Inchcock Reveals His Current Fears! – In Rhyme (Of sorts)

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!

Yes, he was young once… he still is, mentally!

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.

The tale in bad rhyme, of Inchies Escape from isolation, to Nottingham City Centre!

Monday, 7th September 2020, Inchcock escapes from captivity and cunningly flees his Woodthorpe Court. To investigate the Coronavirus affects in the City Centre, buy stuff he doesn’t need, cripple his poor feet, and a failed search for a chinwag!

Plans were laid,

For his escapade,

The Escape bid was made,

He was feeling fraught and afraid!

Arriving on Upper Parliament Street,

Alighted the bus, hobbles to Poundland,

Already pains from Relux Roger and his feet,

He spent on superfluous stuff, like crabmeat,

Then to the Bargain shop, wishing he could find a seat!

He bought three things, none of them needed,

His enthusiasm for his escape, now, receeded,

Little Inchies fungal lesion bleeding, succeeded,

His finances, he had further bleeded!

He hobbled along Milton Street then,

Down Clumber Street, he was saddened, when,

He saw the closed shop, there were over ten,

Including his camera shop, he nearly cried then!

Sadly, he made his way to the end,

Feeling lonely and down a bit,

What Coronavirus has created, can we mend?

Oh, dear, a penny he needed to spend!

The urge he had to suspend!

To the corner of Long Row, he did wend!

A photo of Pelham Street he did take,

Then one a shot backwards up Clinton he did make,

Long Row, too, where he took some more,

Off towards his bus stop in the Slab Square,

Paramedics, Security Guards, were there,

The people looked so full of despair!

The rain came down, he took shelter from it,

Under the shop eaves, but it didn’t last long,

He took this photo, he quite liked the resulting effect,

His bladder was full, to the bus stop direct!

En route, Slab Square was photographed,

He tripped on the wheeled trolley walker,

He even managed a little laughter,

When he passed wind and hiccoughed! 

He caught the bus back, a painful drive home,

Got off on Chestnut Walk, glad he finished his roam,

Damn it, he’d forgot to get his shaving foam!

He sheltered from the sudden rain,

Under the cover, and gloom was falling again,

He belched, it smelt like aminomethane,

He hobbled toward home; it was a strain!

He got in his flat,

He untangled his hearing aids from his mask,

It was a fiddley, difficult task!

Made himself a meal that,

Was too big, but not too much fat,

He fell asleep, and that was that!

Not a very good ode this time, uncertainty and confusion were visiting me. Sorry.

Inchcockski: Searching for Sanity & Logicality – In bad Rhyme!

Gerald James Timothy Algernon Archibald Inchcock

The Nottinghamian lad knows he is losing it, big time.

Mentally and physically, getting help is hopeless,

 He gets uptight, but he’s completely harmless,

Depressed, untidy, ill and charmless,

He can’t commit suicide, he ain’t got the time,

Even his words don’t properly rhyme!

 

WDP 1Lda

Inchcock: Sadly searching for Sanity

Somewhere, in his tortured labyrinth of a brain,

Lies logic, intelligence, but he can’t find them today,

The brain is active but rarely reliable or decisive,

Also, hesitant, feeble, and the memory’s gone away,

 Some details it retains, and admires he does say,

Mostly about medications, Red Dwarf and Will Hay,

 But his desire, longing for sanity, will not go away!

 

WDP 1L

 However, his efforts, hopes and plans are derisive,

 The mentality-seeking strategies are not conducive,

At least not for 74 years… that’s including today,

He redoubled his spiritual side, and started to pray,

Again in hopes, he’d be semi-sane again, one day,

He talks to his EQ, that’s hyper-sensitive.

 

WDP 1Lcb

He wrote to an Agony Aunt, that was digressive,

 He revealed all, and thought that was impressive!

She said she couldn’t help, and she was sorry,

But why did she throw herself under a lorry?

Inchy thought that was a touch impulsive and excessive!

Regaining logicality, will he ever find a way?

Or remain an idiot, until his dying day?

Another thing, why do his wee-wees always over-spray?

 

This blog was produced without a warning disclaimer.

No claims made for any educationalistical prowess of the author.

Donations and mental assistance will be gladly accepted.

In the event of the writer snuffing it, kindly donate to the Outer Peruvian Pregnant Kangaroo Appreciation Society, Nottingham Branch. 0115 999999.

Thank You

WDPT02L

A Whoopsiedangleplop Wet-Walk in Nottingham

01a

Amidst a Thought-Storm, an idea came,

For a little ode, a bad one, oh the shame!

But Inchie had to put pen to paper and write it,

Cause he got wet and went arse-over-tit!

But he knows he is to blame,

Still scribbled it, all the same!

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

0001

An Ode to My Ailments

6Sat04

Barry Bladder & Hernia Harry

6Sat07

I went in the QMC for a Hernia operation,

Summat else came to the surgeons attention,

He said he’s found cancer in the bladder,

But not to worry, he said as we had a natter,

He’d lasered both problems with antimatter!

But I suffered later, Harry returned, it’s mind over matter!

 

6Sat05a

Duodenal Donald

The problem was soon outright,

Although it was a bit of a fight,

The surgeons said it’d be risky and tight,

But things should come out alright,

But couldn’t stop the bleeding, that was a fright!

They did stop it finally, to my delight!

 

6Sat08

Haemorrhoid Harry

I have to say, this left me feeling sore,

But surely it will mean, Haemorrhoid cream no more?

No suppositories, prodding, probing, Cor!

But they returned, worse than before!

 

6Sat05

Aorta Albert

A bit of a shock, when I saw the Doc,

She said you’re a chip off the old block,

Your Dad had such an op, a bit of a shock,

Makes a change from operating on your buttock,

But you’ll pull through me old cock!

 

6Sat03

Sandie Seer

Twitching eyes, jump and jerk,

But when steady, they still work,

Though not a regular querk,

It can drive you berserk!

 

6Sat03a

Nerveless Nigel

Diagnosed two weeks before the stroke,

By Dr Rahannmuta, a wonderful bloke,

Not averse to a laugh and joke,

Although I don’t, he said you must not smoke!

And gave me a year, before the nerve-ends die, get broke.

 

6Sat09

Suzie

Worra shock, I was in a terrible mess,

Couldn’t wash, shave or even dress,

Two months hospitalisation, no less,

Why I ask, but it remains answerless,

The After-Stroke Physio leaves me breathless,

But certainly not painless!

There are periods when I feel brainless,

But some helpers have been invaluable, God Bless!

 

6Sat10

SSVB

(ScabsSpotsVeinsBulges)

Caught this in the Stroke hospital ward, one can’t forget,

Blood-papsules, weals, scars, lumps, bulges, a guaranteed bet,

Welts, contusions, blemishes, dapples, maculations, invariably on the legs set,

Thrombophlebitis and assorted Clopidogrel grooves and ridges show,

The legs appearance change every day, a new vein or burrow,

A reaction to a changed medication, they say to me,

Vasculitis and venous thromboembolism or VTE,

What next, can I charge folks to look, Hehehe!

Right-hand side sensory nerves are almost kaput,

The neurotransmitters, nearly as dead as a mutt,

I’m even getting boils and growths on my butt!

 

6Sat11

Myasthenia Gravis (MG) – The latest ailment.

 This was written, to cheer missen up, and it did!

I thank you!

WDPT07R

A Little Chunter from Inchcock. In bad, nae, terrible rhyme!

1Mon05.jpg

A Little Chunter from Inchcock

In bad, nae, terrible rhyme!

It’s the day of the criminal, there is no more law,

Empathy, understanding have become just folklore,

I don’t see Police officers in Nottingham, anymore,

 Pavement Cyclists, beggars and shoplifters galore,

Street sleepers, who survive with skills of a detrivore,

Druggies, alcoholics, muggers, both old and mature,

While families dine, smoke cigars and drink their liquor,

All the time, making the poor, feel even sicker!

Disabled with Fit for Work Assessments, have to fight and bicker,

A blind chap got told he can work on a cherry-picker!

Jobseekers told to do psychometric tests, Glory Be!

But if you’re lucky, you’ll live to retire just like me,

But it isn’t what you thought, no rest and freedom, see,

Heart attack, Duodenal Ulcer, and I live on the twelfth-floor,

Peripheral Neuralgia, then a stroke and Arthritis, core!

What next I thought, and the lock broke on the door,

It was mended within three weeks, no need to be sore,

My hot water system went down, so I called help once more,

After nine days of being lied to, ‘We are coming today for sure,

Staying in and awake eight-until-ten, no chance of a bedsore!

But they mended it! It leaked, my clothes wet, the water did pour!

I slipped on the liquid, ending up injured on the floor,

Luckily, the stroke nurse called, so help came to the fore,

Depression and self-hating I began to explore,

I complained at the lack of help, this just caused a furore!

Now the haemorrhoids have returned, bloody and sore!

 

I fank You!

Vital Advice for Nottinghamian Senior Citizens, Part one – In Rhyme, of sorts

BNC01

They’re dangerous, uncouth and some are blind,

The ignorant swine are uncaring, and what’s more,

They often hit you, coming silently from behind,

Leaving your hand arm or elbow, feeling sore,

They test your sanity, patience and mind,

They’ve no warning bells or horn, that’s for sure,

Belting along the pavements, they are a bind,

It’s no use if you beg and implore,

For them to leave more room, not be so unkind,

The few who reply, use sneers, curse-words obscure,

To roads and cycle paths they should be confined,

Their insults, two fingers you’ll have to endure,

Best to use your walking stick – hit ’em on the jaw!

BNC02

But that’s no solution, not a good idea, you see,

Cause they are young, fit and violence-loving,

They offer scowls and are threatening to me,

Some ride at me, I have to do some manoeuvering,

Which ain’t easy with the walker to push, you see!

Empathy, sympathy, and understanding they are avoiding,

Making this old fart, run and flee!

 Taking their photograph may get me a beating,

But don’t give up the struggle, become an attritee,

Join me on my hobbles, bring a Glock, that’s the thing!

BNC03

They don’t scare me though… well, not too much.

Alright, the law-breaking and getting-away-with-it ‘Gits’ do!

Virgin Media Goes Down Again. An ode from the Nottingham Pensioner

The Virgin Internet has gone down again.

So, feeling a tad sad and depressed,

The Nottingham Pensioner wrote in rhyme about life. Oh yes!

Why has his Virgin Internet gone down he did bemoan?

His frustration and infuriation had now grown,

Inchcock thought he’d do a poetic verbal moan,

Why when born his mother wanted to him disown?

Why so ugly, and doesn’t he know the meaning of homophone?

Why at five into the canal he was intimidatingly thrown?

Why is he Whoopsiedangleplop and accident-prone?

Why Mummy ran away leaving him and Dad alone?

Why his brother went into the army, his sister went off to Rome?

Why his Dad always refused to buy him a gramophone?

Why is romance to him, almost unbeknown?

Why since 1970, has his hair never grown?

Why in later years he never tried methadone?

Why he didn’t know, what was a pheromone?

Why does his deafness make other folks tut and groan?

Why he likes the sound of the clarinet and saxophone?

Despite his musical ignorance he seemed to like the tone,

Why he never got fed food that was home grown?

Why he didn’t realise he’d no garden just grey stones?

Why his falling in love Cupid had to postpone?

Why he did he not understand what is the ozone?

Why didn’t he like tripe, cow-heel and any currant scone?

Why was it him that always grazed his shin bone?

Why does he look like a weasel and not Stallone?

Why others used him as a stepping stone?

Why is he short on testosterone?

Why for misery, he’d make a perfect cicerone?

Why he had no spare cash, pounds, dollars or krone?

Why for morbidity and depression he’d become best-known?

Why, how has he become the perfect boring drone?

Why he had become pathetic and he hadn’t known?

Why he’s no longer the girl-pulling cyclone?

Why is he in pain from knees, fingers, shoulders & hip bone?

Why could he not have realised and foreknown?

Why can he not resist a chunter and miserable groan?

Why doesn’t he swear like others instead he says, ‘I’ll be blown’?

Why self-survival skills the idiot couldn’t hone?

Why when deaf does he have an old basic mobile phone?

Why does he live a solitary zombie-like life alone?

Why has his maturity just never grown?

Why in an aeroplane has he never flown?

Why is he a wimp without any backbone?

Why does he think he’ll one day be well known?

Why, unlike Galileo, he will remain forever unknown,

Why he isn’t destined to fame or to sit on a throne,

Why has he never tried and tasted zabaglione?

Why his emissions of wind are so very well known?

Why for his past failures he cannot atone?

Why confidence and ability, he does not own?

Why he fears reincarnation or someone making him a clone?

Why he lacks social skills and has no backbone?

Why he seeks a social outlet microphone?

Why he wants someone to adopt him or take him on loan?

Why do they keep attaching him to an Osteophone?

Why cyclist on pavements he just cannot condone?

But, why he’s cheered up now is not known… Yes, it is!

Virgin Internet’s back working & he’s on his WordPress Zone!!!

Inchcock: What Needs Attention Today – In repellent rhyme!

4Thur02

Woke up, in the recliner where I nightly sprawl,

Nae bother from the Trotsky’s, Arthur Itis, Anne Gyna, at all,

Duodenal Donald, Dizzy Dennis were all good too, I recall,

I’d been dreaming of having holidays, first in Nepal,

Then I met a gal, and we made love in Montreal,

Then we both went off to Senegal,

Had to rush off for a Porcelain Session, it was a close-call,

No bleeding or dizzies did I befall,

Didn’t even stub my toe on the shower stall.

Should I today, go do a bungee jump, or play baseball?

Do a marathon, climb a mountain or play volleyball?

Whatever made me even think of this, I don’t know at all,

I’b be lucky to find the energy to make a phone-call!

___  __________________________  ___

The Morrison man is delivering this morning,

The dentist appointment needs confirming!

The hearing aid batteries need changing,

The filters and tubes need cleaning,

A letter came regarding the operation and grafting,

The Clinic will need telephoning,

The chair needs a repair to it’s cushioning,

The anxiolytic medication needs taking,

Now the mind is doing its own thing,

Off on tangeants, uncontrollabley wandering,

My logicality and senses are now waning,

Maniacally meandering, leaving me wondering,

Why, where, when and how, I’m still pondering,

Shame, there’s no snow, I could go tobogganing,

See? The mind is off again, outgunning…

Destroying my logicality by it’s picarooning,

It may improve, perhaps the madness is just sojourning?