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

When I retire, I’m going to go to pot in Oregon

The tax man cometh?

So HM Revenue and Customs are targeting doctors? Well, ha ha ha ha sodding ha. Hands up all those who were surprised by that revelation…I thought so. Those bastards have been after us for years, and the only people unaware of it are tree-hugging nerds like my old chum Johnson the knob-jockey, who don’t have anything to declare anyway (apart from an unfortunate tendency to cry when someone conceals the contents of a pilonidal abscess in their theatre clogs).

I’ll be surprised if HMRC’s crusade is raising much unpaid cash from surgeons. The attention of a few grey HMRC inspectors in their crumpled grey Primark suits is hardly likely to inspire terror in the heart of anyone with the nous to run a big private practice and hold down a ‘job’ in the NHS. We spend our lives outwitting menopausal theatre sisters and devious anaesthetists, not to mention hospital managers who labour ineffectually to get us to turn up to work and then slash our operating sessions when we are there. I’d concentrate on the dentists if I were you, chaps. They’re all pissed and depressed – should be easy pickings.

Cancer or coronary? You choose

It turns out that smokers who give up gain more weight than previously thought. Well, so what? They’ll die anyway, and quietly expiring in a mound of blubber on the sofa, mid-pizza, will cost the NHS less than all that chemotherapy for lung cancer. Yes, well I’m a journalist now, not a doctor – I don’t have to be sympathetic.

Research…my arse

So,  if I limit my sitting to three hours a day, I’ll live two years longer? Well no, actually, because the ‘research’ is rubbish, but why let that get in the way of a good story? They say that sitting for less than three hours in 24 is ‘unfeasible’, and they’re right – there’s a limit to what you can do standing up (unless supported by the constricting walls of a ward linen cupboard…apparently). Still, good luck to anyone trying to get nursie, or Dan the Fat Gasman for that matter, off their backsides to do something useful.

Going to pot

I’m beginning to think that, should I ever want (or need – thanks to the GMC) to leave this sceptered isle, Oregon looks like an attractive option. They’re proposing to legalise marijuana for recreational use, and if memory serves, they also take a very enlightened view of the care of the elderly. Wouldn’t be a bad life would it? – drifting in a pot-fuelled haze, surfacing for long enough to hand a lethal cocktail to a rich elderly relative and potential benefactor.  There’s some decent salmon fishing, as well.

Man’s best friend – confirmation

Or child’s best friend, in this case. Seems that playing with the family dog’s backside then licking your fingers sets you up nicely for a life free from allergies. Mind you, the research comes from Finland which strikes me as a very wholesome sort of place, presumably with well-behaved and relatively clean dogs. Not sure how well it would translate to sink estates in Oldham, where the family pit bull is more likely to eat the children than render them asthma-free. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing.

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