In competition no. 2494 you were invited to submit a poem written by a hypochondriac about a minor ailment.
Many of you alluded to the fact that the internet is fertile hunting-ground for the hypochondriac, providing limitless scope for self-diagnosis. Cyberchondria sends hordes of the worried well to their GPs brandishing wads of incontrovertible downloaded ‘evidence’. What hypochon-driacs crave above all else, of course, is vindication. To doubting doctors, spouses, friends and family, the message rang out loud and clear: ‘You’ll be sorry…’ — or, as the epitaph on Spike Milligan’s gravestone reads, ‘I told you I was ill’.
The winners, printed below, get £30 each. The bonus fiver goes to a restrained W.J. Webster, who resisted the lure of comedy ailments such as flatulence and halitosis; the less said about Basil Ransome-Davies, the better.
I have this slight but nudging ache
That never settles in one place:
A symptom doctors might mistake
For some quite different, trivial case.
Is it the drifting iceberg tip
Of something dark submerged below
Or, like some Eden apple pip,
The seed of horrors yet to grow?
A range of ailments, so it’s said,
May start with such a warning sign,
But in the Googlegook I’ve read
The other features don’t match mine.
I sometimes fear the search to find
What lies behind this wandering twinge
Will crack the workings of my mind
And leave it hanging from one hinge.
W.J. Webster
My left little finger is proving a curse,
By taking (obliquely) a turn for the worse.
An old sporting injury makes me remember
The chronic afflictions I’ve had in this member.
Or could it be something perniciously fresh
Like Thingummy’s Syndrome, distorting my flesh?
That part’s prone to damage, so near to the edge,
Resembling indeed the thin end of a wedge.
By sticking out sideways it’s bound to get hurt
And bump against objects infected with dirt.
If they can’t put it straight, I may need amputation,
With the rest of me thus in a worse situation.
The very suggestion brings terrible twinges:
On a medical verdict my whole future hinges.
Oh, save my small digit from horrors impending.
And let it not point to my premature ending!
Godfrey Bullard
They rolled me round, the blighters, they rolled me round in bed,
They gave no diagnosis and scarce a word was said.
I thought that I was dying: I’d taken off my vest
To show the hideous rashes on back and arms and chest.
They made uncertain noises — what news had they to break?
For death, I said, I’m quite prepared (though I’ve a Will to make).
Please tell me what my illness is, you all seem rather vague;
I don’t suppose it’s leprosy? Perhaps bubonic plague?
I feel a fever in my blood, I know I’m getting worse:
Should we opt for isolation, just with one devoted nurse?
With constant supervision a clue might yet be found,
Though specialists in spots seem rather thin upon the ground.
For now, just make me comfy and pull the sheets up tight;
If I’m due to meet my Maker I should get the posture right.
I’ll fold my hands and — O good God! what horror do I see?
Cheer up, they said, the case is solved: you’re fit as any flea…
Mary Holtby
My obsessional thoughts about genital warts
Are driving me almost insane,
Sometimes they will shrink, which inclines me to think
They are gone — but they come back again
With a virulent itch that can reach such a pitch
That I contemplate taking my life.
Then they ripen and swell with a hideous smell
That sickens my long-suffering wife.
At their colourful peak they are rare — nay, unique —
With extravagant, Daliesque shapes:
Some twisted and narrow, some more like a marrow
And some like a huge bunch of grapes.
They can never be cured, so I’m getting inured,
Though they’re driving me right round the twist.
I’ve seen my GP, but he’s no use to me.
He claims they don’t even exist!
Basil Ransome-Davies
I have a rendezvous with death
For I detect, day after day,
A graveyard odour on my breath,
That brushing cannot wipe away.
My failing heart is telling me
That in aortal darkness grows
A tumour that no eye can see;
I sense the danger with my nose.
Fools advocate some useless paste
That merely covers up the cause;
No coloured wash with florid taste
Will fix my cardiacal flaws.
Though doctors tell me all is well
And I should cast aside my fear,
I know my breathing’s noxious smell
Means my demise is drawing near.
Frank McDonald
No. 2497: Rekindled romance
You are invited to take a famous love scene from literature and recast it in the style of Barbara Cartland, Jilly Cooper or Mills & Boon (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2497’ by 31 May or email to lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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