Category Archives: anxiety

Working through life’s surprising ups and downs, in a manner of speaking. Sadly, true story.

All (Out Of) Sorts.

I am never going to consume licorice ever again;
That sweet Dutch treat I can nevermore entertain,
Last night’s pack of All Sorts, now crumpled cellophane
Leaving me with cold sweats and cramping stomach pain.

I am never going to resume consuming licorice again,
This morning I daren’t stray far from my favoured domain,
My private retreat of stainless steel, white tiles and porcelain,
Were my cubicle further away I fear I couldn’t bear the strain.

I repeat, I’m never going to consume licorice again-
Every step’s a gamble between pot-luck and methane,
Now my appetite for Twizzlers I truly cannot contain,
Gimmie Montezumas Revenge and I won’t complain.

Premier League; Frustrations from a foaming-at-the-mouth fan. And no, not a Wolves one!

Again, Palace Presents…

Wolverhampton wandered on to Selhurst Park,
For the Black country boys the future looked dark,
One place away from propping the Premiership up,
Hoping for a goalless draw or for Palace to slip up.

The past has shown
Slip ups aren’t unknown.

The doughty Palace team score, and then on the hour
A Wolves player wrestles himself into an early shower,
Surely for Palace this must mean game, set and match?
Ten man whimpering Wolves will be easy to dispatch.

The referee decides, at last
To give this game a final blast…

Of course, in that last lingering moment Wolves whip in a cross,
They score, and to this Palace fan the draw feels more like a loss,
The way my Eagles cough up points would make a parrot sick;
The reason, last day of the season my nails are down to the quick.

We knew it would happen again, and it did. But so soon? Mr President, its time for a little control. Please?

Mad Dog Days.

They’re still shivering in the aisles down at old El Paso
Though it’s been a lazy slow cookin’ Southern hazy crazy afternoon,
There’s a similar smoky atmosphere at Peppers Bar up in Dayton, Ohio;
Let’s pray to God (or whoever) there’s a change in the weather- mighty soon.

Growing up ain’t easy, no sirree. Boy, it pains me even now to recall just how hard it was. Memories still tugging away at the heart-strings. All so long ago and far far away.

The Dark Side, Han Solo and Me.

I was just on the cusp of that painfully awkward age
When sweet dreams turn strange and hormones rage,
When I went off to bed my sleep was thin and fleeting,
Boy, those crazy fever dreams would take some beating.

One night I drank down my cup of warm Ovaltine,
Settled into my Star Wars sheets, crisp and clean,
Safe and sound in my bed, tucked up nice and warm
I slept, dreams wandering towards the female form.

I woke with a sudden start, bolt upright I shot,
I was panting, burning hot, and in quite a spot,
My Luke Skywalker PJs now fitted rather snugly,
The reason, once it appeared, was pretty ugly.

I could only conclude that either time is a thief
Or I’d fainted for a moment, sublimely brief,
But once I was roused from my involuntary nap
I spied an issue that embarrasses many a young chap.

Past Mother dear in the kitchen I tried to scamper
With sheets and PJs hid deep in the laundry hamper,
Mama sweetly enquired what I had spilt on the quilt,
Gazing into my eyes, seeing two mute revelations of guilt.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, I swiftly let mine fall,
She picked up the phone, went into the hall, made a call,
Spoke to Papa in the hushed tones reserved for disaster,
Hung up, promptly called on assistance from the Pastor.

He told me of the sin of Onan, of strong willpower,
Of the cool soothing benefits of a long cold shower,
To stay pure of mind, ignore the lure of the Devils daughter;
But my sinful thoughts couldn’t be washed away by Holy Water.

The good Pastor tried, oh by God he tried
To act as my mentor and my spiritual guide,
He strongly advised me to seek comfort in prayer
And to toss out my poster of gold bikini clad Princess Leia.

He pulled out the Good Book, he quoted chapter and verse-
Old Testaments about plucking thine eye out- and worse-
God knows, growing boys are plagued by growing glands
But did the Pastor have to slip in the old tale of hairy hands?

All this noble talk came to naught,
I’d go to bed tense and overwrought,
Even if I fell asleep untouched by shame
In my dreams Leia beckoned, and I came.

My belief in divine retribution faded day by day,
I preferred to live and believe in a galaxy far far away,
As my developing mind and body grew and evolved
I decided if we’re made in His image- problem solved.

Still, as I soaped up behind the streaming shower door
For a hot and steamy best part of an hour- or more-
I wondered if the down sprouting under my arms
Might start to gravitate down to my palms.

With a face overrun with acne and suppurating pimply sores
No pretty girls would face me, so I withdrew into Star Wars,
For three years I held Princess Leia close, to my heart,
Reimagining Star Wars with me playing the Hand Solo part.

One day I passed the Pastor and he stopped and said
‘Have you been good?’ and I felt my face burning red,
All that sage advice He had offered that I’d not taken-
He turned away, leaving the hand I’d proffered unshaken.

I was slipping down the Dark Side of a slippery slope,
I’d long lost the Pastors faith but just when I’d lost hope
Sweet Charity took pity on me, made me, her latest rookie,
Otherwise it was chop off my right hand or become a Wookiee.

Texas, a law unto itself; guns, religion, rights, and an Attorney General who makes you get down on your knees and ask ‘Why, in the name of all that’s Holy, why?’

The Arms Of Jesus.

You don’t want to mess with the Lone Star state,
They don’t believe in listening to illiberal debate,
They have faith in a President and God being great,
They stick to their guns, say their piece- and shoot straight

There, their view on life is conservative,
There a God-fearing life you better live,
Where if, for public office you hope to stand
You have to have an NRA permit in your hot hand.

Now, they have an Attorney General, name o’ Ken,
Once a highfalutin lawyer a pric– prince amongst men,
He swears by commandments delivered way back when
Though in Texas ‘Thou shalt not kill’ scrapes in at number ten.

Now good ol’ Ken wants to bring guns into church-
Be like good ol’ times, back at the good ol’ John Birch-
There’s nothing like feeling ones faith being bolstered
Than a pistol pressed to your heart, shoulder holstered.

Soon at church you can sing to Him, do the Mass,
Hope like hell the hymn don’t strain the stained glass,
There, while others pray you must just let the sermon pass,
On alert for an armed invader intruding, ready to cap his ass.

But Kens legislation isn’t the blessing that it seems,
Taking arms into Gods house is taking it to extremes,
Has Ken miss-heard His word, or skipped the Lesson?
Or is he knee deep in the service of Smith and Wesson?

The Premier League Football Show! Drama, farce, heart-rending finales! Or a cheap slipshod Horror Show. Direct from Manchester, we present-

Dribbling On.

I’ve been reduced to tears with what I’ve just sadly seen,
A bad Shakespearean tragedy, played out on the big screen,
I saw a dull first act, then a direr second half, ay, but the rub
Was seeing City outperform United, down at our neutral pub.

How those happy blue-clad lads scoffed and laughed
As I sobbed in the shadows, hand clenched to my Draught,
To drown my sorrows it’s swig, swallow, belch- then repeat;
But not even Boddingtons can dull the pain of this bitter defeat.

I rewound the game in my mind, I compared the teams,
My United looked all clapped-out at the Theatre of Dreams,
Especially statuesque Pogba, devoid of emotion- or motion;
The only thing to get him goin’ would be some Sennapod potion.

Our offence seemed content to quietly sit back
Hoping indolence would be the best form of attack,
The City midfield were all fleet of foot and quick of mind,
Ours gave chase, ran all over the place, always two feet behind.

But our backline stood tall and strong, stout and true,
They and the keeper conspired to keep out all- but two;
So all I can do is put on a smile and say ‘the best team won,’
I love Old Trafford, but Gunnar, there’s rebuildin’ to be done.

Walking woozily to the bar I recall when we were Best,
Now the froth has gone, up at the top are teams I detest,
It’s with tears in my beer I cry ‘Christ, how can life be so cruel?’
God above, my choice for Champion is down to City or Liverpool.

Seasons come and go, but winter is the only one that, depressingly, doesn’t go fast enough.

Things Are Picking Up At Walgreens.

We were out for a last Fall sunny Sunday drive-
The forecast says a Winter blast is due to arrive,
As around the picturesque river road we wended
It was plain to see our long Indian Summer had ended.

In the breeze the golden leaves were autumnally falling,
An ill wind was coming, a most unwelcome cold calling,
Soon it would be months of dark depressing grey days,
Soon my summery smile would be impossible to raise.

The chill of Winter, when good humour hibernates,
When goodwill towards ones good fellows dissipates,
Winter, the time of running noses and lingering coughs,
When there’s more downs than ups, less peaks than troughs.


On gloomy winter days when you cannot face yourself
Help is at hand, up in the medicine cabinet, top shelf,
Push aside the Vicks, the Sudafed, the razor, so keen,
And all is happiness and light, thanks to… Fluoxetine!