Session 1: The Woe Mule. 

Can you hear that smell? That! There, over yonder. Betwixt the Cafe Nero and the council flats. Yes. The alleyway between glory and wretchedness where Francis Bellamy used to piss. It’s almost like it was when you were a bairn, but not really. It’s all grey now. We can all hear it you know, laying all on us like a wet blanket. It smells like pledge and almonds. The smooth springtime breeze of the collective unconscious, collectively reminding you all that you are an individual, just like everybody else. Now, come out the other end, lay back sea-level on your most downy cushion and take a single deep breath. Fill your wet chest bags with air, and let that air slowly leak out like an old balloon. Now seal the lower ocular skin flaps to the upper ocular skin flaps, covering your globular optic light receptors. Just the ones on your face please, for the time being at least. Keep those face cameras closed up nice and tight like the door seal of a brand new washing machine. You will now find yourself inside of yourself. You’re welcome and welcome home, please wipe your feet on the mat provided and be sure that the draught excluder is firmly set in place. 

ADDENDUM: If you have followed the steps provided verbatim thus far, it is important to note it may be of use to read the full instructions before acting upon them, as closing your face windows will result in your inability to read further on. If you had already realised the conundrum and instead chose to read on, congratulations you delightful little lollipop, and if you have yet to, then take your time sitting there in your head-bucket all alone until epiphany decides to rescue you, or death takes you. Or… Failing that, something in between… Like a toilet emergency. 

Now you are relaxed. All of those eyes closed, drifting off in a kayak on the tide of your own subconsciousness, trying your hardest to not think about the dark times. The debt. The anxiety. Crippling depression. Illness or death of a loved one. Perhaps some bad touches in your past that you’ve tried to lock away inside of some kind of egg. Maybe you shouldn’t think about the time you blamed that mess you made on the cat – when you got carried away in self love with the rubber ducky and tripped over, breaking that special vase and impulse made you blame the carnage on the Dinko, who was subsequently kicked outside in the rain and was squashed by a rover. The car, not the dog. Do not think of these things. Do not think of that embarrassing moment that nibbles away at your head when you try to sleep at night. When everybody looked at you in disapproval and your cheeks boiled up hot as beef. that one moment which is always rapping away at your headbox like a coked-up woodpecker. No. We let the Woe Mule carry the load. He’s right there. Over there by the shore. He cannot swim in your memories or he’d drown, you selfish ninny, you’ll have to row your canoe down there yourself and ask him what he wants in return. 

Sometimes it’s coffee, sometimes it’s a cake of uranium 235. Sometimes he wants tickets to see Billie Eilish and we all know how hard they are to get hold of. They sell out in minutes. They’re bought wholesale by scalpers. Something must be done about this injustice. Anyway, It all depends on the weight and circumference of your woes. The Woe Mule understands the value of carrying such a thick load for you, and will not be bartered with.  

We have now reached the shore. We have jumped spryly out of the boat and felt the soft comforting shards of mind shingle poking our toes. It is time to approach the Woe Mule. Now it must be said, as an important note too I may add, that just as regular old earthly farm mules, you must not approach the Woe Mule from behind, lest you receive a sharp kick to the loins, and as the Woe Mule transcends time, space and consciousness, you will feel the impact of hoof on soft bits in your waking plane. Approach and courtesy to the fantastical mule and he will weigh your pain and offer his price. What will it be? A well shorn topiary? An army of bees? Or a specific limb from an unspecific ocelot?  

This and more about your inner self shall indeed be discovered – in Session 2: Cotton Candy Oneness.  

Three, two, one…  

Awaken, feeling refreshed and relaxed having begun your journey with us. Now please return all trays to the upright position and place all borrowed pencils back into the jars provided. Don’t forget to bring your own baggage with you next week if you forgot to today. Good will, good luck and good riddance.  

Session 2: Cotton Candy Oneness. 

A pastel blue alien boy named Milton once told me that he wants to fill me with eggs. I am not yet at full capacity. What secrets would YOU like to share today? Perhaps we should just resume where we left off from last week’s session, lest we dig a guilt hole with a blackmail shovel.  

You will know by now, the prize wished for by the wonderful Woe Mule is indeed a thermos flask filled with Olive’s oil and eyebrow shame. It is important at this juncture to mention that you shouldn’t ask the purpose of his prize, for the Woe Mule is a cosmic behemoth wandering the shores of the river of subconscious and you could not possibly fathom what use he may have for any item he may choose. Besides, he’s ruddy sick of hearing it. You are lucky though, for the infinite plain of the subconscious is both unending and fallible, and so you can just conjure up what he wants with your head and give him all your troubles for him to carry with ease. But do not let your plastic guard down or take your mask off, for the Woe Mule will continue to follow you, carrying your woes, wherever you go. They haven’t permanently gone for cigarettes like your dad did when you were twelve.  

Let us venture a level deeper. Open the mahogany hatch. Climb down the ladder. Turn on the light bulbs with some flirtatious words and off we go. What delights are there? I don’t know. I haven’t written those words yet.  

You are now good and deep in the stomach of your mind, descending deeper and deeper into the acid wash dungarees of your thoughts and feelings. Don’t venture too deep though, not just yet. The deeper within your soul you go, the more irreversible damage you can cause (see scientology for more details). The butterfly effect works on space as well as time unfortunately, so it is important that you stay within the car at all times and keep your hands down lest they become spaghettified.  

You get to the end of the hallway. There’s a door. Open it up. You have the key. Look down. Yes, on the lanyard. The green one, not the mauve. Pop open that door now and go inside. What can you see? Darkness? Turn on the light. It’s OK, it’s an energy saver, just give it a moment to warm up. Now, what do you see? No, that’s not it. That’s not it either. That’s a tin of lumpfish caviar. Over there. Down there in the far left corner. The duffle. Yes! Now let us part the flaps and discover the insides. Liberate the shiny golden pegs from their hooped oppressors. Let’s take a peek. What’s in there? Is it legs? Is it porcelain? Is it batman bubble bath? No. It is cotton candy oneness.  

Taste it. Taste the cotton candy oneness. Press your tongue on it. What does it mean? Is it happy, or is it grapefruit flavour? Be careful not to salivate too much, for wet makes the cotton candy clump, and you’ll have a lump of pure uncut concentrated oneness slip down your neck like a nice wad of caramelly phlegm. Doesn’t it feel ripe? The warm in your belly like a bowl of tomato soup juice. Pure sweetened oneness. The true quality in the healing power of omnipotent sugar in strand form.  

Three… two… one… we are now back in your shameful bedsit. 

Session 3: Stalkerness, Rattles And Jangles. 

Good Tuesday. Now is not the time to be calcitrant. Please resume the position, close those kneecaps and go up into the pleasurable inky black. Nice and cold like a delicious wet blanket on your face. Now suck in some air. Not too hard, not like a Dyson, you might not make it back. More like your mum’s old hoover from 1982 that she still insists is perfectly fine although it won’t even pick up dandruff off a hardwood floor. I know it may feel like cosmic waterboarding at first, but I promise we’ll be back to where we were in no time.  

If you have followed the steps correctly thus far, you should have given all of your worry sacks over to the Woe Mule to carry, and filled your belly all big and plump with cotton candy oneness. If this is not the case, you may have to pay again for the first two sessions. In fact I implore you to, I’d like a new espresso machine. 

We are now amongst the trees and ashes. Try not to squish any of the bugs with your heels, they are Jehovahs witnesses and will just make you feel bad. I must also stress kindly that you avoid any rattles or jangles, Mr Gethard lives in the forest and he smells your colours. Best to avoid him sniffing you or your noises. You know he likes your shape. You’ve hidden him away deep in here for a reason, best keep it that way for now. 

Follow the well trodden path and stick to it. If you leave the path you will find yourself navel high in sick and mudge. Follow the oaks until they become horse-chestnuts, and join a colourful sprite in a game of conkers. Which colour sprite will you invite? Pink, purple or blue?  

Can’t change your mind now.  

Pink, like pigskin, is the sprite of undying fantasy. She will spin you a yarn in exchange for… Well, yarn. Be warned though, she believes fervently in the flat earth and will chew at your tendons if you try to refute her claims.  

Purple, like the bruise on your face, is the sprite of lost objects. Ask her where any item lost past or present is, and she will gladly oblige, in exchange for saliva or hairs.  

Blue, like your current mood, is the sprite of chains and is into some terribly kinky stuff. Be prepared for some incredibly kinky stuff. I know that’s what you wanted, or you wouldn’t have chosen blue, you cheeky gecko. 

Oh good lord spirit of the great beyond, your battle of conkers has created much rattles and several jangles. Here comes old Mr Gethard!! He has discovered your shape and wants to know your current address! Please now spin those legs and get into a little run! What will happen now?! You’re right near to those things you trapped down far away! Those snotty horrid little things you buried deep down in your cabbage patch. Don’t let them swarm in you like bees! I feel it best to eject for now and perhaps we shall resume next week properly prepared and armed with sticks and snakes. 

Session 4: The Depth Of Navel. 

Let’s dive straight back into it. Diving in deep and fast like tearing a scab on accident. You are now caught up inside by Mr Gethard. We did warn you to keep the quips and japes to yourself. Oh woe. Stuck like old untouched elderflower cordial in a sun stained bottle. A veritable oubliette of misery, but don’t fret, he has yet to unzip his body bag, let alone cover you in salty webs. Don’t let your eye bags fill with worrisome pitty drops though, this is not the end. This is liminal space. Sometimes to transition from crystal meth to crystal glasses, you’ve got to suffer through a few public Burger King toilet freakouts. The shame will haunt you for the rest of your life and mould your grey clay into that of a better being. Defecating naked on the floor aside, if you do find yourself in a situation where the choice is Burger King or a Waterstones, you’re better off eating books. 

Mr Gethard’s principal weakness is the depth of his navel. He keeps all his secrets in there. Keys, nautical charts. An abacus. Ironically no space for fluff. If you check the watch pocket of your levi’s you’ll find a conch of considerable density you can use to ram the nook. He will yelp in pain and recoil in defence of his belly secrets. Now flee!! Like a gazelle born in pure unadulterated freedom!!! Follow the light! You are free of woe! Free of nonces! Free of jelly! 

Three… we’re coming back 

Two… back to reality 

One… back to your lonely terrible little pustule of a life. 

You are awake, conscious and clear. My work here is done. If you have suffered an accident on therapy that was not your fault, kindly call cosmic claims direct, my side hustle, and I’ll be sure to milk your little teats for everything else you’ve got. One love, dear squeeze.