A Little Trip To Merry Nottingham – Photographically & Poetically told

4Thu19

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!

4Thu19a

I called in the Poundland shop,

Shoplifters were arguing, having a strop,

I didn’t want to eavesdrop,

So I didn’t stop!

4Thu19b

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!

4Thu19cClumber 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!

4Thu19d.

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!

4Thu19ELong 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!

4Thu19fLong 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!

4Thu19gAh, 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!

4Thu19HA 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!

4Thu19iCity 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!

4Thu19JQueen 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!

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

Befuddling Thoughts in bad poetry, from Inchcock! Part of the Nottingham Lads True Tales of Woe series

6Sat05

WDP 2019B01

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!

———————————————————————

WDP 003f

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!

———————————————————————

WDP 003k

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!

———————————————————————

WDP 01 right

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,

Whoopsiedangleplops committed,

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?

———————————————————————

WDP 09aR

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!’

———————————————————————

GCPram

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