Victoria Wood Real Life
knew a man who always worried
That if knocked down by a nineteen,
The nurses who to help had hurried
Might find his boxer shorts unclean.
And so he washed them all twice daily,
And when an accident occurred,
The doctor said sadly, "I know what he has.
The poor man is dead. He’s allergic to Daz."
Cos this is real life,
Which is always such a mess,
Badly designed, under-rehearsed, no proper tunes.
We live in real life,
Which is not a nice address,
Needs doing up, needs some white paint, needs a few
balloons.
Life is a fan club and I’m not a fan.
Life is a bran tub, no prizes, just bran …
Take one redundant bus inspector,
Who joined the long term unemployed,
Applied to funeral director,
Was taken on, was overjoyed.
He felt, as death is always with us,
This job at least would be secure.
He shouldered the coffin, the sun on his back.
The boss saw him smiling and gave him the sack.
Cos this is real life,
And we’re not allowed to swap,
Hoping to find one with more plot, one with more sex.
We visit real life,
And we blunder round the shop,
Squinting at lists, losing our purse, dropping our
specs.
Life is a handshake that’s clammy and limp.
A scene from a script that’s been typed by a chimp.
A sweet old couple had a party,
Cos they’d been married sixty years,
Sat hand in hand and hale and hearty.
The local press were all in tears.
The woman from the news said, ‘Ivy,
What’s helped your marriage last so well?’
She looked at her husband and said with a wink,
‘Regular sex with the coalman, I think.’
Cos this is real life,
Which is always going to be
Like a toupee hurting your head, showing the join,
Because in real life,
There will always be a knee
Coming your way, aiming itself straight for your groin.
It’s a windowless room in the Hotel Belle Vue,
It’s an arse kicking party thrown specially for me and
you.
