A bit of fun

Inchcock Today: My Daily Battle With My Brain – In Odes

/ Inchie / 10 Comments

Inchcock’s Battle With His brain

In Odes

I try to recall, days when I was sensual,
Indulged in things rampantly sexual,
Although things were rather unequal,
I managed a few times, it was often bestial,
But with Grizelda, the pleasure was mutual,
Always an absolute delight, as usual,
Not once, did we tergiversate, it was lovely, mate!

I try to recall, days when I was sensual,
Indulged in things rampantly sexual,
Although things were rather unequal,
I managed a few times, it was often delightfully bestial,
But with Grizelda, the pleasure was mutual,
Always an absolute delight, as usual.
Not once, did we tergiversate, it was lovely, mate!

Yes, some memories are unshakeable,
But the memories can become unreliable,
Some memories remain clearly visible…
Even bad ones, that were loathsome and derisible…
Some get distorted, it’s sadly undeniable,
The better ones, that are so delightful…
Can, mournfully get mixed too, and that is awful!

Often things seem to be unfathomable, unlocatable,
Sometimes I can find this almost laughable…
Mostly frustration and self-loathing become forceful,
I find that vascular dementia tastes disgraceful,
I’ll sit and stew, pass wind – rather odourful…
Moping, moody, penitently, depressed and remorseful!

Suddenly, I get determined and resourceful…
I’ll write notes on the computer, paper, and get hopeful!
But forget I’ve done it, or to check; it’s pitiful…
Then I sink back to depression, and being slothful!

I seem to be stuck, with being permanently doubtful,
Worrying, fretting, failing, it makes me so miserable!
It’s difficult, wearying; not capable of being hopeful!
I don’t think I am really sour or unthoughtful…
But my plans always turn out unsuccessful,
Things happen, Accifauxpas, errors, by the shedful…
They are made by others as well, it makes me fearful,
I can’t put them right, and that is awfully stressful,
The hearing, sight, memory, stuttering are dreadful,
They stop me sorting things out, making me regretful,
Life goes on, getting more and more strifeful,
No chance of my ever regaining logic or being successful!

My fears, frustration, handicaps, are plentiful…
Always having to try to be overcareful,
This ode is turning into tattle and waffle…
Today, I’m down, and not being very subtle…
Trying to write, is a Peripheral Neuropathy caused a kerfuffle!

I suppose I could just put on the kettle?
Make a brew of Glengettie, and have a tipple?
Hello, the door chime did tinkle…
The Morrison order arrived, a cheering up signal!

I’ve got some new drinks in for Carers now, wonderful!
Suddenly, I don’t feel such a numbskull…
Ordered three beef pasties, only got one – but I’m thankful,
At least the treats for the Carers are plentiful!
I’m humming to myself now; a sign of becoming convivial?
Suddenly my problems appear more trivial!
Food and chinwags are what are essential…

Part of Inchcock’s Make Them Laugh – In Ode Series

An Alto Ego & Inchies Id Argument

/ Inchie / 14 Comments

I’m leaving it up to Alto-Ego and Inchie ID to do the blog today. I may add something afterwards, but I’m suffering the dreaded, loathed DD (Dracula Depression) this morning. As annoying as this is, trying to find out why is equally disconcerting. As far as I can tell, nothings changed from last night? Humph!

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Well, ID, can you explain summat to me?

What? I thought you were Mr Perfect?

You’ve actually got an advantage over me with this problem, Pugface!

Oh, go on then barbed-wire tongue…. let’s hear it, more sarcasm or criticism, is it?

No, no, no. I’ll explain, mate…

Mate! You just called me, mate!

Are you going to answer me or what? Just cause you’re a thick knob-end of an Ego, doesn’t mean we can’t still be pals. Let’s face it, the more we learn, the more we can pester the life out of Inchcock, innit? So we should help each other learn even more things that will irritate our host… Yes?

Go on then, your taking my Inchcock aggravating time away…

No, I’ve just popped into his pathetic brain; he’ll not be up to or responsive to any joshing, bewildering, bamboozling, or distracting this morning…

Just a cotton-picking minute ID, that’s the things we love to do…

I know, but there are some things even more potent than wot we are, and he’s…

He’s got to live a few more years, at all costs, cause if he snuffs it too soon, or even if Inchcock finds some contentment… the IDAEC (Alto-Ego-Consortium) Guidelines, Rules and Cautionary Advice 112,145,23 will come into force. I’ll end up back in the Soul Bank Vaults, for God knows how many years again! So I…

Well, that’s your advantage. I was going to talk about it mush!

Yer, wot?

If you cock-it-up, a couple of hundred years in the Soul Bank Vaults, is nothing – If I gerrit wrong, that’s it, end of this Id, altogether. We don’t get transferred to another human-host yer know! Oh, no, it’s a harsh existence for us Ids.

So? Worrya saying like? I could be in there for thousands of years. You are aware that the only hosts there are cockroaches, ants and rats, are yer?

So what’s wrong with that, then?

I won’t be as easy as host Inchcock; the cockroaches are cleverer than he is!

Hahaha! I just listened to him, you know, a while ago. He was talking to his pets! No, honestly! He really was; I’m not jesting Alto, I even think he heard them answering him, too!

No harm… he loves them, it’s a human trait yer know, or do yer? He does that every morning… Unless he’s had trouble in the Porcelain Throne, that is. There’s no problem with that…

Hogglebogwash! How long can he be in the toilet, for heaven sake?

Well, if his evacuation is one of his rock-solid ones, up to about an hour, on occasions, he’s taken longer. When his fungal lesion bleeds, yer see, he has a grossly painful job on, stopping and medicating things…

Gangleboggleisations! Get yersen in the bog; you can pester him while he’s struggling. Give him hell! Bloody heck, a perfect opportunity for giving out some pilgarlic, pooh-pooing, heckling, vilification and raillery. Hahaha! He won’t be able to concentrate on his Porcelain Throne duties at all – Hehehe! Why we could…

Come off it, you know nothing about my host, does yer? You’ve been in this monstrous wobbly-bellied, old idiot for a week now, but yer not learning owt are yer?

Oh, you are, I suppose, yer gerrin’ as thick and decrepit as Inchcock is, pal… yer on the wane, mentally…

You thick swine, on the wane mentally? What else does yer expect? You might have noticed that neither of us is human. We are ethereal, diaphanous beings, or are you not aware of this?

Watch it pug-face, or I’ll report you to the IDAEC (ID-Alto-Ego-Consortium). You know full well what I meant! I was speaking figuratively, interpretatively, metaphorically, As you are fully aware of; Thunderglobberisations! I thought we’d agreed to be social wiv each other?

Who did? Not me! I’ve not got over you lying to me last week yet… You promised if I signed the IDAEC Guidelines & Cautionary Advice Procedure Adherence 112,145,23, you’d leave this host forever… but no, you are a snotty-nosed ID, aren’t you, so superior… But you being a defrauding, backstabbing, double-crossing, untrustworthy Id that you are, should be reported, not me! Git!

I think you’ve been with this host, Inchcock, for far too long, my old fruitcake! You should just report yourself to the IDAEC as a failure. You’re catching a human beings ailments, such as dementia… No, let me continue…Testicles! If I could, I’d like to tear your head off!.

We’ve already agreed that we are both emblematical, selectively apparitional beings. So tearing my head of would be pointless, don’t you think?

I’m not so sure, Meathead, having never tried to kill anyone before, and as far as I know, no other Id before me has. Perhaps some form of transubstantiating has taken place over the years, and we have acquired the ability to tear off an Alto-Ego’s head? Hehehe!

The same goes for tearing off the head of an Id, indeed?

Ah, I see what you mean. We could, in fact, make history, be the first Id and Alto-Ego to kill each other? Or at least give it a go?

There you go again; you’ve got no morals, have you? What about your Id Oath what you took in training, eh?

Erm, I can’t remember that; it was over three thousand years ago, Dumbo!

Ha! A whippersnapper! Well, for your information, I started off as an Id…

Oh, did you, my friend?

Shut-it! I took the Id oath myself over 5,000 years ago. I seem to remember it went something like, “I shall occupy the given human body as instructed, with the intent of making the host into a big-headed, greedy, parasitic personage within the given period as prescribed by the IDAECC (ID-Alto-Ego-Consortium-College) Trainer on this day (dated). Convincing the host mentioned above that England will win the world cup again, all Politicians will become trustworthy, and America will land a human-crewed rocket with 5000 paying passengers on board on Mars, at the cost of $3.” You remember that bit, Inchie-Id?

No, and I didn’t miss any lectures or training sessions.

Anyway, it’s time I checked on Inhchcock…

No problem, I can hear him talking to his Carers.

Anyway, what was this question you had for me then? Id my old flower?

Oh, yes… I was a little concerned about why the human hosts always get drunk, stabbing or running over other hosts in their tinned transport, each New Year? And why do they welcome getting older so merrily and fire off flaming fireworks into the sky?

Ah, well, it wasn’t always like that, you know…

Tell me what used to happen in the old days Inchie, I’m confused.

Well, in days of yore, the human hosts always get drunk on mead, stab someone, and run over other hosts with the horses and stagecoaches transport, each New Year? And why do they welcome getting older so merrily and fire flaming fireworks into the sky? Then they welcomed in the new year merrily and fire flaming fireworks into the sky?

Well, I never knew that!.

Hello… Inchcocks took a tumble in the shower…

Bags, I get to annoy him first!

Rollock’s!

Me first, being the youngest, Crab-Nose!

You got that arse-about-faced as well! The old ones should get priority!

Arse-about-faced… I like it!

We’ll go together, but I get first scoffing, sneering at, chastising Inchcock?

That’s fair enough, mate, as long as you leave the laughing at and humiliating comments in?.

Done, cocker!

Great mate!

The now two best pals floated through the wall into the wet room with this. But…

Oh, Sod-It! A lot of blood; I think he might be dead?

After all that planning, and arguing too!

Take a close look, see if he’s breathing…

How does yer do that then? I’ve never tried to help a host before?

I’m not sure… erm…

It’s your fault, all that being obstreperous with me!

Clackers!

Bog-Knobs!

Well, one of us must wait around until someone finds the body…

Why?

We’ve got to report it to the IDAEC (ID-Alto-Ego) Records Dep’t…

Why are they going to make a song about it?

Someone might make a song and dance about it, but me? I’ll be back in the IDAEC (ID-Alto-Ego-Consortium) Soul Bank Vaults.

Ain’t these human hosts heartless, dying just like that!

Pigs!

Baskets!

Does yer think the Carers will find him int morning then?

I suppose so… hang on, where’s he keep the cans of plonk for the Carers?

Oh, yes, what does yer fancy mate, Vodka and lime. G & T, Pimms, Mojito, Tequila beer, Strongbow, or Rum & Coke, Id?.

Yea!

Inchies Make Them Laugh Series

TTFN

Billum, treats Inchcock’s Ailments

/ Inchie / 8 Comments

A bit of fictional fun in Ode here

I hope it brings a smile and a laugh!

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It All Began…

T’was months ago, when Billum said, “You need curing!”
“I do?” I replied Billum’s words had got me wondering,
We continued with our badinaging,
The result, revealing a fascinating thing!
Bill continued with a medical debriefing,
He’s a clever chap, quite a scientific boffin,
He’d worked out how to mend the ailments that got me coughing!

He could cure or ease many an ailment without any drugging!
His lad Alan had had a look in…
Did the mechanical engineering,
Medical engineering? That got me fearing!
H.R.H. Lisa, had the first aid kit ready… encouraging?
At this point, I had to ask… is this going to be hurting?
And can I and H.R.H. Lisa do some flirting?

The procedure would take a few days, but no haemorrhaging,
Chances are, Inchie, that you’ll not feel a thing!
Lisa will be there, and take your care under her wing,
But flirting? No, or you really will be hurting!
I thanked him, asked Billum if it involved my contortioning?
“Well, you might jerk about a bit; that’s nothing…”
“You’re used to Shaking Shaun, un Peripheral Pete bugging!”
“Once we set up the various electrics…” Lisa was earwigging…
“Worry not, Inchie… for Billum is not a fledgling!”

“This electroconvulsive therapy will soon have you jogging!”
Then we’ll make you a meal and give you some noggin!
“That’ll be marvellous Lisa, I’d just love some snogging…”
“No, I said noggin, not snogging; oh, dear, your hearing!”
“The syringing, I’ll do that for you! It’ll be astonishing!.

Billum and Alan helped me with the plans on travelling,
The transport I could afford needed ambushing…
I nicked the lorry and got to near Ohio, without any bathing…
Poor H.R.H. and Billum did a bit of nose-clenching!
But soon Billum took charge, first my showering!

Getting over my fears needed establishing,
My worrying, Billum started extinguishing,
He got out his plans to explain, and I stopped flinching…
“I’ll tell yer, in simple terms, what you can be understanding…
We all sat down, and I started listening…

And let’s face it, you’re loaded with them! Electroconvulsive therapy (E.C.T.) is a procedure done under general anaesthesia, in which small electric currents are passed through the brain, intentionally triggering a brief seizure. E.C.T. seems to cause changes in brain chemistry that can quickly reverse symptoms of certain mental health conditions.

Lisa at your side throughout. We know how you love her so, so we’ve asked her to give the odd squeeze of your hand, keep gong close to you so you can smell her perfume, and hear her words of comfort… But try not to get too excited! Remember, it’s all part of the procedure. We won’t be bothering with any anaesthesia because we will have H.R.H.

After having some of H.R.H.’s special Chilli Con Carne and a cream cake, we will be doing it in the basement laboratory.

Hahaha! Nowt to worry over Inchie, E.C.T. is good on older adults who can’t tolerate drug side effects. A muscle relaxant is usually used during the procedure to stop the patient’s muscles from moving during the seizure. Still, we’ll skip that cause with your Peripheral Neuropathy; there ain’t a cat in hells chance of you not twitching.

“Fair enuf!” At this, one of the cats jumped up on my knee and rubbed its chin against mine! Nice!

We’ll throw in a bit of Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (T.M.S.). We think we’ve improved the procedure by swapping bits here and there. Alan worked out that the hyperparameters programmed into the medical device were used to deliver magnetic therapy to the brain by reducing the max-pooling in the convolutional neural networking of the design of the machine. Naturally, this means that your Body Mass Index (B.M.I.) and hypertension will be of less concern than they usually would be, you see?

There’s no worry about quantum entanglements, blue-shiftings, or Lagrangian points. These have all been factored into our plans. As with fasciculations and diaphragmatic flutters, There will be a chance of you horripilationing, but that is of no consequence, as you know.

“Oh, good!” No idea what Billum was on about. He forgets how thick I am, I think. After a lovely nosh, down to the basement, I was led…

A shame, really, but I woke up then!

Part of the Inchies Make Them Laugh-In Ode Series

Chinwag Two: With Alto-Ego Inchie

/ Inchie / 3 Comments

There I was, in heaven… with Sweet Morpheus, it was so nice!
I was romancing a buxom lass named Eunice…
And Inchie butted in, with his pestering moans and advice!
But, for the first time ever, we agreed and did empathise…
Perhaps it was not wise for us to try to fraternise?
But we did; I think he enjoyed it likewise!

Inchie: Well, that hospital visit was farce wonnit, mate?

Inchcock: Huh! You again, what’s wiv the mating bit, then?

Inchie: I know we’ve ‘ad our ups and downs, but you’ve been through a rough patch fer this last twenty years or so, and I thought it’d be nice to be nice for a change…

Inchcock: Did yer? I feel like by being non-argumentative, I’m taking away your little pleasures…

Inchie: Worrya mean?

Inchcock: Well, yer usually wins all the verbal fights and tiffs we ‘ave…

Inchie: Naturally yer turd! I’m yer Alto-Ego, yo are the ethereal thing like. So fings like conscience, giving a toss, and yer ability to fret, worry, show signs of pissed-offerdness, and you can get a bit depressed at times… I’ve noticed that! So I’m taking my chance to confuse yer all the more you see?

Inchcock: Not really; I’m flummoxed again already! Why can’t you just leave me alone to get some rest and peace?

Inchie: No, no, no! It doesn’t work like that, dumbo! It’s my job to hassle yer, keep yer on yer toes, like. Else overwise yer might commit Hagi-Kari… then…

Inchcock: What! After all, I’ve been through, do you think that I’d top missen? Rubbish, claptrap, your just stirring things again, aren’t you?

Inchie: Yea, I’m good at that, ain’t I, no doubt about it…

Inchcock: For God’s sake, if you are me, or my other half, surely you must suffer the agonies that I do – so why bother…

Inchie: Ah, you’ve not gorrit yet, have you? You are! I’m not me…

Inchcock: What?

Inchie: Yo just said, for God’s sake, yea?

Inchcock: Yes…

Inchie: Well, I know that yer doesn’t believe in him… see? Provin’ what an ignorant, uneducated, pug-faced, pathetic, docile, pussy-cat, yer really are, cocker! 

Inchcock: Fair enough with the name-calling; there may be an element of truth in some of what you say about me – but surely you must be the same yourself?

Inchie: Perhaps mush, or maybe not. Are you not talking to yourself in reality? Come on… answer that, yer moron!

Inchcock: If there isn’t any God, then why even bring up the subject – I’ll tell you why, no… hang on, what was the question?

Inchie: I know, but it got yer going, see!

Inchcock: How can one see? If you are really me? There is…

Inchie: You retardate; You just can’t grasp it, can you, tit-head?

Inchcock: Grasp what?

Inchie: The relationship between us, knucklehead! Yer still think yer talking to someone else?

Inchcock: I am, you!

Inchie: Yer, but I am you! Ain’t I?

Inchcock: Just because you say so does not mean that is correct!

Inchie: Ah, so you think we are two different entities then?

Inchcock: I’m not sure… what do entities mean?

Inchie: Concentrate pillock! Fink abarght this… you’d know what the word means, yea! If you was me, and I was you… right?

Inchcock: Erm…

Inchie: Look, numbskull, I think it best if yer gerron with the pork pie supper you wuss plannin’, then I’ll give yer an hour or so, I’ll come back to hassle yer a bit more. I can’t be fairer than that, can I? 

Inchcock: Does this mean I’ve won an argument with you?

Inchie: No, you silly old fart! It’s cause it’s Christmas!

Inchcock: Is it?

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Part of the Inchcock Make Them Laugh Series

Spurred by My Comedy Hero Spike Milligan

Inchcock’s Little Odes

/ Inchie / 4 Comments

A selection of mini-odes, created while Inchcock awaited the arrival of the Meridian Carer that did not arrive to issue him with his medications. Regrettably not up to his usual standard of humour content, due to the agony he as in, with Duodenal Donald complaining about not getting his morning dose of Omeprazole capsules; by way of giving the old man severe stabbing pains!

That’s five times in two months Meridian have let him down; They tell him this is to be expected, and Meridian are better than many Carer Companies. The gullible old sausage!

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Reverend Salmon once told me I was adiaphoristic,
But, not wanting to sound autistic,
Nor admit to my being ungrammatic,
I said I was sorry for being troglodytic,
And shot off home, feeling pretty thick…

I looked up adiaphoristic, not in the dictionary it would seem,
So off to the library, search books that were encyclodepian,
No computers then, not a laptop or touch screen,
I found what the meaning twas, summat to with the bible book,
It baffled me; I couldn’t understand the explanation, Tsk!
I had to look up answers in another book…
I’d have been at the time about thirteen,
Back to the Chapel, a visiting Dean,
More problems unforeseen…

I mistook him for Reverend Salmon, it would seem,
I said to him, there is no such word as adiaphoristic…
With teeth that did gleam, he called me a silly Virgoian,
And clouted me around the head, that wasn’t very Christian!

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I bought it, taxed and insured it, and took it for a spin,
Bodywork? I could not detect a single dent,
Mechanically, engine-wise, a deep throaty, din,
Summat did spoil my enjoyment…
The rust was already settling in!
It gave me a certain feeling of empowerment!
It easily fitted Grizelda and me in…
The cheque bounced for my downpayment…
I was soon back to walking the pavement!

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SISTER JANE

I thought I’d just do a Sister Jane Ode
Now she, too, is getting old…
But she doesn’t look it! ♥

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Ode To Maintaining Ones Sanity – Part Four

/ Inchie / 4 Comments

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Good Morningeth!

I hope this guide and advice to Sanity is anecdotic,
Making it humorous, truthful and not dogmatic…
I reckon that the secret and trick,
Throw in some limited, sporadic slapstick,
Trying to make it read what it is, authentic,
Allowing bits to stray off subject, get frenetic,
Getting it to rhyme can ruin the grammatics,
All a part of my unfortunate written gymnastics!

Getting hopeful of success is something you must never do!
Accepting failure, that is really the way forward for you,
You must never think that victory is possible, or due,
You’ll be disappointed and start feeling blue…
When Whoopsiedangleplops and Accifauxpas accrue,
Expect the worst at all times; hopes must discontinue!
Or depression will ensure your dreams are slue!

When disablements arrive, and the mind wanders off, too,
You’ll never again be capable of using a corkscrew!
Toileting involves bleeding, and will it or not pass?
Even multiple distress will affect you having a slash…
Accept it; good luck is not bound for you!
Accommodate failure from pain and hassle; there’s no rescue!
You’ll feel much better when you do!

I know doing as I suggest may seem uncanny, silly,
I tell you because I think it is my duty…
To pass on my failures and inform you see…
From old age and ailments, there’s no bouncebackability,
So I use the written word and my verbosity,
To help the ankle snappers later in life, from getting panicky…

It’s normal for aged proletariats to wear a toupee atop,
You girls may turn out to look like Hetty Wainthroppe?

Which suits me; she gets my remaining desires on the hop!
You’ll be less likely to manage a mutton chop,
But may get someone to nip down to the wineshop
Of course, your needs for fun don’t just stop…
However, reviving certain areas will be a dead flop!
Which may well bring forth the odd teardrop,
Sadly, you have to give up the old Bebop!
As did your Dad and Grandpop!
And, the Lads will have to give up being a fop!

One thing you’ll get better at is the bellyflop…as such,
Falling into bed, and with any luck…
No injuries, so you don’t look a schnook!
No loose bladder movements to blot your copybook?
To hope you sleep better, by hook or by crook…
Best to have Guinness or gin midduck!

To me, Arthur Itis, Anne Gyna, Reflux Roger are small fry!
Peripheral Neuropathy, on my right side, to undignify!
And Saccades in my right eye…
Often they may cause a tear and outcry…
Not often, though, only when they intensify…
While I’m trying to get some shuteye!
Press on we must, do or die…
That sounded dour? Writing that… but did I?
Slipped in by my Alto Ego? I’ll give him a black eye!

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A Bit Of Fun

I came across the name of a mountain.

Does anyone care to guess or tell me where it is in the world?

Of course, I knew straight away. No, I didn’t look it up on the web either… Okay, I did!

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Inchcock Ode – Welcome to my world

/ Inchie / 6 Comments

Welcome To My World

Upon waking, Inchcock will often do a sensual check on any ailment attacks or changes. Sometimes, a discussion will occur twixt Inchcock and a specific ailment, typically one that has been giving him a little extra pain and, or hassle. When these occur, the silly old goat usually makes an Ode and graphic about his demented, dreamt up, nonsensical clap-trapping, as below from an old one.

For some unknown reason, the idiot asked me to show this graphic, as he puts it: ‘Wot I Made!’ cause he’s seems to think it is one of his rare, almost non-existent successes?

As his Alto-Ego, I will now let the uneducated, lonely old fool take over the writing of this rubbish. TTFN.

Once the physical activity starts in the morning, I often wait for the mental conditioning to begin; it usually catches up within a few minutes. It can take hours, but not often.

They were tackled then.

Sphygmomanometer showed Sys and Dia, readings high,
The Wee-Wee chart: I need to drink more! Gin & Dry?
Would it help if I go to a detoxify?
On this mind of mine, I cannot rely!

A quick look for any new damage, I don’t want to oversimplify,
Another bruise was found on the top of my left thigh…
An unknown round welt, right arm, that I can’t quantify,
The torso seems to have started to transmogrify?
Heart Op Scars raised, itching again, certainly uglify!
The broken Terence Tooth hit the pain-boards bullseye!
Shuddering, Shoulder Shirley’s eased off, but why?
Hit my head on the stove but didn’t get a black eye!.

The following tasks were ablutionary,
Not worn any socks since about July,
Cold, Brr! should I dare to use Sock-Glide Georgina?
I’ve no medical aids that are any meaner!
One Sock-Glide injury needed micro-surgery!
Hickeys, bruises, cuts, and a bleeding periphery,
Stubbed toes, damaged knees, I felt all fluttery…
Should I put my socks on? I recalled the imagery,
Of the last time, I fought Georgina, bitterly!
I chickened out of wearing socks; what a mockery!.

Anytime in the next three hours, cometh Meridian,
An incredible variety of Carers, one who is Balearian,
Unless I misheard her, and she is Algerian?
Not that it matters, none of them shows me derision,
An American gal, English, British, and an Assyrian,
All make a positive impression!

Porcelain Throne Sessions

Ah, every visit is a different evacuation, indeed.
Some days it can be half an hour, then I’ve only peed!
Rock-solid torpedoes, agony, things bleed!
Next time, liquid, 30 seconds, messy but what speed!

Housework Tended To

Took the chance to clean the fridge up, ready for the delivery to arrive shortly – well, I hope so.

Iceland Delivery Arriveth!

Then, on with Prepping Josie’s Meal

Got it delivered almost on time for her.

I was so proud of how Josie liked the look and smell,
The beef arrived two hours later, took in the dish for the gal.
Water chestnuts, potatoes, tomatoes, beef chunks as well,
Leeks and onions, chilli, three beans, the lovely smell!
Seasoned with liquid smoke, paprika, beef flavour gel,
Said she loved the cream Pretzel,
Even called me an old Angel!
I mentioned the extra lidded pot for the Damsel,
To have later, quantity double,
Too long at her door, I did not dwell,
I sensed she was hungry… Oh, yes, I can tell!

End Car Park

End car park area busy today.

Evening Views

I shall have to go now. Most likely the evening Carer will crave my body, mind and bank account… Ahem!

Inchcock: Currently Up For Adoption

/ Inchie / 4 Comments

Inchcock: CURRENTLY UP FOR ADOPTION

Would You Adopt Someone Who Listens To Music by Ivor Novello?

A slightly sub-standard, bald, 75-year-old, born in a bordello,
A life-long Nottinghamian, with an IQ of barely above zero,
A recovering alcoholic, stroke and cardiac victim, and dipso,
A short chubby, well-bellied little thing has his own yo-yo,
Hoping that someone can show him how to use it, you know!
Inchcock has a thing for Marilyn Monroe, although…
His doing anything about this have long gone, thus his yo-yo!
He can cook, drop things, walk into them, oh, and he’s a Virgo!

He Falls over frequently, but with help, gets up, giving it another go,
In many ways, he plods on with his ailments; he’s a bit of a hero!
At least the last time we spoke at the hospital, he told me so,
He’ll tell you of when he climbed to the top of Kilimanjaro,
But in reality, it was a steep hill in Ludlow,
And, he drove up the mountain, in his Triumph Toledo!
Vascula Dementia confuses him; I think he still has some gusto…
For the ladies, but sadly, his desires have long been fallow,
But he does like a pot or slice of cake or a limoncello.

His momentary spells of reality sadden him; he feels low,
What’s happening to him in old age, he doesn’t want to know,
Back into his deep mental haze, he’s a semi-contented fellow,
Talk to him gently, and he’ll get the message, Roger-Wilko,
Owt you want him to do will usually follow,
Even if his words seem bewildering and hollow,
There will be times when he seems bright and tally-ho!
Don’t miss his medications whatever you do, though!

Ablutioning-wise, especially shaving, the blood will flow…
Neuropathy diagnosed, amazingly he can be a cheery bloke,
Occasionally, he thinks he’s Clint Eastwood or El Zorro,
His neuropathy has shaken his right side since the stroke,
He tries to stay calm and can start the day being mellow!

He still cooks, using black bean sauce and BBQ, even Tabasco,
Now he knows the firemen by name, Colin, Brian and Joe,
Please, don’t let him run-free in Aldi, Sainsbury’s or Tesco,
He’ll panic if he can’t find you and may freeze, ipso facto!
Please forgive any of his mishaps or unintended peccadillo.
If you do misplace him, just call the police or a medico.
But operating the TV remote control, he’s messy & ultraslow,

His confidence is getting low; of course, it will not regrow,
Like certain body parts that hang below…
At least he’s stopped wearing his bra and using eye shadow,
His new Protection Pants have saved many a fiasco!
He uses his picker-upper to retrieve things dropped below,
And is contented to on DVD, his 1960’s TV shows!

He’s harmless to anyone else, this I can guarantee,
Making others happy and smile is his forte,
He shows no signs of toxicity and has congeniality,
He can’t help forever going for a wee-wee…
And he would like someone to adopt him, desperately,
He realises this would not come for free…
But has a limited amount of money,
Which he doesn’t find very funny,
He is totally free of hate and is never sarkie!
So, if possible, can you help and make him your adoptee?
He makes a great mug of Glengettie tea!

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Inchcock’s Make ‘Em Laugh Series

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Inchcock: His First Sporting Triumph – Well, I say triumphs…

/ Inchie / 5 Comments

Inchcock: His First Sporting Triumph

Well, not exactly

I dreamt of playing for the school at football,
I couldn’t dribble or kick a ball, but that didn’t matter at all,
The pneumonia epidemic had stuck in the fall,
Not many players are well enough and available at all,
Then, from desperation, the coach did call!
You’re in the team, cup match, we need a win, vital,
Having to ask me, I knew he felt contemptible.

I dare not let them down, or I’d suffer a keelhaul,
Matchday, I arrived first, at my 4’3″ tall,
Regarding the rules, my knowledge was minimal,
Cold, raining, and then the fog began to fall…
Players, neither team had the wherewithal.

An eight-a-side to play agreement was made
We took to the field, the rain began to squall,
“You’re in goal Chambers!” Any position I’ll be ineffectual,
I jumped but couldn’t reach the crossbar at all,
What an introduction to school football!

The fog got heavier, and the coaches got conflictual,
We were down 13-0, the coach said it was only 12!
A fight ensued, but injuries were only minimal,
They decided to go into the gym, to play football,
When we got inside, and we’d lost some footfall…
Lads from both sides absconded, no longer visual,
Anyway, someone had nicked the ball!

Part Of The Nottingham Lads Tales Of Woe – In bad Rhyme Series

Inchcocks First Accident On His Bike!

/ Inchie / 4 Comments

It’s A Funny Old World

Working out at Worksop,
At the Nottingham Co-op,
I nibbled chips and a rollmop,
Wanted to get home at the gallop,
To watch Hettie Winthrop,
Fog so thick, I couldn’t see the bus stop,
Avoided it on my bike, and I was off,
Traffic bad kept coming to a stop…
At the bend near the tuckshop,
Things were at a dead stop…
Kerbed it, bike went over the treetop,
Me down the hill,  in a mangled flop,
Later being found by a traffic cop,
Bloodied, shaking, all of a quop,
Officer took me to the cop shop,
I don’t want to name drop…
Yootha Joyce was there, drunk as a sop,
And this is not a codswallop!
She hiccuped and did a bellyflop!
To me, she was the cream of the crop!

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This is the actual bike before the Accifauxpas… Hehehe!

TTFNski!