[Brian Allgar]

Originally Posted by basil ransome-davies

and i've a broken wrist

Is that true, Basil, or is it rhyming slang for "pissed"?

[Jayne Osborn]

A hypochondriac might moan about a wee splinter but a broken wrist isn't my idea of a "minor ailment"! I hope it's not for real, Bazza.

Jayne

[basil ransome-davies]

'fraid so, taking a walk on a lovely stretch of the cumbrian coast in spring sunshine, slipped on a rock, kaboom, soon had a helicopter with flying doc, paramedics, coastguards, then a and e, now all plastered up but can type one-handed though caps a bit awkward so doing it e e cummings style.

[John Whitworth]

You see the fantastic dangers attendant on taking exercise. Take my tip. Never do it. If you think you might then sit down until the feeling passes.

[Rob Stuart]

Danishly, lamishly,
Hans Christian Andersen
Sported a pimple
Above his left eye;

Famously given to
Hypochondriasis,
Feared it would cover
His face and he’d die.


True story, that.

[Douglas G. Brown]

Song of a Slacker

(sung to the tune of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” )

What a friend is my physician
When I want to loaf and shirk.
How can one in his position
Force me to return to work?

After I am done disrobing,
Standing in his office, bare;
Then my doc commences probing
Blisters on my derriere.

I break out in hives and rashes
At the mention of my job.
I get night sweats and hot flashes;
Am I just a lazy slob?

What a joy are my diseases;
Aches and pains, I love to bear.
Are my sniffles, coughs, and wheezes
Just malade imaginaire?

[Royston Vasey]

...We're gathered here to lay to rest
Our ill-disposed, departed friend
- A hypochondriac - who stressed
(Correctly, as he'd now contend)
That feeling fine left him depressed,
That wellness marked an awful trend
Implying that his time was nigh:
May sickness succour him on high."

.

[Roger Slater]

I read once of a papercut
the person cut did not respect
enough to put a bandage on
to make sure nothing would infect

what seemed a minor little nick,
and in the morning, when he woke,
the man was feverish and sick.
I see you laugh, but it's no joke:

The man soon died, another case
of people taking lightly what
they do not have the sense to face.
A headache, cold or papercut.

[Peter Goulding]

Originally Posted by Brian Allgar

Oh God! I’ve started peeing red!
I’m quivering with fear and dread.
In next to no time, I’ll be dead
xxxFrom cancer of the bladder.
Or even worse, the thing will spread
Like bindweed in my flower-bed
To kidneys, liver, lungs and head,
xxxA fate that’s even sadder.

I’m in a clinic by the Thames.
Is it a verdict that condemns,
Or is there hope with beastly chems?
xxxIf there’s a chance, I’ll try it.
But then, with sniggers and “ahem”s,
They come to tell me: “Well, it stems
From cherry-coloured M & M’s
xxxAnd beetroot in your diet.”

Nice one, Brian. I often wonder why I no longer pee red after eating beetroot. As a child, it would border on the vermilion but adulthood seems to have deprived me of the knack.

The pain! The pain! The searing pain!
I doubt I’ll ever walk again!
I think he’s bust, or snapped, or bent
my bleedin’ cruciate ligament.
So bad I can’t stop rolling round
each blade of grass upon this ground
while drenching all with blood-flecked phlegm.
The TV replays will condemn
that studs-up, lunging tackle which
has left me writhing on the pitch.
Surely there’s no other path
for him, save to an early bath?
Oh ref, the pain! The raging pain!
I’ll never play full-back again!
You've sent him off? The crowd is pleased?
Ah wait, I think the pain has eased...

[Brian Allgar]

Look at these legs - I tell you, they’re my last ones.
I’m on them still, but won’t be for much longer.
When I was young and healthy, they were fast ones;
I’d Jive or Jitterbug, I’d do the Conga,

The Boogie-Woogie and the Bossa Nova
The Waltz, Watusi, and the West Coast Swing.
Oh, dancing was my life; I was in clover,
And I excelled at nearly everything.

I’d Tango, Twist, I’d Rock and Roll, I’d Rumba,
Cavorting on my tireless feet as light as
A balloon, and even in my slumber
I’d twitch like someone dancing with St Vitus.

But now the music’s slow and ballady;
I hobble round the dance-floor with my wife.
The doctor says I’ve got this malady,
A sickness, quite incurable, called “Life”.