Old news

The NHS: Pseudo religion to many; iconic socialist success story (with its shortcomings brushed under a carpet heaped high with uncritical praise); inviolable national treasure and the big stick regularly used to cow dissenters into a hands-off stalemate about its future. Suggest the NHS could be reformed and you will bring down opprobrium and lightning about your head and a plague upon your house. This is a tail which very much wags the dog.

In the British press you are only ever a day away from a big story about the NHS, which itself is only ever days away from total collapse; it has struggled on in this manner since 1948. At seventy it should be pensioned off but no, like those of us who have paid for it all our lives we will be expected to keep on going. Once again – as with Brexit, the immigration debate, the anger of the young, throwing around accusations of ‘having their future thrown away’ – it is all the fault of the old.

Old people have selfishly pushed up house prices. Old people have exhausted the resources of our boom years and left the young destitute. Old people blame it all on the EU and immigration, when ‘everybody knows’ we are a nation of mongrels and we need – positively need – immigrants to do the jobs the lazy Brits won’t do. Old people don’t care about the future, they won’t have to live through it. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah-bloody-blah... The gutless misery of these mantras is not only boringly predictable, it is wrong. So wrong.

For a start it is not old people who push up house prices it is simple supply and demand; it is the sheer number of people. And it is the tax-payer who pays for everything the state provides; who has paid the most tax of all? Why, those who have paid in for the longest. Who earns the most and therefore pays a disproportionately higher percentage of their income as tax? Those who have acquired the skills and knowledge and experience to be worth more to the economy, to generate more surplus wealth. Oh yes, that would be the older workers in the population.

And who disproportionately uses the resources of the NHS? Why that would be the old I mean sick people. Sick people come in all guises, but those who work through their entire lifetime tend to consume far fewer of any public resources than those who have taken the cradle-to-grave mantra of the welfare state as an invitation to plunder its overly generous coffers. This includes children, especially babies – bloody babies; it’s all just take, take, take with them – and all those who eagerly grasp at any medical straw to excuse their lifelong indolence. (It also includes those beloved, minimum-wage, zero tax-paying, net-welfare recipient immigrants who displace many younger Brits who would pick those crops, pack those boxes and stack those shelves if they had to.)

And now it is older people, those who in earlier decades might have expected to retire after a lifetime of paying for the NHS and everything else, who are opting to stay in work into their seventies to continue paying for it. You might think the vibrant, multicultural, progressive young people – who are the future, remember – would be grateful that the despised older generations are willing to carry on funding that future, but no... Kids, the older generation is not the problem; it is, in large part, the solution.

Top Marx!

Well I, for one, am happy about Ed’s conference speech. He very clearly laid out what all non-Labour voters have always suspected; the utter contempt in which the private sector is held and the total lack of understanding of how society, any society, functions. Unless you believe in anarchy – and that bizarre notion seems to be a perversely unique preserve of people with otherwise left wing views – nobody objects to contributing a portion of their earnings towards the public purse.

Nobody on what they insist on referring to as ‘the far right’ - which is shorthand for anybody not employed by the state, anybody getting by without claiming benefits – wants to destroy the NHS, but people who often pay for their own healthcare anyway and take care to lead generally responsible, healthier lifestyles – are increasingly fed up with their contributions pouring into the bottomless money pit the current NHS represents. The third or fourth largest employer on the PLANET? Are you insane? You would have to be if you think a relatively small population in a formerly heathy, fully developed nation needs a medical system costly enough to care for all of Asia’s teeming billions. 

All that successful people ask is that their tax money, from which they get little direct benefit, is spent wisely and that they are left to spend the rest how they wish. They’ve earned it, after all, by adding value to goods and services and creating true profits in a way the state never has and never can. The state is entirely paid for by private money. And that includes the wages paid to public employees and the tax they then levy on that. If you work for the state you pay tax on the money that has already been collected in tax. You are bought and paid for by the private sector; and some of you are paid to count what you are paid, hand it out, take some of it back and recycle those amounts to create the illusion of government money. Ever heard of a non-job? 

What you do may be important, you doctors and nurses and bin men and bus drivers, but never forget that all of you are paid by those some of you would drive away by your sheer avarice. Yes, that. Oh, it’s not you personally, you all believe you are doing god’s work, but that’s only because, like the party that feeds you by picking somebody else’s pockets, it serves you to believe that those who are not on the national payroll are its enemies and not its benefactors. So what if the wealth they pay tax on is inherited? So what if they happily fall into the family business; it’s none of your business, that’s for sure. The NHS, the government, welfare, defence, education, law enforcement, roads and railways are ultimately paid for not by you and your taxes but by the hated 'them' and their taxes. 

It's because they care...

When the money finally does run out and the crumbling façade of the Labour experiment is peeled away there will behind it be an ancient barn door on which the altered legend will still be visible: "From each according to his vulnerability, to each according to his ngreeds!

I name her NHS Great Britain

What’s the point of politicians, eh? No sooner have we got over one set of scandals – cash for questions, cash for honours, sexual impropriety, expenses, perjury, vote rigging, dirty tricks campaigns and the like – when along comes another. Or if not a brand-shiny-new one, the next best thing; the resurrection of yet more decades-old noncery and all the ‘who knew?’ prurience that goes along with it. The truth will never be wholly, justly and properly revealed and I have to wonder at the timing of it all just now, when rumours have surfaced regularly for years. Something else is going on, perhaps, but the attempt by the government to appear to act promptly is now looking tawdry as Baroness Butler-Sloss rightly steps down.

Times are a-changing. It’s not a revolution, it’s more of a gut feeling that people are starting to realise it’s no use expecting governments to do everything any more. And as that feeling grows, more and more will seek to extricate themselves from association with and contribution to a failing system of pseudo-democracy. Two generations ago there was a vague consensus that if the majority voted for a political party then that party was probably the right one to govern the country. Now the idea of a nanny state voted in by its burgeoning recipients is rapidly losing credibility, especially when it turns out that more and more of nanny’s little helpers are revealed to be crooks and perverts.

The NHS is a classic case of declining sympathy for state-run services. While diehards cling to the rock of this national religion, the more pragmatic are taking steps to survive outside its potentially deadly embrace. Heal thyself, goes the saying and these days, although the wilfully ignorant stalk the land, there is more information than ever about leading balanced lives of sub-gluttony and non-sloth… and a feeling that state-prescribed lifestyles are not the only option. It’s a fairly short step from that notion to believing that if I look after myself and keep working and pay taxes into the system, I expect the system to be there for me when I need it and not be run-down and exhausted by tending to the needy demands of those who, we all suspect, pay in rather less than we do.

But regardless of feelings of misanthropy or philanthropy, the simple fact is we can’t afford to keep pouring ever-increasing resources into the money pit it represents. Wait, say the powers that be, don’t panic; we’ll get all those health tourists to not only be grateful, but to pay for what they get. Do YOU believe that will happen? I don’t. Free at the point of use? As fair as it sounds this is a part of the problem – like food banks; if you build it they will come, especially when the ‘rich’ people are paying for it. In this context, ‘rich’ is anybody who earns more than you.

I listened to Radio Four’s The Infinite Monkey Cage last night, in which Ross Noble was asked to offer some of his ten bananas to Brian Cox. The catch was that if his offer was refused, neither would get any bananas. He offered five, which was accepted; further discussion revealed that three or less and they would both have starved. It illustrated the very human principles of both fairness and spite. Humans have a variable capacity for both. For my part, asked to do ever more for the state without equitable return on my investment, my inclination is to withdraw my contribution altogether. I’m not alone.

Not fireworks - distress flares!

What bang do I get for my buck anyway? Our borders are sold, our armed forces made toothless, terrorist imams recruit in our jails and our easy-going largesse with tax money is abused by hordes of freeloaders we are powerless to deny. The hospital ship of state is holed below the waterline yet the stewards still ply the takers with all-inclusive drink and drugs while the captain and officers squabble over the course. Meanwhile, at each port of call, the sober and self-reliant slip away quietly, their empty bunks taken up by ever more stowaways. Cruise Ship Britain; doomed to roam the polluted seas until every paying passenger has gone overboard and taken the lifeboats with them.

Moira and Me

It’s a tough old life, this being a beacon of hope and enlightenment in a dim and dismal universe, but what’s a future King to do, eh? A couple of days ago, a random visitor to my blog - we’ll call her Moira - had this to say, by way of comment:

“…you appear to be a merciless, pitiless person.”

So far, so good. But Moira had more:

“With all your rage against [the world] I came to the conclusion that it is YOU who feel the self-pity you so readily scorn,”

Nah, not really, love, you’re kind of missing the point. What you don’t like, my dear, is me having opinions which don’t chime with your chakras.  Although she did then redeem herself by signing off with:

“I expect you will reply to this with your usual rapier sarcasm…”

Oh good. At least she’s sort of getting it. But you should never assume I don’t mean what I say; I prefer to think of my rapier as being more sincerely sardonic than merely sarcastic. You can make up your own mind, but maybe Moira cannot. She came over not so much despairing as simply humourless. A bland and predictable response to a world she fears, full of merciless, pitiless people spoiling it for everybody. Maybe she believes in the human spirit, free of reality and deadly earnest in its mission to bring peace and contentment to all?

And that’s the trouble, isn’t it? Had she read further she may have seen that I harbour little in the way of spite (way too much effort) more a resignation to the simple and often humorous realities of human frailty. You want nobility? There’s plenty of bloggers regularly posting feelgood, aphoristic nonsense out there; happy, clappy, hippy shit about being lovely to one another. If it only it were true. Life in Britain may have taken a downward turn but not because people are nasty, rather because people have let themselves become helpless.

The DPP, Keir Starmer, has had to be brought in to give his verdict on Twitter prosecutions – the more followers you have, the more guilty you are, apparently. Of what, you ask? Of causing offence, naturally; the big crime explosion of the decade. Since when did the police and courts system become our moral shepherds? I thought their role was to nab the bad guys, not police our beliefs – that’s the job of community, not coppers.

Yesterday I heard Labour’s Margaret Hodge on Radio Four bleating on about tax avoidance being unfair and an abuse of the system. I’m sure the many who owe their livelihoods to the tax regime in the UK, or are directly involved in assisting and advising companies and individuals would be delighted to hear her wringing condemnation of their legally playing by the rules. Who makes those rules in the first place? What a pity Labour didn’t have the luxury of office in order to bring about the great social changes they now demand. Oh, wait…

The BBC is current undergoing a period of hand-wringing self-immolation over the McAlpine affair for which George Entwistle has paid the ultimate sacrifice of having a wad of cash stuffed in his back pocket. The ensuing expensive inquiry circus will conclude, as everybody else already has, that the BBC should stick to reporting the facts, unadulterated by partisan views. The Beeb should be the voice of the nation, but why does it feel the need to be our conscience as well? (I much preferred it when Mr Entwistle wore a skeleton costume and played bass for The Who!)

The NHS is full of willing, dedicated staff who will cut you open, take out stuff, put stuff in, stitch you back together and ply you with ‘care’ until you get better. But, just like any other bloated behemoth it is also somewhat self-serving. The job of any industry is to find new markets and medicine is no different. As the list of physical illnesses nears a finite total, there are much richer pickings to be had on the mental bandwagon, where barely credible research ‘discovers’ things for people to feel bad about. Is the medical profession partly the CAUSE of mental illness?

Whatever happened to Individual responsibility? It seems to have sunk beneath a sea of collectivism, where what we do and what we say and how we feel about things is no longer in our hands. The more we expect other people (society) to direct us and protect us, the less happiness and freedom we achieve and far too many people now rely on the state to take care of every aspect of their lives. (I believe they tried that in Russia in the last century… how did that turn out?)

Yes! We are ALL individuals!

THAT, Moira is what happens when you lose your sense of perspective, your sense of humour, your grip on reality. I see my role in all this as the small boy in the crowd, pointing out what is plain to see if you only look properly. Merciless and pitiless, Moira? I prefer to believe I’m being cruel to be kind.

Been mad for fucking years...

The one thing you can guarantee about statistics used by politicians is that they are flawed. Usually simply wrong, sometimes falsified and fudged to prove something they don’t actually prove, but more often they are just interpreted and deployed polemically. Better still, why bother with any real statistics at all? Just quote vague numbers and hope to provoke a visceral call to arms. Thus does Ed Miliband talk about ‘the biggest unaddressed health challenge of our age’, which he says ‘blights millions of people's lives’.

Millions, Ed? How many millions of people do you adjudge to be actually mentally ill, rather than a bit down in the dumps?  On LBC Radio today he talked about a One Nation approach to mental illness; about putting it at the TOP of the political agenda. So, what are you saying, Eddy-baby? That the economy, immigration, the EU, education et al should take a back seat to lunacy? That we’re a nation of nutters? Well we did suffer thirteen years of Labour rule after all.

Then, with a conjurer’s braggadocio he brandishes a bouquet of fragrant, tragic, magic numbers to back up his claims; that mental illness costs the NHS an extra £10 billion and the wider economy £26 billion a year. So in his estimation the total cost of dealing with mental health issues is more than our military defence budget? Where do these numbers come from and how in hell can you quantify something quite so nebulous as mental health?

He attacks Jeremy Clarkson and Janet Street-Porter for ‘belittling’ sufferers and making light of suicide and depression. Naturally Jezzer does what he does best and comes back with,  “I'm not sure he's right in the head.”Gotta love JC! But Janet SP is bang on with her analysis; we give in all too quickly to that which most of us could resist, deny or shrug off.

Depression is very much the slippery, difficult-to-prove malaise du jour for those who wonder why happiness eludes them. Some find Buddhism, but who has the time these days? Of course I’m not going to deny that real depression exists, or that it hurts. I've been there. I've curled up in that foetal ball and wept myself to sleep. I've felt all alone in the dark, worthless and wounded and wanting it all to end. I've longed for somebody to tell me it wasn't my fault and here, take your lithium and all will be well.

But it wouldn't be well, would it? Just as diagnoses of ADHD have been encouraged by the makers of Ritalin, the nutjob industry is keen to sell counselling and tranquillisers to desperate housewives and needy under performers in all walks of life… You’re not fat, you’re disabled. You’re not thick, you’re ‘special’. You’re not mediocre, you just have low self-esteem. It's not your fault, you have an addictive personality. Mostly self-pitying bollocks. So now, you’re not just stressed out, you’re proper poorly; Pop a pill, Popeye and join the wacky races...

The lunatics are taking over the asylum

Taking a public stance against anybody denying the scale of this partly imaginary problem is just another opportunity to engender faux outrage. Insensitivity is the favourite thing to get sensitive about these days. So I expect a bit of hate for writing this. Why, only last night I got blocked for saying much more gently what I'm saying now; that much of the problem lies with a too-ready tolerance of anything and everything and once again it's a case of the minorities dictating to the masses. I think you'll find that's the opposite of democracy and Miliband is quite sane enough to exploit it for knee-jerk votes.

But what do I care? In words from everybody's favourite Dark Side, "I've been mad for fucking years, absolutely years, been over the edge for yonks, been working me buns off for bands... I've always been mad, I know I've been mad, like the most of us...very hard to explain why you're mad, even if you're not mad..." Mad? I'm livid!

Throwing a Sickie

The latest threat to British sovereign autonomy and yet another drain on our scarce resources, no doubt inspired by the Multi-headed beast that is the European Soviet Union, it seems we must now treat foreign health tourists. In the scheme of things, in order not to appear discriminatory, this WILL mean that British citizens will take a step towards the rear of the queue.

It's always the way, isn't it?

Contrary to what you may believe I DO think the NHS is a wonderful thing. A strange, misdirected, wayward and lumbering thing, but wonderful, all the same. I wouldn't privatise it, although I would cut the hell out of it. For the majority of treatments the existing facilities are ageing but perfectly adequate. Nurses don't need degrees and managers don't need to outnumber the nurses. The expensive failed IT system was obviously (*sarcasm klaxon*) £12billion well spent and it is truly ludicrous that the NHS is the fifth largest employer in the whole world.

I mean, just how sick is the sick man of Europe for that to have happened? The service shouldn't spend its resources applying sticking plasters to minor scuffs and scrapes, nor tending to the bruised egos of Britain's low self esteem industry client base. Neither should it have to deal with drunks in A & E, sundry so-called addictions and imaginary new-age diseases invented by drug companies to sell, er... drugs.

But if it's going to fulfill even a part of its currently hugely inflated remit its duty should be towards British citizens first, EHIC card holders second and 'health tourists' not at all. Unless it gets paid. For the savvy burglar about town, I'm away on holiday next week, for which I have bought health insurance for immediate treatment and to get me back should I suffer illness and accident. I do not expect my host country to tend to my wounds for free, so why should I pay at home to do just that for people who have come here to, effectively, steal from us?

Yes, yes, yes, in an ideal world, blah, blah, blah, caring, compassionate and all that gubbins, but you may have noticed we have a teensy weensy bit of a financial crisis of our own right now. Many other countries operate a 'healthy' form of health tourism whereby those so inclined can take advantage of private medical facilities cheaper over there than here at home - eyes and teeth are very big abroad - so why don't we follow their example.

Get the fuck out of my hospital!

People are dying to get into Britain, we should be charging them for the privilege.

Back to the Future!

Conference was in full swing when suddenly, people started to clutch their heads and look around wildly. Some started to panic as the auditorium shook and a swirling vortex distorted their vision. Then there came surprising calm as, with a sound like a heavily labouring respirator, a blue box appeared on the stage before their eyes. Gasps! Was this David Blaine, attempting a new feat of banality with no apparent purpose? There was a stunned silence as a door appeared in the box and a strangely clad man stepped out.

"Greetings, Earthlings!" he said to an open-mouthed audience, then "I like calling them that." This last was said as an aside to his flame-haired companion. "Greetings. I bring you good news from the future!"

For a conference debating the very form that the future should take this was an answer to a prayer. They could look forward and see what their earnest intentions would bring about. For the first time they could set a policy course knowing what the outcomes would be. Almost everybody, to some unheard cue, leaned forward in their seats and listened.

"In the future, there is no such thing as multiculturalism. Everybody identifies themselves as either 'British' or 'visiting' and everybody looks pretty much the same. People do not fear the police or the judiciary and everybody rubs along pretty well, knowing the rules. Burglars are desperate people for they know they abandon their rights the moment they break in.

"In the future there is no European Union to speak of and Britain is independent of it. There is no Human Rights Act, no restrictive employment laws and employers are free to hire and fire fairly and as they see fit. Most adults are in work, many mothers happily stay at home and bring up well-behaved children who do them credit. The watchword is 'a fair day's work for a fair day's pay' and those who are envious of higher earners know that to achieve the same they must work harder or smarter, or both.

"In the future the National Health Service is the envy of the world, as is the British education system. Both have discarded the management-heavy inefficiencies and both medics and teachers strive to provide the best possible outcomes for their client base. Police officers and security guards are no longer required in A & E and the rare ill-discipline in schools is swiftly and effectively dealt with. Teachers and doctors are pillars of the community.

"In the future people will not be slaves to technology. People will not stumble about their daily lives, eternally plugged into the internet, their iPods, social media, games and the like. They will be civil to each other, hold face-to-face conversations and will no longer suffer the anguish and slide into dementia precipitated by a loss of electronic connectivity. In the future, you will be FREE!"

Say hello to the future!

For a moment, nobody broke the spell. Then a muted shuffling began as people turned to each other, uncertain how to proceed. Strangers cautiously smiled at each other and shook hands; some hugged and a few wept silently to themselves. The future IS bright; the future ISN'T Orange.

Then one brave soul addressed the stranger on stage. "Sir!" he said, "Tell us, pray, from what year you come, bringing such good news?"

The Time Traveller ducked back inside his blue box for a moment, the sounds of ratchets ratcheting and springs being sprung were heard before he reappeared and announced to the enraptured throng. "1958"

Acute angina? Thank you very much!

Apologies to regular readers for the paucity of posts thus far this week; there's nothing like a day in the Acute Medical Unit to focus the mind on the important issues of the day. Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to take my Kindle along as I was rushed into an assessment which took the best part of a day, on and off.

Actually, rushed is a tad specious, as it took four days of discomfort and a bit of nagging from somebody-who-knows-better before I deigned to allow the NHS to confirm my diagnosis. In fairness they were all very thorough, patient[sic] and courteous, batting aside my concerns that I was wasting their time and my entreaties that I was only there because I was nagged. The diagnosis? Indigestion... we think.

So, there's nothing to see here, move along the corridor smartly and try to avoid staring at the mad-haired Scots lady trying to manoeuvre a fag past her nasal oxygen cannula whilst reciting... well, it could be anything really, it's in Scottish. Avert your eyes, also, from the grossly be-tattooed, multiply pierced, heavily pregnant teenager and her attendant posse of identically clothed 'individuals' - they're the future, they've got rights, you know. (There should be an exam, really there should.)

With all due respect for the long-suffering staff, the last place you want to be if you're ill is in a hospital. But I'm not, so it's all good. And I did get to put in a spot of reading. Whatever you think of UKIP and in particular, Nigel Farage, you can't deny he has to be one of the most colourful and charismatic politicians out there, right now. In the AMU I was reading Flying Free, his engaging memoir in which he sets out his stall for a retrenchment, at the very least, of our role in Europe.

I've blogged about Europe before; about how I was just one year too young to make my feelings known in 1975; about how I never trusted the shifty Ted Heath and about how I have yet to hear a single fact-supported argument for the travesty of democracy that is the European Union. Nigel's book pointed me at a number of avenues for further research and I append a few links below.

But I don't need to 'do the math' as they say. I don't need to study dry old economic theories and European war histories. I don't need to peruse a balance sheet of pros and cons.I don't need to do any of those things to know that Europe is pure poison. Free movement of people across borders? I used to have that anyway; it was called a British Passport. In fact, even as a post-war, post-empire nation, Britain had far more respect and possibilities than we will ever have again if the spectre of costly, corrosive, creeping Euro-Everything is not halted.

And just as against the Nazis - whose European ambitions were so close to those of the EU Commissioners - the English Channel is a natural border between the European mainland and the last free country this side of the Atlantic. All you need to know about the three main parties is that not one of them has made any serious noise about withdrawing from Europe. What they have all been complicit in is handing over ever more power  while flatly denying it.

Now I'm not saying that UKIP is the answer to all our ills, but surely a party willing to draw the line has to be a better bet than all the governments willing to hand over £19.2bn per year, or if you prefer, £53m per day, to the unelected, unimpeachable, bureaucratic nightmare of Brussels.

Yeah. Fuck you, Britain!

If you have a spare hour, have a read/watch of some of these:

http://www.ukipmeps.org/uploads/file/ReferendumStichUp.pdf

http://www.ukip.org/content/latest-news/2777-nigels-birmingham-speech

http://campaignfortruth.com/CTE/realfaceinfo.htm

http://www.forvik.com/index.php/documents/the-eu

See you at the referendum!

Skools for Fools

Now that my Marxist mentor has educated in me in the ways of high finance and I truly understand the path of righteousness, it seems I am ready for Part 2 of my transformation to true believer. Whilst I used to accept the notion of the existence of Marx, I thought it was a bit like Tolkienism and I never expected to meet an actual, card-carrying Hobbit. (Or do I mean tokenism; another popular leftist outcome?)

The Second Book of Ridicule sets out to right society’s wrongs and once again I find that all I once held dear is woefully at variance with the yellow brick road to peace and love and happiness for all. (Remember, all this is from a real life encounter with a true sage of the enlightened Left.) 

On education, I am now informed, equality is all. Apparently it is utterly elitist and morally wrong to divert resources to allowing some to become good at anything and mixed ability classes are the only moral option. As Snowball might have said 80 IQ points good, 100 IQ points bad… but some IQ points are worth more than others. 

Under the red reality no effort or expense will be spared until every child has reached an equal level of achievement. If that means an ever increasing spend on educational technology, classroom assistants and a constant re-writing of the syllabus and grading system then so be it. Only when every child scores an ‘A’ in the new Level Ordinaire Academic Fundamental Educational Result certificate can we say we have won. We need to turn out as many A-grade LOAFERs as possible. 

My grizzled old wise owl has taught me that such principles may be employed just as equably to solve all of our problems and salve all of our consciences. Regardless of what history, observation, calculation or common sense may tell you, Marxism tells you it is never wrong to rough out a philosophy on the back of a fag packet and then stick to it relentlessly. 

If I may be so bold as to extend the doctrine: 

In sport, all must win trophies. Take football, for instance: one day there will be only one football team in the land. (And it won’t be Liverpool.) All employment law will be made by the workers and all tribunals will find in favour of those horny-handed sons of toil. Criminal compensation will become exactly what it sounds like; after all it’s a brave man who would burgle his fellow and it can’t be easy getting by on a felon’s wage.

Cabinet colleagues prepare for PMQs

Finally, the sacred NHS will be run for the patients by the patients. This will apply just the same in the mental health sector; it seems the lunatics really ARE the right people to be running the asylum.

(I may need now to drink myself into helpless, bed-wetting oblivion in order to help me recover a healthy equilibrium. An enormous swing to the right may be what's needed. Watch this space as I go through the recovery programme.)

Nurse!

So, I wake up on a Monday morning and I really don't want to go to work. The same thing happens on a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. And sometimes on Saturday and Sunday as well. I think that makes me normal. What sets me apart from the hoi polloi, however, is that as hungover as I may be, as crotchety as I sometimes feel or, as much in agony as I am this week (nursing a new and interesting, probably age-related, knee injury) I still go into work.

I'm self-employed, so illness isn't an option. If I don't go in I don't get paid and that isn't something that causes me much distress because I grew up without any sense of entitlement for the simple act of existence. I look to nobody to steer my ship and expect nobody to man the boats if I hit the rocks. Although, I admit, it would be great if the NHS, for which I have paid all my life would look kindly on my need for pain relief when it all gets too much.

Nurse! Pass me my keyboard I have work to do!

But that isn't going to happen is it? In the never-ending quest for votes, socialists on all sides (for there are few enough other types of politician these days) woo the electorate by spending ever more of their money on stuff to placate the necessitous. And what better way to grow your electorate than to create more need and hence more needy? The country can easily afford to staff and stock hospitals with the right people and placebos to treat pain, disease, old age, trauma and good old bleeding. But where's the fun in that?

No, what we need are ever more impressive infirmities, maladies and melodrama. We need to celebrate the complexes, exaggerate the ailments and fill our waiting lists with the sicknesses, signs and symptoms of advanced disorders befitting our increasingly pallid, infantilised and ineffectual population. Tell somebody they are unwell and lo' they will take to their state-funded bed and wait to be cured.

"But our hospitals are overcrowded!" they wail, as low self-esteem competes for attention against eat-too-much-itis.

"Then we shall build more!" sayeth the 'profit' "Build it and they will come!"

"But you spent all our money!" they object.

"Why, we shall spend thy children's money then. And thy children's children's..."

"And there will be enough nurses?" they ask.

"Nurses? Fuck off! What use are nurses against the modern malaise?" spake the profit. "We need consultants and accountants and managers and alchemists and hoodoo and voodoo that you do so well..." And thus was born the private finance initiative.

How's that working out for you South London Healthcare NHS Trust?

I really don't care whose fault it is. I couldn't give a damn what colour tie they wear to the House of Commons. Somebody - and it might as well be me - needs to stand up and say it out loud. There's nothing wrong with you. Now fuck off out of my hospital and get back to work you malingering poltroon!

There, that's fixed the NHS. No need to thank me.