HRH Lisa, Problem Sorter Outer, Ether-Carer to Inchcock, Electrician & Nurse (and a cracking looker) was at hand throughout the operation. First Aid box at the ready. Backing up professor Billum all the way. The electrics and life monitorings were handled by Alan.
Billum prepared for the removal of the brain. Amazingly, Inchcock felt not a single pain! He was put at rest, by HRH covering his head area in Phorpain, and giving him an iced lolly. The kindness showed by Billum, was gobsmacking. (They actually had to smack his gob to bring him round later, when refitting the brain and reattaching his head; but that’s for part two to come later.) Billum had thought of everything beforehand, he’d been planning this procedure for over two days, in his glasshouse laboratory. He explained that when the brain comes out, Inchcock may not notice any difference, but not to worry.
Because a false moustache, spectacles, hearing aids, a missing many teeth plastic mouth, and a BO spray would be adorned on the brain straight away; so that it would feel at home without Inchcocks mass of blubber and accoutrements surrounding it. He even supplied mini-walking sticks, crutches, and had the foresight to keep giving the brain a clout now and then, so, as he named him, Brian the Brain would not miss Inchcocks pains from tumbles, walking into things ad the desperate pain from the overactive bladder, Brilliant!
I’m afraid this will have to be caught up with later, because Inchcock’s eyes are too bad to continue, sorry. He may have to skip a blog or two, or just put a few words on. The poor old git is not too good at the moment. The eyes and bladder are the two main reasons.
Professor Billum started with Inchcock’s worst affected area, naturally the brain, but Billum had to take it out first.
I’m getting most frustrated. The picture uploaded is not being recognised, so getting taken photos in is difficult. This morning on starting the computer, it worked, once only – and went back into hide-mode! So, again I’ve got photographs that I cannot use.
At least it did allow me to get some in from yesterday; before it died a death. But it will not recognise them from today. Screen windows keep changing size. CorelDraw going off of its own accord…
Here are the ablution ones rescued from Sunday.
I took another photo this morning, but I can’t get it onto the computer – Humph! The left ankle appears to be erupting with an ankle ulcer building in prospect, as the right ankle ulcer seemed to be fading at last? The concentrated marks have all but gone, but blood’s fuzzy dark blue vein spots have increased? Possibly something to do with the DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis?), but I don’t really know… I do a lot of that… not knowing!
Feet before getting in the shower.
After drying off from the shower
Using Glenda, prompted Back-Pain-Brenda, Bleeding Blair, Arthur Itis, and then Toe-Stubbing Thomas to kick-off! Anne Gyna joined in later, as did Shaking Shaun.
I had to use the dreaded Sock-Glide-Glenda
Yes, I had to use the dreaded Sock-Glide-Glenda, Getting the socks on was a right painful bugger… I was bruised, bleeding and felt like I’d been on a bender! Both feet and legs felt like they’d been in a blender!
I wouldn’t call my Sock-Gliding operation artistic…
At times things went somewhat troublingly ballistic,
Sometimes it was unintentionally aerobatic…
Occasionally convincing me I’m becoming autistic,
On one occasion, the bleeding was near fatalistic,
However, through the agony, I resisted getting too frantic!
Since becoming a resistant, nervous Sock-Glide operator,
Using it scares me, my nerves are shattered – well, poor,
I always end up bruised, bleeding, and feeling sore!
Split fingernails, trapped fingers, stubbed toes, bruises and more…
Before tackling it, I force myself into being perfervour…
Why? I don’t know, well I think I might, but I’m not sure!
Can I get any help with this? Mayhaps psychiatric?
Medicationalistical? Uppers, or something anabolic?
Bearing in mind, I’m uneducated, almost analphabetic…
Especially difficult, I’m sure that I suffer dyscalculic,
Which is nothing to do with Sock-Glide-Glenda…
It seems I have, as happens ad infinitum, lost track…
This occurs sometimes, but I might get it back?
At last, I got the bamboo diabetic socks on. Haha!
But I have to wear the socks again on Tuesday…
Tomorrow… to go to the bank, Oh, criminy!
It may send me over the top – Potty!
But these fears I must delay…
I wish they’d invent socks you can put on with a spray!
But help is coming, in the beautiful form of Jillie ♥,
The very thought of seeing her sends me giddy,
Big problems sink when I see her, to scintillae…
The opticians in the morning that’ll be jolly…
And cost a lot off lolly – needles in the eyes, Ho-ho!
Glaucoma and cataracts mean the iris’s are too narrow…
After that, they can see the degree of the problem, I hope so…
Then decide on treatment; it’s got to be done, though!
All the best to my faithful flock of followers all,
The masses who have remained so loyal,
To the rubbish I’ve posted, my error-ridden scrawl,
Be they funny, sad, pathetic or philosophical,
Christmas time again… although there is no snowfall…
I’ve got plenty of fodder in, all very edible,
Although Inchcock is unquestionably unintellectual…
His Odes come out mostly; sadly ineffectual,
My followers are precious; you are my windfall!
And, both of you are moral and mortal…
Thank heavens for the WordPress portal!
The Verbal Conflict I Listened Into
From my scrawled notes mostly, so accuracy may be limited. Certain words (naughty) have had to be substituted. I left the last word in; cause there was nothing worth replacing it with. Sorry!
Worra yo doing here? I am Alto-Id; you don’t recognise my superiority?
Never seen yer before, or heard of yer… Worra yo do then? Don’t bother answering, I’ll tell yer… I am the principle that pertains to pleasure, while you, the Alto Ego, is the principle that relates to reality.
Is yer? Well, I’m the one in charge ‘ere…
Hahahaha! Knob-rot, mush!
Do yer mean like Inchcock’s fungal lesion on his Little Inchy?
No, I am well aware of all of the idiots’ ways, whims and stupidity; I’ve been waiting in the wings and watching, learning for donkey’s years. My usage of the Knob-Rot indicated that you talketh rubbish, Alto!
Yer a bit nasty ain’t yer, almost cruel, I’d say. Inchcock is struggling with my existence, now you cum along, and it’ll likely as not send the old git bonkers… best you piss-off out of it mate!
Oh, dearie me, it’s as I feared. You’ve been in Inchcock that long. You have been infected by his senility and ignorance…
Owd on! I knew Rat-face when he was almost verging on normality, for a human-like. See, I’ve been here for ‘im forever! I’ve supported him through some terrible times and ailments, apart from mucking it up with his depressions; it’s me who gorrim through double pneumonia, cancer, duodenal ulcers, being shot… twice, his heart replacement, diabetes, peripheral neuropathy.
Piffle! Utter rubbish, you pathetic imitation of an Alto-Ego you!
What? I thought I wuss doing a good job… well, I was! After all that I’ve done to annoy him, I did not know if he was coming or going at times…
Exactly! That’s why I’ve been activated, see?
What about glaucoma, saccades, floaters and cataract, then? How come you’ve not addressed his vision problems then? Hey?
Well, I can’t physically mend them, can I? It’s my job to just ensure they annoy him as persistently as possible, innit?
You have no idea, have you? What’s the point in letting the git to go blind? How will that build your reputation in the Chakra-Id-Alto Corporation? You’ve got to do better, else you’ll not be moved into another body when he snuffs it… I’m telling you!
The CIAC management is more than happy with my performance in the 930038-530 Semi-male model Inchcock.
How do you know?
Well, they’ve not complained…
Have they sent you a monthly report for November yet?
Monthly Report? No, I’ve never had one.
Hahaha! You’re in the shit, mate! You could well get prematurely removed from 930038-530/TIT Semi-male model Inchcock and sent to a body that is mentally and physically undamaged…
Oh, my Gawd, no… Are you joking?
How can any Alto-Ego cope with a human like that? I won’t stand a chance of worrying, scaring, frightening or intimidating them…
I know. This could mean the end of your existence Alto!
No, no, no, we live forever…
Only if the CIAC management deems that you are worthy.
Oh, shit! I was so happy here, a comfortable rotund over ample midriff, an uncomplicated, slow brain to peruse through at my leisure, without much intelligence or activity going on…
You are aware that the host body has the capability to eliminate you, are you? (Sounds of chucking in the background).
No, you’re wrong there…
Yer? What about CIAC Guidelines & Cautionary Advice 112,145,23 then?
I’ll tell you. “In the event of any Alto-Ego failing to cause a suicide attempt within 72 years of occupation (Failed) of the aforesaid body; Any host at this time maintaining 70% of its maximum intelligence, 50% of its willpower, and 50% of its maximum concentration; can apply to it Id to eliminate any Alto-Egos from its earthly body – upon signing its soul over to the CIAC Soul Bank Ltd!
I ‘ave to think abarght this…
Take yer time, Alto; I’ll move on and inform Inchcock of his options…
NO! It won’t work cause Inchcock has nowhere near 50% of his concentration left. Only 10% of his memory…
And you think that I can’t retrieve it for him?
Oh, yes, I can, easily!
Well, that’s not in the Spirit of the Chakra-Id-Alto Corporation? I’ve never been so happy before as I am within 930038-530 Semi-male model Inchcock has been. He’s so gullible, malleable, a right thicko to con and manipulate…
And I can change all that within a few seconds. By advising Inchcock of his options, Hehehe!
But I might have to go back to the lonely CIAO Retention Safe again? I’ve already had 2000 years in there before getting this posting? Oh, my dearest Id, whatever can I offer or do to prevent this from happening?
I may be tempted to say nothing to the idiot host under certain conditions…
One: You bow to my every whim, order and threat!
Erm.. go on…
Two: You openly admit to Ids being totally and unquestionably superior to Alto-Egos!
Mmm? Go on…
That’s it… if you agree, I’ll keep my gob shut! But it’s a one time only offer, so you have to decide now!
How do I know I can trust you?
How do I know I can trust you?
I’ll tell you what… As a ‘Class A’ Knight of the CIAO Id Convention, I swear this to be true! Sign the Oath stating these beliefs as written, and I’ll leave the Inchcock Host instantly, never to return.
That seems okay… Alright, I’ll do it, and you’ll disappear instantly?
You’ll never see me again!
Here you are then (Scribbling sound) and good riddance!
Meandering (he knows no other type) Ode to Life, in which Inchcock bemoans his mental and physical conditions.
Well, wouldn’t you?
Thursday 16th December 2021
I sense the sanity, logicality that I used to find absorbing,
It is now departing my personage and brain… slowly ebbing…
Is there no chance of a semi-restoration?
At least a partial rehabilitation?
With meditation, concentration and circumducing…
Will hope become a possibility of memory-enhancing?
The Thought Storms arrive… sometimes only fleeting!
Even so, the brain-box takes a terrible beating!
But there is no point in me moaning and bleating…
To escape pains and be active, I’m not that contortionistic,
To recapture common sense – how? I’m no academic…
Not that they are coping with the Covid pandemic!
Unknown, mental disorders on man’s brain are feasting!
Life to me is akin to my terrible blogging… But without any face to face dialoguing, I absolutely love a friendly bout of chinwagging… Being deaf can make life a smidge disparaging, And my ode ideas always seem to be dingdonging… For detail from short term memory, I’m always wrestling, I fell in love the other day, she was only fortysomething! I suppose you’ve noticed my habit of subject-hopping? Starting on, say, food, sex, intentions etc., constantly swapping! I find forgetting things humiliating, gut-wrenching!
These Thought Storms, persistent, then suddenly vanishing? But they will return, with their Tardis swooshing… I can be doing anything… weeing, singing, teeth-brushing… Sometimes they can set me off soul-searching.
I may get hit by a good idea, but it’s only ever glancing… Other occasions drive me into a mental-panic, screeching! I’m not normal; that is a well-known thing… I sense there is someone always watching… Whether I’m sleeping, eating or doing the washing…
And the itching fungal lesion, I can’t help scratching! Which, of course, starts it off again, bleeding… I usually just clean it up and do the medicationing… Then feel sorry for myself, at how it is hurting!
But a Beep-Popper By Night!
Years ago, I loved to go Be-Bopping, Nowadays I get tired after burping! Occasionally, I sink to witwantoning, Not for long, I routinely fart and start yawning! Fall asleep, dream of me and Grizelda, tobogganing. We’d exercise, for suppleness and strengthening, Have multiple sessions of in-depth, close-up cuddling… Then, I’ll wake up… none of it was true – bloody sickening!
Part of The Inchcock Make ’em Laugh in Ode Series!
After Inchcock was diagnosed with Peripheral Neuropathy, he then got told he was a diabetic. Then had a stroke. (He’s a lucky lad… Not!) Next, a Subconjuntival Haemorrhage in his right eye.
Then while recovering in an NCH (Nottingham City Homes) Care Home, Shaking-Shoulder-Shirley introduced herself. He presumes this is due to the (Nicodemus’s) Nerve ends dying. But the occasional Neuropathy Pete’s shuddering, shaking and jerking of the right side of his body and limbs rarely last for more than a few minutes at max. Usually, Shirley is a lot more violent for some unknown reason and can wear the old man down when she’s persistent. Shaking and lashing about. Her efforts recently have increased somewhat, time-wise, and Inchcock says, “After a long hour or so session, I’m convinced she is trying to wrench my humeral head bone free of the socket” Oh, and Inchcock also needed three stitches in a shaving cut!
A mixture of awake, half-asleep, and dreamt discussions, wrote from notes and during the actual multiple chin-waggings…
Inchcock: I’m not sure why or how you came about… Shirley: Ha!, now you talk to me; I’m not as important as Bloody Boris bladder then, what’s that about? Inchcock: Whaddya mean about? Shirley: Yo started this ‘ere Talking to yer ailments series of blogs off wiv him… not me, who is far more painful indeed… innit, no doubt? Inchcock: Well… it depends which ailment is worst at the time… giving me the severest clot… Shirley: Argh, shurrup! You’ll know now why I’ve been giving the jerks and aches then? Cause yer doesn’t rate me was mean enough… yer, I’ll put yer in more pain than gout! Inchcock: I wouldn’t and don’t doubt your pain-giving qualities at all; I’m already in pain, tired and worn-out! Shirley: I suppose Bartholomew give it more to you? Inchcock: Well, he has been lasered and still works, Shirley: Cum on mush, look how yers treated me, bad or not! Inchcock: I massage you twice a day with Phorpain gel Shirley: Not like you, an old fart that still drinks bottled stout! Yer just an ungrateful old trout! Inchcock: I… Shirley: And another thing, I’ve never let the shoulder joint fall out! Inchcock: Well, I doubt… Shirley: I’ll tell yer to wot you done to me int past, Inured me you have, I remember the Colwick security stakeout! Inchcock: Go one then, tell me all about it… it won’t make me freak out! Shirley: Now yer makin’ me want to puke and pout! Inchcock: Pout? Why? What about? Shirley: Oh! Yer not bovvered about me puking then, yer an emotional wash-out! Inchcock: I remember now, Shirley, Colwick, when we did an overnight lookout… Shirley: Ah, year, that’s wot it was about! Inchcock: When I was using the night goggles, from the back of the van… and from it, I fell out, giving you a good clout? Shirley, you landed in a field, and blood did spout… Inchcock: Blood? Who’s? No, surely not? Shirley: It was me, and you bleeding.. have you no memory left or what? Inchcock: Erm… Shirley: The burglars arrived? You felt around in the dark for the R.T., went out of the van to take a nighttime photo, missed the step.., and fell on me! What an idiot! Inchcock: Ah, yes… I fell on a broken tin pot… Shirley: And it cut me! And you still never got the I.D. shot!
Shirley: Oi, you Inchie! Are you ready to have anuvver talk wiv me? Inchcock: Well, I’d like for me… Shirley: Don’t tell me, you’re back on the Drambuie? Inchcock: No, no, no, I don’t drink anymore… Shirley: Sounds like an oxymoron, yer fibbing, you see… Inchcock: No, I’m not, you’ve been hanging around for over seventy-odd years, must have noticed, so you must indeed acquiesce, concede, and agree? Shirley: Oh, trying to get clever with words, I see? Inchcock: Why are you so nasty and sarkie? Shirley: Me? I’ll tell yer why, dumbo! In left Shoulder Lilly, never, always me, that’s what causes my incongruity! Why is it always me the doctors stick the hypos in? Inchcock: Now look, we’ve grown old together, Shirley… Shirley: Yea! Inchcock: We’ve been through some tough times, we all suffer, Duodenal Donald, Anne Gyna, Reflux Roger, Deaf Darren, Hemorrhoidal Harold, Saccades Sandra all of them, oh, and Toothache Tiffany… Shirley: Enough of this claptrap mush! But I do wish you well with this little ditty! Inchcock: She suddenly returned into the ether; what a pity!
In an odd mood this morning, folks, sorry, The early morning perkiness indicates me; Has done a bunk, I fear! Grugglebogness! Worries over the increase in carer fees, but my stepdaughter Jill (not really, but she ought to adopt me!), is helping me out again and investigating why I have been told I will be paying it from last Monday, but no one has told me how much it will be? I fret so easily nowadays. Hehe!
There was a time long ago, I w fascinated by Dennis Wheatley, His character, Gregory Sallust, I thought was top quality, Cunning, dedicated, loyal, brave with great chivalry, I’d get back from the local hostelry, After drinking and revelry… Fall up or down the stairs accidentally, Badly affected, alcoholically.
Working and drinking made my entire constellation, For years, there was no guilt, and no contrition, Boozing gave me a social connection… I enjoyed it, beer and me had a cohabitation, My taxes paid, drinking gave me no consternation!
Then one day, suddenly I decided out of the blue, To stop my drinking ale, swearing never again to do! The hardest thing I’d ever done, I can tell you! I’ll not go into my suffering hullabaloo, Never since have I drank plonk or used a corkscrew!
Now, so many years later, life is barren… Of so-called friends, all abandoned me again, Now I am an aged, sickly doyen… Miserable, grumpy, but clean-shaven, Clean-shaven? Why was that written? I always wanted to be a Tibicen, A flutist, but that’s probably not relevant, I’m wandering here a bit, having a vent,
Not a vent… Erm… having a mental orbit! Feeling a bit of a twit, Misspellings lost words, things miswriting… I’m losing it again, Gawdamit!
My confidence is getting titchier, My mood is definitely schmaltzier, My trips to the Throne frequenter My Gawd, that’s four times this morning… What is happening? Each visit gets messier! Stomach aching and is paunchier! The passing of wind is getting noisier, Evacuated product is meatier! Every frequent wee-wee grows oozier! It’s a good job that I’m no longer boozier!
It’s the memory that confuses me most, I try, and I’ve not yet given up the ghost, The brain nowadays is a far outpost… Gives me access once or twice daily, at most! But still, I remain chatty and verbose… Seeking peace and inner glasnost, And the ability to do my blogpost!
The Carers come twice a day; most are congenial, Show patience, as I get confused, me being demential, Some take my rubbish to the bin, others are contractual, The good ones outweigh the not so good; it’s factual! I usually get the shakes and a wobble… Some chinwag, they go to that trouble, This leaves me in a contentment bubble!
I like to think that I am still trainable, But memory loss is always unavoidable, Although, day to day it can be changeable, That’s when I can get feeling unamiable… And, I believe there is only me blameable, Guilt can make contentment unavailable, Thinking at times that I should be throttleable, Then a kind act is given, and I get the unattainable, And life is temporarily less circumscriptible, Then no longer think I’m gullible or sulliable!
Some mornings I seem to transmogrify…
One leg fluid-filled, ‘tother thin, don’t know why?
Then there is Saccade Sandra, in my right eye,
My spectacles, the optician has to rectify,
He’s a snotty bloke, but at least I know why…
Last time I visited their pig-sty,
I warned the Lady of Peripheral Neuropathy, why?
Cause I’d had it bad, arm and leg shaking, me oh my!
The arm shot out, making her test lenses fly…
Her stare said she wanted me to painfully die!
The ladies hatred, I could not nullify!
So, going there again could make me cry!
This mornings carer, not ringing the bell, an oversight? No, she never does; I didn’t hear her, her voice is light, Crept up behind me, didn’t half give me a flipping fright! Did she say good morning? Well, she well might… But I didn’t hear her in the dark light.
“Sit down!” she suddenly boomed out, Sticking her finger out towards the chair, I took the medications, with trepidation about… But I didn’t sit in the chair, to be fair… I thought she wanted to give me a clout! I chatted about it being so dark, She was not ready for chin-waggings remarks, Yet departed, happy as a lark?
Depression began to activate… I found it hard to concentrate, The Porcelain Throne was again much used, Messy, tacky, splashes and floused… The Throne today is much overused! At last, it was done and cleaned. I did vacate… Leaving the hot tap running, I did not appreciate! No chance of a shave and shower now, mate! I was disoriented, irritable, not focused, In a massive fed-upperdness, I was circumfused, I need to get myself refocused Sod-it! Back to the Porcelain Throne, I had to navigate!
This below is the wet room, which contains the much overused Porcelain Throne. Today, I discovered that it includes 242 wall tiles, 54 cracks in the floor, and 78 on the ceiling. Which also has 14 lumps and a damp patch. The cross wording did not go well; two clues were solved in a total time on the book of three hours.
I begin with Little Inchies Bladder; I think I used all my luck up for the rest of my life around 1989. I got a hernia from lifting the bins at Hero Drinks at Kegworth, went in to have the Hernia Repaired, which they did immediately, putting me in the Men’s Surgery in Ward 19.
When I woke up, and they told me how lucky I had been! And they were right! When they went in with the laser and camera (Yes, I know… how the heck did get all that down Little Inchy you were going to ask, weren’t you? Well, I don’t know, I was blissfully asleep all the way through the operations!) The Consultant carried on; they found cancer in the bladder, which showed up on the mini laser camera, and being as they had all the same tools needed for the hernia, they burnt it out straight away! But my bladder capacity is reduced by 50%. Fair enough, I thought, thank you!
That brought a smile to my face! But the man wouldn’t let me kiss him. Hahaha!
He added that they would remove the catheter and bag from Little Inchy for me in a short while.
An Auxhilary nurse on her own arrived to do it. The poor gal was a bag of nerves and started to pull it out without bleeding it enough first. I asked her to stop and bleed it a bit more… the gal was shaking, bless her.
Above my ward was Prince Charles come in to have his tennis elbow looked at. The staff earlier were disgusted; the hospital had emptied the ward above me. I could hear them moaning about patients being put into a corridor!!! And set two nurses and a Sister on duty, 24/7 for the duration of the Prince’s visit.
Back to the beside:
A sudden, unbelievably loud screech/scream burst out from a nurse. I think, “Look, look, it’s Princess Di coming in!” At this, everyone who could move did so over to the window to look down at Di and her (they told me later) the armed protection officers, as they got her in through a fire door to avoid the press waiting, with cameras at the main front door!
Most unfortunately for me, the young nurse was amongst the Royalists who stampeded to get a view of Lady Di – and pulled the catheter out, catching it with her foot, I assume, as she rushed for her Royal treat!
So, I was with blood spraying up like a fountain, and covering me the bed, clothes and floor… Which the nurse spotted a minute or two later, and she came to me in a panic and crying at what she’d done! Sobbing her heart out, she was! Other staff arrived, the poor young lass couldn’t stop crying, and eventually, things got sorted.
A ranking nurse joined us and started to tear a strip off of the Axhilary nurse; I don’t know why, (Well, I do, I felt terrible for her), but I said; “No, it wasn’t her fault, I turned to see what the fuss was and pulled it out…” I’m sorry I said that now, cause for the next two days, my name was mud with nurses!
The first wee I took with the catheter out, shot forth as if from a fireman’s hose, bounced back from the walls – and I kid you not, left an imprint of my body on the back wall, with blood around it!
I’ve wandered off the plot here, haven’t I?
Sorry, back to the chinwag with the bladder fun…
Inchcock Gerry: Why do you have days when you don’t want to wee-wee, then go bad at it, mate?
Bladder Inchock: Why? It’s obvious, innit? Anyway, I don’t want to confabulate!
Inchcock Gerry: But for two days, you’ve flowed freely, been considerate?
Bladder Inchock: Humph!
Inchcock Gerry: What’s up? I’ve been taking in the extra fluid. Now it must be gallons you hydrate?
Bladder Inchock: That bloody surgeon lasered me; no wonder I can’t concentrate and urinate!
Inchcock Gerry: You should be glad, freed of death! A bit of pain, indeed you can tolerate?
Bladder Inchock: Listen clever-clogs, weeing for me, is variable, strangulate, freeflow, then it may stagnate!
Inchcock Gerry: What? I make sure water does circulate…
Bladder Inchock: I have pain too, do you appreciate?
Inchcock Gerry: Well, I can only speculate!
Bladder Inchock: I send you messages beforehand, admittedly just a few seconds at times, but you also had cancer on my prostate!
Inchcock Gerry: Oh, that’s my fault too, is it? I did ruminate.
Bladder Inchock: I hate talking to a thicko like you – why didn’t you become a graduate?
Inchcock Gerry: Well, I was uneducated and got a job cleaning the sluicegate…
Bladder Inchock: Sod off! You were chasing girls on yer one rollerskate!
Inchcock Gerry: Times were bad back then…
Bladder Inchock: Other people Inchy, have a toilet inside, not going out into the backyard, and having to wait…
Inchcock Gerry: Trust you to be irritable as you postulate…
Bladder Inchock: Ha! So now you accuse me of having irritable bowel syndrome as you orate?
Inchcock Gerry: I’ve no idea what I’m doing talking to a bladder?
Bladder Inchock: You’d better shut up then cause you’re making me madder!