Hamish McShanks

Cabin Fever

The windaes closed, the door shut tight,

I’m stuck inside this wintry night,

With nowt to dee, wi absent friends,

Ah’m swift gawn roond the fecking bend.

The tellys covered wi twa big sheets,

Nae point in watching TV the neet,

After all it’s prime time Saiturday night

The schedules filled wi ‘Reality’ shite.

It is real to live inside a hoose,

Where cameras watch yer every move?

Where all yer words are caught on tape,

Where so called celebs just laugh and gape.

As attention seeking trailer trash,

Perform like Chimps to chase the cash,

To seize their fleeting TV fame,

Show any flesh; play any game.

And then complain when they’re kicked oot,

‘I’m not like that! I’m really good’

Ach dry yer eyes; cover up yer tits,

Naebodys buying that crock of shit.

Ye wanted fame, ye wanted cash,

Ye were even prepared to show yer ga-

STOP! Ham STOP! Ye can’t say that,

It’s not PC! You’ll get a slap.

This is why I don’t watch anymore,

Saves policemen knocking on my door,

And asking me to keep it doon,

As I rant and rave aboot the room.

So TV is oot; let’s read instead,

I’ve a pile of books beneath the bed,

Although ‘magazines’ would describe them best,

And my wrist could do with a week’s mair rest.

So I reach across and start to twiddle,

but nothing comes out, despite my fiddle,

I give it a slap and a shoogle around,

But the radios broken; there’s nary a sound.

Time tae get the screwdriver oot,

And have a wee guddle aboot,

Inside the guts of my Bakelite tranny

What was I thinking; ye handless fanny,

Ye ken ye are always fingers and thumbs,

To open it up was incredibly dumb,

It’s now bits ‘n’ pieces scattered over the table,

An interesting project for somebody able.

It’s obvious to anyone; it’s totally Ga Ga,

No more background noise, no radio blah blah,

It’s had it’s time; it’s got no power,

It’s definitely had its finest hour.

Dear God I’m going mad! I’m now quoting songs,

Is this what can happen, when you’re stuck on your own?

Should I be able to see Pixies, dancing under the chair?

I take off my glasses; perhaps a new pair?

Cooped up all day; totally alone,

Devoid of craved company, without even a phone.

It’s driven me mental, I have to concede

Without some real contact, I’ve gone aff ma heid!

Yes I know there are phones, but I have to confess

it too was victim of my lack of prowess

That toolbox gets turfed this very weekend,

I’ve yet to find something I can actually mend!

My back is still gubbed and it’s now plain to see,

That lack of endorphins do affect me,

Without my running, my sport and my friends,

I’ve gone Doofuckinglally; I’ve gone round the bend.