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

I’m the Man U of surgery despite relegation threat

Ello, ello, ello

What’s all this then? Drafting in police to help out with the bedpans? Admittedly, it’s only in Scotland, so it doesn’t matter very much, but it sounds like a wizard scheme to me. I know that my encounters with Plod over the years have been a little…what’s the word?…negative, but if I close my eyes and allow the uniforms to meld, there’s not much difference between the burly coppers peering in as I wind down my window in a lay-by and the hairy-arsed harridans I had to deal with in theatre at the MBoE Trust. In fact, now I think about it, a reciprocal arrangement might be just the thing. I can think of at least one theatre sister and another from A&E who possess precisely the skill set required to bang up Saturday night drunks down at the station. One of them would have to shave her beard off, though.

It all seems to be part of a trend for diversification and multi-tasking. I see that they are thinking of sending the army into the classroom. Again, not a bad idea. Some of the slack-jawed school kids I see hanging around the town centre would benefit from a bit of discipline – lining half a dozen up and machine gunning them in morning assembly would do a lot to encourage a more rigorous approach to learning amongst their snotty little compatriots.

Don’t leak in my Jag

Just when they’d got used to avoiding unpasteurized cheese and cutting back on the booze and fags, pregnant women now have another list of things to avoid. I suppose obstetricians get a bit bored with their fairly limited role of interfering with a natural function rather than doing real surgery (must be a bit like being a dentist, but without the teeth), but even so, the fanny ferrets have really screwed up this time. I mean they’ve just come up with a list of things that might be dangerous in pregnancy, but probably aren’t, including food in tins; food wrapped in plastic and non-stick frying pans. Which pretty much means that preggers ladies can’t eat or cook; what are their husbands going to do for food – eat out for nine months? In fact the only sensible suggestions are that they should avoid new furniture and new cars – well, you wouldn’t want them leaking all over your new leather upholstery, would you?

Top of the table?

So league tables aren’t the best tools for choosing a surgeon? Too bloody right they’re not. All it takes is a waste of oxygen like Dan the Fat Gasman at the other end of the table, and even a Man U of the surgical world like me can end up looking more like Aldershot. And of course, you’re only as good as the material you get to operate on. Most of the punters at the MBoE Trust had clocked up thirty years or more of sixty a day Capstan full strength with twenty pints of Marston’s bitter at the weekends. It’s a wonder they lived long enough to get their gallstones or colon cancer, let alone survive major surgery. Just getting them out of hospital after the operation was an achievement, never mind all this five-year survival nonsense.

And, what’s all this about patients choosing surgeons. Bloody cheek! They’re getting above themselves. I blame the socialists and their namby-pamby choose-and-book, holistic, empathetic nonsense. Patients should just be grateful that anyone will take them on, lie back and do as they’re told. Queues in A&E my arse! Twenty quid a visit, that would sort the buggers out. Sorry…digressed a bit there, but you know what I mean.

You see?

This is exactly the sort of thing I was going on about in the previous item. More whingeing about bloodstained trolleys and patients having to get relatives to bring food in for them. When I worked in the middle east, prisoners’ relatives had to do the same, and if they didn’t, their loved ones starved to death. I see no reason why hospitals should be any different – bloody dependency culture. And of course the trolleys are bloodstained – it’s an A&E department. In fact, I find it encouraging that at least a few of the attendees are proper casualties, bleeding all over the furniture, and not just inadequate welfare scroungers with a headache or a sore back. As for the complaints about do not resuscitate orders and bare electrical wiring, am I the only one to glimpse a possible two-birds-with-one-stone solution here?

Goodness gracious me!

Let’s end on a bit of good news for once. They’ve come up with an oral vaccine for  Delhi belly. Might mean I can venture back into my local Indian again. They do a lovely murgh phall, but although I can put up with the consequent ring of fire, two days on a drip and a full course of antibiotics is just too high a price to pay. Might get hold of some of these tablets, and give it another try.

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