9.      Bake in centre of oven for 50-60 minutes or until cake has risen, and a skewer comes out clean

10.   Leave to cool in tin for a few minutes, then turn out onto wire rack

11.   When cold, wrap in clingfilm and foil and leave for two days

12.   Serve sliced & spread with butter