NEW HOME

Dear Patient,

I (do not) regret to inform you that I have moved to a brand new surgery (in a less pikey area) down the road at the following address:

http://snoozenight.com/

I pass on my best regards and luck in this age of postcode lottery / online health advice and hope you will join  me for a medical or even a prostate examination at my new premises.

In the interests of freedom of information, all records will be kept here on file for the forseeable future.

Kind regards


Dr HamHock MD

Nuggets

Keep going 24/7 like a perpetual Boeing 747.

Humans are a species of monkeys with over-developed ego glands.

FACT: The influence for Chris De Burgh's hit sing "Lady in Red" came from a red sock he had his cock in.

Did you know that Lamb cannot be electrically stunned before slaughter? It's because wool is a good insulator, apparently.

If a man writes a tweet that only women read, is it still wrong?

Sitting, furrowed brow, head in his hands. Concentrating. Deep in thought. "Why? Why? How is it possible?". Plop. The poo comes out.

Alan has a large ego. Instead of assuming he is better than the rest, he tests himself against them and often comes out with a larger ego.

Bill's girlfriend is asleep, snoring, mouth WIDE open. He pops a live spider and a worm on her tongue. Why? Why not!

What do you call a terrorist from Ibiza? Allsummer Binlargin'

My father is just back from having triple heart bypass surgery. For a warm welcome, I'm hiding in his wardrobe & I've put a rat in his bed.

Getting dressed in the dark was never a problem until I ripped Fido's guts putting on a pair of dog.

I kid you not: the first thing I saw today was a man balancing a peanut on his dog's nose.

Colin Firth puts fingers up his nose, grabs a tuft of nasal hair & pulls sharply. He grimaces. His eyes water. That scene won him an Oscar.

With trousers around his ankles, singer Will Young leans over his pet dog. Wide eyed, the border collie worries about the cock on his back.

He Man sniggers at an open window, throwing darts at stray cats. For a moment the laughing stops and a single tear rolls down his cheek.

Take comfort in the fact that I watch you, and your partner, with my cock in hand, as you sleep.

A disturbed Simon Cowell stands in front of the monkey enclosure. Dodging thrown feaces, semen & vomit the chimps don't vote him through.

There's a space down there, a disgrace I like to bare, with very little hair, for tender loving care, it gets a lot of wear. #itsmycock

Sliding on his back, from the bus seat behind me, A naked Thomas Yorke's head appears between my legs. He's winking. Or is he? He is. Isn't

Having never mixed with the obese pigs populating our country, the actor Alan Rickman kindly gives up his bus seat for a pregnant man.

The door slams shut, his wife has gone out. Never one to miss an opportunity, Ross Kemp strips naked, lies on the floor and meows loudly.

Loaf of bread in each hand, a baguette stuffed down his trousers; bare-chested he screams, "Come On F*ckers!!". The ducks seem unimpressed.

Looking out over London Town: a girl screams. You would. Razorblades cellotaped to playground slides hurt.

When I'm out with the girlfriend & I go for a poo, I tell her "there was a big queue". I also tell her this when i take a dump at home

Haggard, stinking hobo is ripped to the tits on skag.Begging for money he stumbles into traffic and is maimed.It's 8am. It's your boss.

Their eyes met across a crowded barn. Time stood still as Daisy fluttered her long eyelashes at Gertrude while defecating 3kg of rotten hay

Far, far, way out in the distance I see a naked man wailing, jumping up and down, crying with rage. I stole his clothes.

Quietly he presses he sneaks up on his sleeping Grandma: pressing his naked buttocks to her face. He farts. Poo comes out. But not from him

Get The London Look: Central Line, naked. Legs APART. Copy of the Metro covering the tackle. Tip of cock visible peeking out underneath.

A man dressed in a twin set, skirt with strappy sandals, flirts and then seductively asks the butcher about his terminally ill wife.

Crouching over a kitten, dropping loose yellow stools onto its soft fur. The kitten eats my poo while crying tears of joy. Why?

Moonwalking into the path of an oncoming train, shouting "heeee hooo" just before impact. All that is left is a single silver glove.

Licking the window of a bus, mouthing "suck it the fuck up" at the 60 year old bodybuilding chinaman on the other side of the glass

Taking photos of my flatmates while wanking and whispering "I'm going to kill you all"

Cock AND balls hanging out of the left leg of my shorts while Grandma watches Grandstand.

What have I done since my emotional departure from Walford? I was never in Walford.

It's not insomnia, it's distractnia.

Pieces of 88.8fm. Pirate Radio. Playing your favorite songs by 80's chart toppers "Aha" all day, every day.

Yours truly's shoe meets goo disguised as brown leaf litter dropped from dog shitter.

Frozen. Needs gloves hats mac scarves chaps thermal undercracks knits mountain kits crampons. Fuck it. I'll get creative with tampons.

Laptop's not got what that twat Hock wants. His ponce PC won't boot easily for me and fuck-me-days it's less computer more greasy tea-tray.

Can't decide whether London is a real life Coruscant, or a massive Mos Eisley.

Gok Wan continues the long voyage towards his dream of looking like a fifty year old Thai female.

Just attended the wedding of a mate who was first introduced to me by Sonic the Hedgehog. How random is that? 

Dear DrHamHock...

Dear DrHamHock,
My boyfriend's penis is too large and it hurts when we make love.  So much so that I am thinking of giving him a shove.  Allow me to expand on the point.  Or not as the case may be.
Sporty footballer boyfriend Harry "Big Boy" Barry is happy as Larry with everybody knowing of his massive members club.  Showering in sports changing room, not much room.  His hunk of trunk wears the soap.  The local football team panting between tackles riding sliding tackles leaving a single deep track in the grass.
Happy as can be until Barry is dealt a low blow by his bride-to-be.  She wants nothing more than to dowse his arousal.  "Like trying to push a balloon into a pint glass" his girlfriend wants to call time on his pub lunch and swap main course for a smaller starter as the the main vein causing pain in her business lane.  She longs to shrink the dink and cool her lady flames.
With such a pendulous tumescence his time is up as a pleasant pleasure presence in the rudeoir.  His lady friend will bin him off for a smaller model: for something easy to park with a comfy ride, with a feeling of spaciousness when the driver's inside:  A Japanese model may do the trick and if she doesn't like the cut of his jib, she must avoid cutting-down his nib.
A hard decision is a-head as wifey tries to avoid the knifey and choose a small natural penis instead.
A natural hobbit rather than another John Wayne Bobbitt.

Kind regards,
Celine, Durham.

DrHamHock Says,
"Thank you for your letter, Celine.  I suggest chopping his knob off".



Dear DrHamhock,
My boyfriend has a terribly hairy back.  It's repulsive.  What can I do to get over this?
Your Sincerely,
Chantelle, Essex

Dr HamHock Says,
"Roaming combs over his hairy back and whispering sweet nothings will do diddly squat to your worries. Tune-in to a future of grooming when once ancient humans would pick & peck unwanted visitors from the furry neck and skin of monkey kin.  Instead of ticks and lice, be nice offering to comb or brush his rear-view bush, luring him toward your ultimate goal of owning a shaved monkey.
I hope this helps." 

Another Poem About Bodily Excretions

"Just sneezed on your back, mate",  I shout in my head.

I hate having a cold, coughing makes me feel wretched and old.

Sneezing followed by wheezing followed by sweet fucking bejeeezzing.

This poem pleases pharmaceuticals:

(in three weeks time my freebies will arrive

And I'll be thriving on medical ebay sales

and admiring the state of my cuticles.)

Longing for cigarettes and coffee, with only coffee providing relief.

Without coffee I feel my brain degrading and fading

Like the excruciating fools I rub shoulders with day-to-day,

The fools launching trebuches of spit and dog shit.

Smelling of Marmite, fags and, oddly, cat shit.

Smash and grab from the nasal grocer,

Snorting liquid-cabbage when the owner gets closer

Stealing greens five-a-day from my hooter

I'm better being known as a nostril looter.

Drop a pill for your ills

Your ails pail into insniffsnifficance

Failing that stick one up eat snout

That should keep the sniffles out.

And plug the glug of green mud.

You'll just look like a bit of a twat for a while.

Until the next nose-slugs slide single file

Allowing at least a single private lick of sweet salty bogey

before society demands the "Man Size" Tissue to control the terrible issue.

Coughing, gasping, wretching, fetching up nothing, then something new.

Something borrowed, something greeny-blue.

That new something being a runny and familiar goo

Like the streaks down my sleeve and the drips on the floor and the marks on the handle of the door.

And the splat on the back of you. 

Lovely man flu image (with fun article) from HERE 

I done dis

Dis here

And support friends of the surgery.

Pigeon Cunt. Get off my Scotch Egg

A pigeon after crumbs waddles over for scraps of Scotch egg.

Brave enough to eat near my feet with its flabby beak.

Clumsily it comes after my crumbs.

The try-hard rotund retard can't fly, won't fly.

Its swollen beak leading the snack-sneek.

It walks; more overladen than hidden,

 The bold bird heard making haste for my poor-taste waste.

My friendly fat fuck of an airborne tramp eats boiled avian abortion.

Cautiously stooping with one portly eye on me and one on the food.

The fear and need to leave is far as it feeds near.

The tubby winged rat wanting dregs of my rotten egg flotsam.

Still with one eye on the big guy,

ready to fly,

circling,

looping,

never breaking stare

at the giant scary human bear,

tearer of pork in breadcrumbs,

ever decreasing circles to be fed-crumbs .

The single pork-sod becomes three becomes seven birds,

 A flock of flying fat fock.

One speculator,

 becomes three prospectors,

 becomes seven investors and consumers.

Picking away at the crumbs of the uncommon man.

The lardy buddys waddling, heads nodding.

If the greedy, needy, feathered cunt had a tongue...

it'd be lolling while strolling

for out-loud land-nom off LOLondon crossing. 

These beggars can be choosers;

either consumers or losers;

belly full or trousers looser.

If pigeons wore trousers that is.

Which they don't because they're birds.

Adam

He poked the hole he'd just made, sucked his teeth, grimaced, swallowed and pushed his forefinger in, just up to the second knuckle.  It felt warmer and wetter than the rest of it.  Certainly more alive than he expected.  He withdraws, lifting up to his nose to give it a sniff.  It smelt metallic, and maybe beefy.  He shook his head and goes back to the hole, gently pushing two fingers in - just the tips.  The hole drains a little, stretches and tears slightly.  The extra play in the knife wound allows him to hook the fingers back on themselves, creating a handle of sorts in his dead mother's abdomen.  It feels strong, so he gives it a tug.  His fingers slip around inside but the handle doesn't give up. So he pulls harder.  Like a bowling ball, he lifts up what's left of her body up - just part of the head, the torso and left leg.  A pint of hot, clear liquid fluid drains a gaping socket.  The tiny handhold silently splits open and the body drops back down.

The person that he was 24 hours ago has long gone; replaced by a curious creature.  It neither recognises the corpse nor does it recognise itself, nor will it remember the events of today.

Fortunately for the last 14 hours, including the last few hours of the corpse, from the corner of the room, Adam had been watching the whole thing.

"Arpeggiate" is Highlighted

A boiling kettle hissing, whistling buried beneath metal floors.

 Jet planes landing struggling against cross-winds; struggling against turnaround times and fines. 

 The torture of so much quiet noise; but never screaming all at once.

 The drawing of curtains over and over again, finger nails tapping Morse gibberish on slices of plant and earth.

Hammer and hate arpeggiate and syncopate generate a rate of rhythm.

Ringing, the voice diminishes repeats and finishes clues to a puzzle giving us everything and leaving us with nothing. Offers satisfaction for metal beckons.

Once in a while another world comes straight past us facing where we've been, knowing where we're going.

There's a fan, whirring but no breeze.

When frame fades my face appears straight mouthed near looking through geek pork pies.

Nothing remains but wire, bag, flask and box and yours truly.

One of four, the other three stare with glee, happiness sewn into the fabric of their existence:

Grey frogs from a distance arms raised with salute or outstretched with resistence. one hundred names from two tribes; those extrovert those introvert.

The static march home goes on and on but not forever and never alone.

Choo Choo. 

Time to wheel out my "old chestnut" again.....

I'm a secret wanger strangler

Honing a black fantasy back at home.

Well, it's my mother's home, but I'm home alone.

Home of her 50 year-old son all alone, polishing his dome, whipping his foam.

Key in the door! Tissue hits the floor, zip-up, wipe-down, cum-face turns to frown.

A short-term deposit loses interest withdrawn in an instant as parent draws-in.

Too late to open a new account in the Hong Kong and Shanghai Wank Bank

A tissue full of rank deposited by a yank, a spank and a crank on my plank.

Fuck this, no space, I ain't got a place to shed this waste

11pm and out, off to the local meat market to mark fresh meat

The two-quid-and-you're-in nightclub is my sex life, my new position;

My on-top, my underneath and from behind.

Nocturnal home of my imaginary wife;

The invisible trouble and strife, reality reveals I'm alone with my knife.

A pork sword to sink, piggy-snout without the squeal and snorts

A curly tail, thin and pink.

An animal part I waggle over the bathroom sink.

There's the dance floor.

Full of whore, girls next door, phwoar and pussy galore.

My pants score.

Pitching more tent than a Millets sales floor.

 Wristing and wrestling with my pocket Ghandi

Hole in my pocket is coming in handy,

Nobody knows I'm feeling this randy,

Flicking my thumb on my swollen glandy,

Cant quite hide my full hand-shandy.

Need a different modus operandi.

The best-before date long expired on this hard-candy.

A frankly frightly public wank stinking of my nightly rank.

Girls shake; my cock wakes.

Rock-hard pant-loaf starting to bake.

This pound-cake is beginning to ache.

Springing up like a stood-on a rake.

Burnt-on crust, floured with white dust.

Week-old ingredients from a one-handed crust.

Sour dough-balls but no mouths to fill.

My imagination is a Bible for the mentally ill.

A seedy baguette heavy on the yeast

A sour-dough-roll and a long hard feast

Pants are possessed by a hard greased beast,

Groin needs exorcising by a Catholic priest.

Risen in my Aga, this un-proven mess is getting harder,

The third-leg steak-cake is sweating in my larder,

Need to give my snake a break.

Before my trousers opaque.

Did I say "Snake"?

Did I say "French Stick"?

Shame it's a lie, here's the truth about my dick:

It's more two cheese balls and a quarter bread-stick.

Visualise a candle - it's the size of the wick.

More "Little Richard" than "HRH King Dick".

I bolt.  A jolt to the system. Liquid loose from pink cistern.

A jump in my pants turns to a lump in my throat as I note across the dance, three men by chance, have clocked my frantic nightlife antics and are soon to cross the room intent on sinking my boat like the Titanic.

I twist and turn to leave this joint,

Making my way to the cloakroom point.

Pick up my dirty mac, checking back, fellas getting nearer, push clear for the rear door, lunging for the street, sends past the bouncers, benders, the poor and the shit-in-a-tray vendors.

Nightbus calling, dodging the trails of sick and shit, gotta shake my tail, but not in the same sense as the tail-shaking earlier which waked my tail, shaked my nail, whacking my wanger like a rough old wrangler.

I'm a secret wanger strangler.

Fleet of feet I turn down a street, safe to return next week for more geek-peek under the sheet of loud beats in my disco retreat.

Like the secret lemonade drinker only stinkier, creepier, night-stalking night-clubs knight-stick gland in hand, my fleshy night-club to rub with a stalk-on I get my walk-on to flesh out my fantasy back at home.

Well, it's my mother's home. But I'll be home alone.

Scone Watch REDUX

GEOGRAPHY 
Pikachu Circus, LoLondon

TASTE
A sconebomb blasting your tastebuds lasting like waste goods after it's long gone.

SMELL
A sweetly smokey ghost, fragrant and moist, lingering most neatly; a jokey vagrant goes squatting in your nose.

TEXTURE
Crisp crust, teeth biting through into soft moist fluff, munchy stuff with juicy fruit ruthless and functional stuff.

PERSONALITY
Knickers flashing, dropping drawers, teasey dirt; village Vicar's jaws drop at the thought of haughty, naughty nights of fruit and Blightly, nightly with this bit of easy skirt.

SEXUALITY
Not pumped with cream, gaping and aching for a cutlery plundering, it's longing for Mr Right to spend the night clotted with hugs and long kisses, not missing the wrong filling by fly-by-night nobbers or scone robbers.

8/10