Overpaid GPs, concrete bums, and surgery shockers - it’s Jerry!

GPs??!…HOW MUCH?!!

Can you believe it? The pill-pushers are raking in £750K - that’s nearly half the salary of an orthopod. It’s not right.

It’s not as if they do any training - they go straight from medical school into the cardigan and comfy chair, gazing into the middle distance while self-obsessed patients maunder on about their drab, unsatisfactory lives. Their seven-minute solution? A script for Prozac. I mean, what’s so bloody difficult about that?

Still, you’ve got to hand it to them. I thought God’s own specialty - GENERAL AND HEPATOBILIARY SURGERY - was up there in the money for old rope stakes, but these guys don’t even have to work on their feet like we do (or did, in my case - that’s one good thing about this journalism lark, you can do it sitting down, pissed). Respect, as the young people say.

TAVISTOCK TOSSERS!

It’s almost worth joining the BMA, just so I can resign. First of all they come out with another of their nannying calls to ban something - smoking in cars this time, not boxing or their global campaign on running with scissors - then it turns out that they can’t even get their numbers right.

Mind you, if you wanted an illustration of the fact that the BMA are a bunch of wasters, you only have to note that their rep in the Middle Bit of England Trust was Dweeb Urologist Johnson - the compost loving willy-wrangler, whose most notable contribution to industrial relations during my time there was to ‘negotiate’ an increase in staff parking charges. Not that it mattered much, he was the only one who actually paid up. Prat.

FAKE DOC CUFFED IN CONCRETE ARSE SHOCKER

I’d been congratulating myself that after only a week in my new job, I was already demonstrating a gift for the eye-catching headline, but as you’ll see from the link, I can’t claim credit for this one, which should be in line for some sort of award.

It just has it all, including the constructive and appropriate use of the word ‘arse’ which, as you all know, is a special interest of mine. In fact, the headline is better than the story, which just reports, yet again, how mind-bogglingly stupid the average punter is. Oh well, I suppose if they weren’t, the cosmetic surgeons would all be out of a job, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? Oh…alright, then.

Although, looking at that picture of the woman again, I can’t help wondering if she hasn’t got a contract with infection control at Middle Bit of England NHS Trust…

ADVICE…on drinking?

More whining in the Sunday Times (link only works if you give money to the needy Murdochs), this time because ministers and civil servants drawing up advice on drinking have had 85 meetings with those magnificent men and women who manufacture alcoholic beverages. Apparently ‘health groups’ are complaining because the industry boys get more access to Whitehall than they do. Well, what do they expect? If I was a senior civil servant and had the choice of meeting half a dozen members of the board of Diageo, or sitting around a table with a bunch of miserable beardies over a carafe of spring water and tofu biscuits, I know what I’d do. For a start, think of the freebies the drinks team would bring along - it would be a right piss-up. Anyway, who needs advice on drinking? Can’t help recalling that quote (was it W C or Gracie Fields?) in response to an unwise journo who asked him about his drink problem: “I drink, I fall down. No problem.” Might try that one with the GMC…

WELL STAY AT HOME AND DIE, then

More whingeing from the Murdoch stable, this time quoting a report from those Dr Foster nerds about ‘botched operations’. (Definitely spent their formative days being bog-washed and wedgied at minor public schools. Get proper jobs…).

It’s the usual bloody complaint about wrong-side surgery. It happened 57 times last year, apparently, so think how many times they removed the intended limb/organ, but no-one gets any thanks for that, do they? And ‘a foreign object’ was left inside the patient on 125 occasions. Garlic bread, Lederhosen? It doesn’t explain but one can surmise it wasn’t an English surgeon who put them there…

Anyway, I bet none of these ‘objects’ were false teeth. I well remember the occasion when the nurses forgot to remove a patient’s dentures before she came down for her cholecystectomy, so Dan the FG took them out when he intubated her and left them on top of his gas machine. Too good to resist I’m afraid, so when his back was turned, I tucked them out of sight in the pelvis and stitched up. A bit naughty I suppose, but I was still feeling skittish after a particularly good mess party the previous evening (remember those?). She didn’t come to any harm, and it made for a really good post-op abdominal x-ray.

Luckily for me, the dozy radiologist saw teeth, and said it must be an ovarian teratoma, so there was no come-back. Happy days!

But to get back to those testosterone-challenged Dr Foster odd-balls, what these people need to understand is that any big building full of sick people and doctors is bound to be a dangerous place. Grow a pair, and deal with it.

Tags: Humour