Nelson's Column, Bolg, Blog, whatever...

Don’t startle the horses over routine check ups

My arse?

Doctors have become used to nurses doing a weekend course to add to their three GCSEs and then trying to take over their jobs, but it’s a bit of a bugger when they nick your language. I freely admit that I have a tendency, when stressed, to use a particular word to add emphasis to my closely-argued and never less than compelling prose, but it comes as a bit of a shock to find nursie doing the same. Still, I think she’ll find she has chosen the wrong target for her deranged bile – the knuckle-draggers may not be the sharpest knives in the medical drawer, but you’d be well-advised not to pick a fight with one. Having said that, this particular angel of mercy looks as if she could handle herself over ten rounds with Mike Tyson, so perhaps that would be the best way to resolve this – a cage fight. My old mate Lennie Spudge would be happy to run a book on it. Actually, I’d give good money to watch her get a kicking – anyone who talks about her ‘hip journey’ deserves all she gets. It’s not a ‘journey’ you silly woman – it’s just stuff happening. Jeez.

Going for a check-up

Having got over their surprise concerning bears’ defaecatory arrangements and the Pope’s religious affiliation, researchers into the bleeding obvious now tell us that routine medical check-ups for the worried well are a waste of time. Now you and I knew that, and I wouldn’t normally draw your attention to this sort of report, but it’s dangerous stuff. A lot of us make a lot of money from pandering to hypochondriacal punters with more money than sense (you surely didn’t think all those gall bladders I removed at The Nugget were diseased?), and if Joe Public reads articles like this, we could see an income stream drying up overnight. Still, every cloud etc, etc – I suppose if they stop GPs doing these checks, it might divert the sniveling hordes of the inadequate into the private sector. And then those arseing GPs could have two half-days off instead of just one to relieve the intolerable pressure of their four day working week.

Now where was I?

I like to keep you up to date with developments in medical technology, and this is hot off the press (well, the Daily Mail actually, but still…). While electronically bugged shoes to keep track of demented relatives may sound like a good idea (assuming that you aren’t fed up with telling them that the war is over, and are looking forward to the day they wander off into the sunset, that is), I think I can see a flaw. The shoes need re-charging every two days, and let’s face it, they’ll forget to plug them in. I’m thinking of getting a pair for Mrs N, though. The frequency of her charity committee meetings is increasing suspiciously, and last night she came back smelling of gin and halothane. I hope she’s not seeing Dan the Fat Gasman again. I mean, it’s not the infidelity that bothers me – I can hardly complain about that, given my record – but an anaesthetist…come on!

Pants!

When I see a headline including the word ‘wonderpants’ I know I need to read on, and so I find myself bringing you yet another report on new technology, and this time, it’s plug-in shreddies. I just love the picture with the article – does that ‘patient’ look to you like someone who might have bedsores? It’s like all those foxy forty year olds they use to advertise nappies for women who pee themselves when they laugh – you really can’t imagine them ever having damp knickers (well, except…oh, never mind). I’m sure these pants do the job for immobile elderly patients, but like the electric shoes, I can think of a much better use for them. They should be issued to nurses when they clock on for a shift, and perhaps some regular shocks would keep their fat arses off the comfy chair and away from the Quality Street for a few hours. They might even find time to look after some patients.

Weekend lottery

Again, something we all knew, but this time I’m glad to see it aired publicly. Of course you don’t want to be in hospital at the weekend – so stay at home and don’t bother us. In the good old days, we’d all be pissed in the hospital mess bar by 5pm on Friday, and happy hour went on until the beer ran out on Sunday night. Hospital messes are things of the past now, but shift working and creative rostering ensures that decent chaps like us spend our weekends on the golf course or on a dirty weekend with our latest mistress* while the Germans and the deadbeats with no home life man the barricades. Most things don’t need urgent attention, and those that do are probably going to kill you anyway. Just grit your teeth and wait for the proper doctors to get back on Monday.

*I’m talking about general surgeons here, of course. God knows what the bearded dweeb (or physicians, for that matter) do at weekends. Crochet tofu or catalogue their stamp collections, probably.

Darkroom boys screw up again

And finally, more evidence of the general uselessness of radiologists. I mean, how hard can it be to look at an X-ray film and see a bloody great ballpoint pen sitting in the stomach? Twenty five years and one CT scan later, the surgeons have to go in and sort it out. Good job they make them sit in darkened rooms all day (mind you, Speccy Barnes, the head of Diagnostic Imagining at the MBoE Trust was so pig-ugly, you had to keep him under drapes). Roll on teleradiology, then they can all work from home and and we won’t have to listen to them whining on about unnecessary investigations, and trying to get themselves involved in treating patients. They’re a bit like nurses come to think about it – they need to know their place.

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