Friday, 2 September 2016

Doctor, doctor!

They won’t let it lie. Tomorrow is the Twat Parade; the Malcontents’ March for Europe. Arch idiot and old woman impersonator, Eddie Izzard, along with a company of hand-wringing useful idiots will attempt, by the power of looking childish, chanting and making whiny speeches, to turn the clock back. These Little Europeans want to return to the bad old days of Communist Russia, an imagined former golden time and are not afraid to resort to narrow-minded bigotry to get their way. They will call old, white, British people Nazis and wish them harm, in order to prove just how enlightened, caring, inclusive and non-racist they are.

Meanwhile, to add butt-hurt to their suffering, the pound has risen in value and manufacturing is booming, at least relatively, as it is shown that some 71% of economists got the Brexit effect forecast completely wrong. The rest merely got it mostly wrong because here’s the thing; when it comes to economics, nobody knows anything of the future. The alchemy of economic forecasting is a propaganda tool used to interpret the past in ways which justify current policies... and we’re getting wise to it.

And now the junior doctors are going on strike as well. I picture picket lines of small boys and girls wearing scrubs far too big for them and tripping up over their stethoscopes as they lisp about how everything is just not fair and stamp their tiny feet. But, for the general, tax-paying public – those who don’t worship daily at the altar of the NHS and unquestioningly believe every word the high priests utter – the doctors are starting to look more like the Remainers which most of them probably are; a deal is on the table, it’s not a bad one, suck it up.

One day, when there’s a morning-after pill to cure your liver following alcohol abuse and smoking no longer causes lung cancer or gene therapy is daily finding cheap remedies for every defect, junior doctors may look back on this contract as their own golden days. For far too long doctors have held a certain power over us, with their high and mighty ‘I had to study for twenty-seven years before I turned thirty to get where I am today’ attitude, as if they held the power of life or death over us. If you think I’m being unfair then you haven’t had the relationship with the medical profession that I have.

For instance I went to the doctor only last week. He was new at the surgery so in an effort to judge his character I asked him if he had ever laughed at a patient. He seemed shocked and assured me that he certainly had not. I asked again; had he ever laughed directly in a patients face? He put on his most sincere expression and gravely reasserted that no such lack of professionalism had ever occurred. I have to say I was grudgingly convinced at which point I agreed to show him my problem and promptly dropped my trousers. The bastard just laughed and laughed and laughed.

Now, I haven’t got the biggest dick in the world, I’ll grant you that, but this doctor was in tears looking at it. He looked away and gritted his teeth but still he couldn’t stifle the laughter. Yes, it was only about the size of a triple-A battery but come on, you expect a certain decorum. I grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him and told him to pull himself together.

How long is it since you last saw the doctor?
You seem to be a little dehydrated...

Eventually the convulsions eased and he put on his best straight face as he asked, between giggles, what the problem was. I waited until he had composed himself and adopted his best consulting expression. His shoulders still heaved a little, but I am a patient man, in more ways than one. Finally, he seemed to be receptive to a serious medical discussion. “Well, doctor,” I said, a little annoyed that it wasn’t obvious, “It’s swollen.”