Deep Emphatic Coronavirus Thoughts
Created by Nottingham Pensioner, Inchcock, while doing his ablutions
Apologies from Inchcock’s Carer for allowing this rubbish to be published!
Created by Nottingham Pensioner, Inchcock, while doing his ablutions
Apologies from Inchcock’s Carer for allowing this rubbish to be published!
Created for light entertainment and relief and a laugh, for us all.
Monetary thanks would be accepted, due to my isolation has meant I’ve ran out of cash
I decided, in a dream, I had yesternight,
Depression, I’ll resist, beat and outfight,
I must be strong, determined, not contrite,
I’ll be honest with myself, not like a Blairite,
My approach, will-power, must be definite!
I’ll have courage, like a brave medieval Knight,
And continue to show my vigour and fight,
Although my confidence may be finite,
This misery, I will surely try to expedite,
I must give this depression, no respite,
Ridding myself of this soul-destroying plight,
Who knows if I can, I just possibly might?
Then hopefully, I’ll get some sleep tonight,
And for supper, I can have some toasted Marmite!
Created during an aberrant spell of semi-confidence.
A spur of the moment, impulse, load of drivel, created, as Inchcock woke up. He asked me to pass on his apologies, as he was temporarily in Defcon 2 mode, mentally.
Going into self-isolation,
As is most of the nation,
To get the toilet rolls in?
The chances? None to thin,
Coronavirus, payment for our sin?
Tellurians, you must not bump into,
Tatterdemalion or the well-to-do,
Urges to touch, you must subdue,
Cut your hair in a basin cut hair-do,
Having sex is still under review!
But pigeons can still bill and coo?
No food in the shops,
Bread, milk, you might find a few,
You’ll have to fight and argue,
Battle with the determined queue,
Then blood and insults will spew,
The language was very blue!
You might try home delivery for food,
To sustain you and your brood,
If you do try home delivery food!
To the delivery man, do not be rude,
Self-isolation; is wrong, some folk argue,
But I’ll not be involved over this, thank-you,
HMG responses seem so impromptu,
Certainly going to cost us revenue,
Self-isolation, so many folk rue,
A bit of good news is overdue,
Confusion over what we must do,
We mustn’t shake hands too!
Is mankind’s end really in view?
Stuck at home, what do we do?
Clean shelves and dust that statue,
Pen some extra veins to your tattoo,
No food in, so no chocolate to chew,
Can’t get out to buy, so no making stew,
Your plans and orientation, gone askew!
Sit, read a book, perhaps of Fu Manchu,
Back of the fridge, mouldy Danish blue?
You’re starving now, crumbs for tea, that’ll do!
Dig around the sofa, for crisp-crumbs residue!
The nurse’s visit cancelled too,
Mind froze, stagnated, what will ensue?
Where is the spirit of World War Two?
Is it the end, will you ever again hear a cuckoo?
Is it to be, that you’ll not see another cup of tea?
Farewell, to your beloved tasty Glengettie brew?
Your mind gets depressed, whatever can you do?
Finally, you get a plan made and worked through!
Escape! Find food, and hopefully, a toilet roll too!
Your plan to go shopping, sanctioned by the Tenant’s escape crew,
How to get out though, whatever can you do?
They don you with a wig, to hide your bald head from view,
You know you may not return, but offer your neighbours, a thank-you,
Creep out, staying in the shadows, your walking stick oiled too,
Arrive at the store, but what a sight greets you…
Empty shelves, fighting, greed, at Sainsbury’s too!
Little fresh food, no toilet rolls, not even a tissue!
This is now a serious issue,
You give an Achoo – but ominously, nobody blesses you!
Published in Support of the Outer Peruvian Pregnant Kangaroo Appreciation Society
Hmong: Hnub Thursday 12 Lub Peb Hlis 2020
Not the ailments to blame,
It was the brain I could not contain,
My logicality was just the same,
No one, but myself to blame!
Concentration went away,
In fact, I was addicted,
The end was being predicted,
I forgot things before I remembered them,
I was coughing and bringing up phlegm,
Signs of concentration, precious few, a gem,
Thoughts of giving up, I could not stem!
The mind in a tizzy and stew,
So bad, I rarely made a brew,
I think I might be getting the flu,
I pressed on, Dizzy Dennis making me feel blue,
The mind, all of a hullabaloo,
Shaking Shoulder Shirley was with me too,
I felt in another world, I can tell you!
Nicodemus’s Neurotransmitters failing,
I felt like sobbing and wailing,
The brain was confused, unavailing,
Life was not plain sailing,
Forever pain and ailing,
Depression was prevailing,
I could do with some wassailing,
But my hopes were failing!
Will I ever again, go abseiling?
The grey-cells thoughts were tangled, here and there,
My shattered hopes, now beyond repair,
I’d almost finished updating this blog,
Believe me, it had been a hard slog!
After hours and hours, I felt all agog,
Computerising, I got the shakes,
I lost this diary, ‘For Gawd’s Sake!’
Demoralised, hit by an emotional earthquake,
How much more, can I take?
This morose rubbish was penned by Inchcock when he was at his lowest.
Having just missed a second appointment at his Dentists!
It flowed from his now even-more depressed mind easily. Too easily.
But, the old fool still posted it. Bless the poor old twit!
I started out on my trip to town today,
I got through to the lifts, to my dismay,
The elevators all 12-floors below,
I waited patiently before I could go,
I had the scenic view to peruse, though!
Walking through the link-passage again,
Welcomed by the pouring rain,
Trapped my fingers in the swipe-door, the pain!
I chatted with Angela and Elaine,
Out to get wet, but didn’t complain,
T’was nice to get out of the flats again!
Off the bus, greeted with a jogging student’s glare,
I just tossed him back, a similar stare,
The rain worked its way, through my jacket,
I wouldn’t mind, but it cost me a packet!
Nottingham City Centre, I wondered why I ever went there!
I remembered though, it was to buy food, starting at Aldi first,
I hobbled my way down a rainy Glasshouse Street,
At the shop, I bought a lot of fodder, even some Bratwurst,
Then paid, wandered off, for my spending was incomplete,
To Bargain Buys, they’d no potato cakes, that made me curse!
Mansfield Road, rain and Pavement Cyclists abound!
Next a bloke on a Lambretta, I cursed, and moved on,
Nottinghamian’s serenity, smiles, were not to be found,
As to Trinity Square, I was soggily bound!
En route, this bit of Street Art below, I found,
It lay there, wet, upon the ground,
On Old Street, it was found,
Broken bottles nearby, a battleground.
I moved away, like a limping greyhound!
I got through Trinity Square, left via Kings Walk.
Not many folks about at all?
No one to say hello to, or talk,
Then we had a little rain squall!
Parliament Street had a few more folks around, I have to say,
Unemployed, Students, shoplifters, muggers, no policemen though.
The rain started pouring heavier, not a nice day,
So many eateries in one place, how do they all make any dough? (Hahaha!)
Down Market Street, I did wobble along,
The rain temporarily having stopped,
I think I sang a joyful song,
The tram gave out a melodic ‘Klong-Klong’,
I might use this photo later, as a ‘Thoughts’ backdrop!
A damp Slab Square, where did the people go?
Is it the rain, are Social Services Inspectors lurking?
Which department are they from, if so?
After illegal immigrants, or claimants working?
A mystery to me, I don’t know.
Nottingham’s cheerless Wheeler Gate, depression flowed,
My target, in Turquoise, the Poundland shop!
Competing coffee shops each side of the road,
Staff sneering at each other, as a goad!
I came out of Poundland, with a massive load,
Two bags on the trolley handles, it went all over the road,
I spent so much, I wondered how much I owed!
To the bus stop home, along South Parade,
Though the tatty, unkempt Slab Square,
A slight Accifauxpas, I’m afraid I made,
The rain started again there,
Got my brolly out, the one for which £10 I paid,
It fell to bits, and to be right and fair,
I couldn’t bend down, so I left it there!
Over the Slab Square, to the King Street/Long row junction,
Where the brain struggled to function,
I had a Dizzy Dennis cumulation,
When the head cleared, and the brain regeared,
With admiration for architect Watson Fothergill grew,
Just looking at his work, my heart cheered.
On the way up Queen Street, the trolley-walker veered,
Very nearly tipping over, that’s something I feard,
It became so unruly, it understeered,
By gum, I thought, this is weird!
Ah, a big-clump of chewing gum from the wheel was cleared,
I must say, I was greatly cheered!
I arrived on Parliament Street, greeted by the smiling populace,
A cheery smile on every face,
Oh, how I love the place,
Mind you, I had my can of Mace!
I called in the Poundland shop,
Shoplifters were arguing, having a strop,
I didn’t want to eavesdrop,
So I didn’t stop!
I notice pedestrians crossing the road against the red lights,
But all was eerily quiet, no fights,
I bloke chucked out of Burger King, what a sight!
Another chap was as high-as-a-kite!
Then two gals started a cat-fight,
I ran away, and well, I might!
Clumber Street, I rested, the knees were stinging and tight,
Along came two men, one on crutches, the other on a bike,
I told the biker, it wasn’t right,
Driving so close to me on a bike,
He told me to take-a-hike!
Why do folks do this, I wonder why?
Two imitation policemen stood nearby,
They said and did nowt,
Cause they have no clout,
I moved on and gave a sigh!
Long Row, above the Yorkshire bank,
1833, bet these were built with pride and swank,
But such architecture goes unnoticed, to be frank,
By youngsters, with acne and a look that is blank,
To them, workmanship & beauty is not worth a Franc!
Long Row businesses, failing so so much now,
This shop used to be Burtons food store,
Where you could buy pork, bread or a cow,
I miss it more and more,
I can still smell the meat, somehow,
Though we couldn’t afford it, we were poor!
Ah, another pavement cyclist, for short, PC, I’ll call them,
One hand on his handlebar, texting on his phone in his hand,
He even spat out some horrible phlegm!
Some say they should be banned,
But not by the Greens or Lib-Dem!
A gathering of Nottinghamians resting,
Unemployed, students, and shoplifters?
The bored, the drunks, and Brexit debaters?
Look at their faces, it’s interesting,
They all glare at me, as if they hate us!
City Centre, Long Row, and, the Slab Square,
Architecture by Fothergill Watson, who was the absolute best!
The man was a genius, with skill and flair!
Better than all the rest,
And, I’m only being fair!
Queen Street, I nearly got hit by yet another PC,
Delivering food, perhaps pizza, burgers, or a fricassee?
Maybe once again, one will run into me?
But I carry my taser, just in case you see!
This rubbish was wrote during an evil spell of the dizzies and shakes,
By Inchcock, while he ate his supper, of cheesy cakes.
I fank you!
I had a thought, the other day,
It would not go away,
But here I am to write it down today,
Huh! I’ve forgotten what it was, Oh, lackaday!
I was caught laughing on Monday morning,
The Doctor was worried,
To the psychiatrist, I was hurried,
Now I’m no longer able-bodied,
I believe insanity is dawning!
I’ll have parsnip soup tonight, curried!
I worry a lot nowadays,
Through my mind’s confused haze,
Why am I not confident, there’s a trail to blaze?
I’m old, decrepit and stuck in my ways,
Life’s a pain, it’s been wretched in recent days,
Freeing yourself of worrying can be done; the Doctor says
Watch an old DVD of Dawson’s ‘Say’s Les’,
Act like Tommy Cooper, and wear a fez,
I worry a lot nowadays!
Doing the ablutions is not an easy task!
I’ll cut myself daily having a shave,
To ease the pain, I take my hip-flask,
Dizzy Dennis calls, and blood is flittered,
Shaking Shaun, makes me feel all forlorn,
The dropsies fall, sometimes landing on my corn,
Then I droppeth the showerhead,
Though sometimes, the Sock-Glide instead,
The Sock-Glide removes chunks from my finger,
But in the shower, I become a singer,
An older Elvis, I’m a dead-ringer,
Apart from being short and having no hair,
And I can’t sing, to be fair,
Life can be so cruel and unfair, so there!
But there’s help out there somewhere,
I just don’t know where. But do I care?
Nowadays, and I think it’s a real pity,
Life’s full of astucity, atrocity and a definite caducity,
It’s still easy enough, for me to be friendly and witty,
But sadly, only through a silly internet ditty,
Doing hoovering, hand-washing and other domesticity,
Brings pain, agony in all its ferocity,
Arthur Itis, Anne Gyna, neurotmesis axonotmesisity,
Duodenal Donald, Reflux Roger, with their tenacity,
All combine, to stop the housework,
Someone call saying; ‘Look at this filthy dust. You idle burke!’
But life’s always been depressing,
It started when I was born you know,
Worries were soon rampant, though,
But I had my health,
Even if, no wealth,
Britain had its Commonwealth,
I got through using cunning and stealth!
This post was formulated while Inchcock was waiting in the Mary Potter Treatment Centre for his ankle-ulcer, and bruised thigh from his falling off of the L9 bus to be treated. During which he had his Peripheral Neuropathy diagnosed.
Just thought I’d mention it, like.
Part of: The Nottingham Lads True Tales of Woe Series
Swann’s Yard, off Long Row,
Has it been cleaned, if so, long ago,
The rats were running, to and fro,
The smell meant I soon had to go!
Queen Street, near the L9 bus stop,
Rubbish, waste, decaying food,
Wrappers from Bird’s cake shop,
Not really art, dirty and so crude!
Use it as a ‘Don’t Litter sign’ backdrop?
Ah, low windows on which to rest your weary bum?
Street-sleepers can watch the diners eat and suck a thumb?
Artistically, it has little worth,
It’s not worth a lot, but down to earth,
The Tate might buy it, they show other scum!
The famous rock hardened Nottingham chewing gum on show,
The Council can’t get it off of the floor you know,
People are still dropping it, though!
It won’t come off, I’ve had a go!
Petrol, bleach, I even tried a Brillo,
Chewing gum and a proper fork too!
Likely stolen from a restaurant,
Perhaps the Foo Man Choo?
They’ll take anything they want,
These Nottingham Street Artists do!
This is a waste bin on the pavement edge,
Around on the floor, a pastie, nub-ends, and a potato wedge,
A bit of onion, and some phlegm and spit,
I don’t like this one a little bit,
I suppose it’s been done by kids at the college?
The entrance to a Long Row store,
The artwork here is pretty poor,
I see there is no chewing gum on the floor?
But below, you’ll see some more!
Roll-up nubs, chewing gum and escaping fluid,
Simple, neat, by a King Street Druid?
Or a drunken phone addicted kid?
Columbidae Columbiformes Columbimorphae Aves, made?
Pigeons, it’s not, though their phoo is the same shade!
Back to Queen Street, where there’s real Street Art again,
My enthusiasm is beginning to wain,
Cleaning this up is such a pain,
The culprits should be slain!
Mind you, Brexit is a bigger problem and stain!