Believe it or not, Inchcock created this depiction of his Sock-Glide from memories of a nightmare, that the poor old fart suffered two nights ago. It’s so sad!

Inchcock Reveals His Current Fears!

Reading further may cause harm to your sanity!

Born, and got myself double-pneumonia,

Thrown in the canal, I nearly drowned in 1954,

I got rescued, only scared, wet and sore,

The medics said the boss is going to warn yer,

The Doctor said “You’ll never get brawnier”,

Next, I got shot, then the Duodenal Ulcer,

Top of the charts was ♫24hrs from Tulsa♫,

Then the hernia, and bladder cancer.

Had to have the ticker transplanted, years ago,

It doesn’t bother me now, though, 

Then I went and got shot again,

I knew my bad luck had to end, but when?

I stopped working in the Security industry, then!

I came off my motor-bike in the fog,

Out of hospital, had some police dialogue,

They fined me £20, speeding, I was agog!

Got a job driving a delivery van,

And became quite a Casanovan,

Got made redundant three times, lucky man!

Retired, well it was enforced of course,

But I had little remorse,

Got a part-time job, selling pickles and sauce,

When I reached 70, we had a discourse,

Then the Peripheral Neuropathy was diagnosed,

Got the tablets mixed-up, and overdosed,

They said stay indoor, well, I wasn’t opposed!

Then along came the stroke, of the ischaemic type,

Saccades, as well, of dear, this medical hype,

But I wasn’t one to moan and gripe,

I recovered, but physically, I’m a load of tripe,

They discovered I had diabetes,

Life became full of abstrusities,

My ailments seem to grow complexities.

Next, I’m using a walking stick,

Unbalanced, falling-over, it made me sick,

No choices then, at home I have to stick,

I fell, and gave my neck a crick,

I’m no longer the witty, clever-dick,

But I somehow cope, and that was fantastic.

Then along came to visit us,

The Corona Virus,

Isolation, no going out walking or on a bus,

Every day new instructions, what a fuss,

But at least I got rid of furuncle’s puss!

Until disabilities meant I couldn’t bend down,

And the worst, that really gets me down…

It’s bad enough doing your own syringes,

Is the bloody Sock-Glide, frame,

I gave it a go, I was really game,

But it keeps taking lumps out of my fingers,

And I don’t like these whinges,

Using the Sock-Glide means many cringes,

It’s not just the pain – mentally you’ll find it unhinges!

This claptrap was rit rote, written by Inchcock, with dedication and stupidity in support of the Peterborough & District Failed Philharmonic Orchestra Players, collection fund for the Bankers & Investors Roadkill Hospice Advocacy Society.