Words by Dave Boulton, music by Jeff Parton
It’s no wonder that I look so pale and wan
I’ve got every ill and ailment known to man
Talk to me of viruses, I’ll say I’ve got the set
Including one that’s only isolated in Tibet
That can only be contracted from a llama or a yak
I tell you it’s a hard life for a hypochondriac
Chorus:
‘Cause I’m slipping away, slipping away
Can’t you see I’m knocking at death’s door
Slipping away, slipping away
I’ve been slipping now since 1964
I’m so full of pills I rattle when I walk
My throat’s so soar that I can hardly talk
My breath it comes in ragged gasps and I can only say
I don’t know how I’m managing the forty fags a day
It can’t be perseverence or persistence that I lack
I tell you it’s a hard life for a hypochondriac
Oh my adenoids are so inflamed they’re glowing
And my sinuses are full to overflowing
I’ve tried all of the treatments but my doctor, silly sod
Has booked me an appointment with the man from Dynorod
He’s threatened me with dynamite if I should dare go back
I tell you it’s a hard life for a hypochondriac
I’m a martyr to my coxic vertibraes
And I often have to stay in bed for days
To get me to my feet you’d need a fork-lift or a crane
The whiskey is the only thing that helps relieve the pain
I’m not kidding I spend more time than Joan Collins on my back
I tell you it’s a hard life for a hypochondriac
My doctor’s taken sick leave recently
And the vicar’s just gone ex-directory
At the mention of my name my social worker cries and screams
The Samaritans pretend to be an answering machine
“Leave your message speaking clearly at the tone, we’ll call you back.”
I tell you it’s a hard life for a hypochondriac
No one would believe how bad I feel
Even hypochondriacs get ill for real
I’m a shadow of my former self, reduced to skin and bone
The last time I got on the scales I was down to eighteen stone
I’m not long for this world and all its troubles and its woes
On my headstone will be written: “There you are, I told you so.”
1993 His Worship & the Pig