Should you ever wish to know how it feels to have your mood in tatters before your day has even begun, take a cruise around Hemel Hempstead at eight-thirty in the morning then try to actually use one of the car parks; that should do the trick.
Take today as a typical example. I am on my way to work. In Hemel. Which believe me is depressing enough. I have been in the car less than two minutes before I fall victim to a Range Rover driver with a complex. Clearly overcompensating for the fact he has a penis the size of a button mushroom by purchasing a large car, he’s practically in my boot for the entire journey, blaring his horn when I have the audacity to hold him up by giving way to the right at a roundabout. (Abusing people for obeying the Highway Code is how they roll here). I really must remind myself to be more enraged at life before getting behind the wheel again.
I swerve into the car park – though obviously not the one next door to my office, which charges EIGHT POUNDS a day – and barely make it to the ticket machine before I’m beeped at again. Seriously, I’m on the path, how can I have committed another horn-worthy offence? Oh. I see. A white van. I should’ve guessed. It is after all an integral part of a van driver’s job description to beep and rev at anyone they’re 90 per cent sure is female. Perhaps I should be flattered. This might be as good as it gets.
So that takes us up to 8:45am. I then spend the next five minutes digging about in my purse, attempting to make £3.50 out of the four 10p’s and two 20p’s I find. Couldn’t I just feed it that nice crisp £10 note I keep stashed away for pick and mix emergencies instead? Or perhaps it prefers plastic? Well in short, no. It’s coins or nothing. Except for 5p’s, which ‘as of the week commencing 25th March’ this machine has also taken an aversion to. Incidentally, it’s not that keen on giving change either, with a sticker cheerfully declaring ‘Overpayment Accepted’. How kind. Where’s all that extra cash going I wonder? To charity? Or towards making the traffic wardens’ Nazi-themed Christmas Party a little bit less tragic? I wonder. Why not just put a sign up saying ‘Thieves Operate in this Area’? Because they certainly do.
Of course, they only make it this hard for us to buy a ticket because they don’t actually want us to. Because if paying to park was made easy, everyone would do it. And then traffic wardens would have nothing to do. They would cease to be sad individuals hiding in bushes with cameras, and would simply become weird individuals hiding in bushes with cameras. Then how will they reap their revenge on the world for dealing them such a shit hand? No, that wouldn’t do at all. Although I suppose there’s always the totally powerless role of Police Community Support Officer to fall back on, should Hemel council ever drag their parking system into the 21st Century. At least then they could continue to exercise their misplaced sense of importance; striding around the town centre, bellowing made-up acronyms into walkie talkies and pouncing on any youth who happens to be in possession of a beverage stronger than Red Bull. But for now it seems their jobs are safe. I suppose I could just walk to work. But then I’d really have something to complain about.
14 September, 2010
Shockingly Predictable
Hands up who is shocked, stunned and in total disbelief that Wayne Rooney has cheated on his wife? Anyone? No, me neither. I am, however, in utter astonishment that this hideous gargoyle has actually succeeded in bedding a FOURTH woman (There was that granny prostitute too, remember. The calibre of the man.)
Anyway, every time some high profile footballer does the dirty on his WAG, the tabloids present the story to us like it’s something new and original. ‘Wayne Rooney Scandal!’, ‘Rooney cheats on pregnant Coleen with hooker Juci Jenny,’ and my personal favourite, ‘Rooney – cheating shit!’ are just a handful of the headlines plastering our papers this fortnight. But, thinking about it logically, is this situation really all that shocking? No. Rooney, Crouch, Cole, Ronaldo, Terry, Gerrard (I could go on), are young, testosterone driven multimillionaires with IQs to match your average slug, who have constant streams of girls (whores), hurling themselves at their mercy wherever they go. And these simple creatures simply can’t help themselves. Admittedly, having to actually pay for the sex is a sorry, if inevitable, state of affairs for the likes of Rooney and Crouch, but the cheating itself comes as no surprise whatsoever.
For some unbeknownst reason, most of these footballers seem intent on tying themselves down too young and too early into their relationships. One minute they’ve got a gorgeous woman hanging off their arm to parade in front of the media, and the next that woman has turned into a wife and a couple of kids. And there are baby seats in the back of the Bentley. Definitely not in keeping with the playboy image. So when such a quarter-life crisis of identity ensues, what’s a rich, high-profile, intellectually challenged man to do? Check into an expensive hotel suite and spend the night tapping a couple of grubby prostitutes, that’s what. Then toss them a few grand to keep their mouths shut (because they’re renowned for that in their line of business), and a couple of months later be really surprised that Juci Jenny and co have broken their pinky promise and sold their sordid stories to anyone who’ll give them column inches. I mean, seriously, what the hell made Rooney think he’d get away with these sleazy shenanigans when so many before him haven’t? He can’t possibly have thought he was clever enough to pull off a stunt like this and walk away totally unscathed? A man who’d suffer severe difficulties outsmarting a nit? No. He must simply be even thicker than we thought. Impressive.
Still, if he’s been good for one thing it’s providing Coleen with a leg-up to start her own career and become a household name in her own right – she doesn’t need him anymore. Oh, but what’s that? She’s taking him back? Giving him a final warning? I’m not being funny, but surely partaking in a threesome constitutes two yellow cards already? Possibly even three, seeing as one of them is ginger and they’re both incredibly ugly. By my calculations, he should be right out – condemned to a life of ready meals for one with only his right hand for company. But it is not to be. He will be forgiven, and he will do it again, and so it goes on. So no, footballers being caught with their tracksuits round their ankles is not a ‘shock’ or a ‘surprise’ – it is merely a weary predictability.
Anyway, every time some high profile footballer does the dirty on his WAG, the tabloids present the story to us like it’s something new and original. ‘Wayne Rooney Scandal!’, ‘Rooney cheats on pregnant Coleen with hooker Juci Jenny,’ and my personal favourite, ‘Rooney – cheating shit!’ are just a handful of the headlines plastering our papers this fortnight. But, thinking about it logically, is this situation really all that shocking? No. Rooney, Crouch, Cole, Ronaldo, Terry, Gerrard (I could go on), are young, testosterone driven multimillionaires with IQs to match your average slug, who have constant streams of girls (whores), hurling themselves at their mercy wherever they go. And these simple creatures simply can’t help themselves. Admittedly, having to actually pay for the sex is a sorry, if inevitable, state of affairs for the likes of Rooney and Crouch, but the cheating itself comes as no surprise whatsoever.
For some unbeknownst reason, most of these footballers seem intent on tying themselves down too young and too early into their relationships. One minute they’ve got a gorgeous woman hanging off their arm to parade in front of the media, and the next that woman has turned into a wife and a couple of kids. And there are baby seats in the back of the Bentley. Definitely not in keeping with the playboy image. So when such a quarter-life crisis of identity ensues, what’s a rich, high-profile, intellectually challenged man to do? Check into an expensive hotel suite and spend the night tapping a couple of grubby prostitutes, that’s what. Then toss them a few grand to keep their mouths shut (because they’re renowned for that in their line of business), and a couple of months later be really surprised that Juci Jenny and co have broken their pinky promise and sold their sordid stories to anyone who’ll give them column inches. I mean, seriously, what the hell made Rooney think he’d get away with these sleazy shenanigans when so many before him haven’t? He can’t possibly have thought he was clever enough to pull off a stunt like this and walk away totally unscathed? A man who’d suffer severe difficulties outsmarting a nit? No. He must simply be even thicker than we thought. Impressive.
Still, if he’s been good for one thing it’s providing Coleen with a leg-up to start her own career and become a household name in her own right – she doesn’t need him anymore. Oh, but what’s that? She’s taking him back? Giving him a final warning? I’m not being funny, but surely partaking in a threesome constitutes two yellow cards already? Possibly even three, seeing as one of them is ginger and they’re both incredibly ugly. By my calculations, he should be right out – condemned to a life of ready meals for one with only his right hand for company. But it is not to be. He will be forgiven, and he will do it again, and so it goes on. So no, footballers being caught with their tracksuits round their ankles is not a ‘shock’ or a ‘surprise’ – it is merely a weary predictability.
29 August, 2010
The Hospital - Liver Livid
I realise that so far this blog has been populated entirely with posts about The Hospital and that this a. makes me look NHS obsessed and b. makes me look crap-tv obsessed. Only one of these is true. Anyway, this will be the last hospital-based post because, well, the series has ended and also because I really should at least emit the illusion that I have a life. Once I’m done poking fun at this last set of patients, I’ll move on to whining about the myriad of other people-related irritations I encounter on a daily basis, such as ignoramus companies who don’t bother acknowledging the job application you spent all day on, as well as exploring the best methods of punishment for insane people who put cats in wheelie bins. Things like that.
But for now, let us focus our attention on the King’s College Hospital liver unit. It seems the majority of patients featured on the programme are relying entirely on ignorance to ward off their fatty liver disease, which incidentally has been brought on by their reckless, greedy attitudes towards alcohol and fast food. My heart bleeds. So, the less you know, the less it matters? Sophie from Gosport seems to think so. Having previously collapsed with kidney failure after a night of binge drinking, you could be forgiven for thinking she’d have taken the doctor’s advice and laid off the Lambrini for a while. But what do they know? So the next weekend she’s back out on the town. Who knew Portsmouth held such allure. ‘I don’t even know where my liver is, and seeing as I don’t understand it, it’s not something I need to worry about. Anyway, I’m not a binge drinker because I drink all week,’ she declares. Well, I’m certainly glad we cleared that one up.
This warped sense of perspective is shared by an obese, peroxide loudmouth (I don’t remember her name, but you can’t miss her), who remains in denial of her fatty liver disease for the entire episode, pitifully blaming her friend’s birthday and the world cup for her excessive boozing. ‘I drink what I want, when I want and I enjoy it. I am a binge drinker, but it’s not affecting my health.’ Yeah, not much love. Although admittedly, those ten kebabs a night she puts away also share a portion of the blame.
These people are quick enough to pitch up at the hospital and demand treatment when things start to go awry, but they’re not so keen to admit they actually have a problem, and some even have the audacity to get shirty with staff when questioned about their lifestyle choices. ‘The doctor raised his voice to me in there, and I didn’t like it,’ huffs one 27 year-old male who had just tittered his way through a consultation, admitting he is currently consuming A PINT of vodka a day. Oh, I’m sorry that we’ve failed to see the funny side of you abusing your liver and expecting another courtesy of a generous donor. How unsporting of us.
‘Who gets to play God and decide who deserves a transplant?’ asks Michael, 30, who is now on his second donated liver due to drug abuse. Oh I don’t know, the donors perhaps? Or their families? Maybe people should be given the option of specifying whether or not they want their organs donated to somebody who has deliberately abused their own bodies. I’m on the organ donor register and would be pretty horrified if my body parts were being inserted into Mrs Obese Peroxide Loudmouth when there are innocent people waiting for a transplant through no fault of their own. (And yes, I realise I wouldn’t know either way. But still.)
You may think I’m being unfair – everyone deserves a second chance don’t they? Well yes, but to say the self-abusing patients on this programme still aren’t taking their conditions seriously would be a massive understatement. For instance: ‘I’d have to be told to stop drinking completely for me to change my social life. I think there’s worse people out there doing things that have a bigger drain on the NHS than me.’ (Another gem from Mrs Peroxide), and ‘I’m just glad I’m getting treated now, before the rush comes on.’ (Some bloke who appears to be likening his liver transplant to purchasing goods in the Christmas sales). But he’s right. Currently, 9,000 people a year die from liver disease in the UK, with just 700 transplants performed annually. Clearly there’s already a shortage of organs, and thanks to our fatty liver friends the situation is set only to get a whole lot worse. Yes, there will be a rush – I just hope they’re at the back of the queue when it happens.
But for now, let us focus our attention on the King’s College Hospital liver unit. It seems the majority of patients featured on the programme are relying entirely on ignorance to ward off their fatty liver disease, which incidentally has been brought on by their reckless, greedy attitudes towards alcohol and fast food. My heart bleeds. So, the less you know, the less it matters? Sophie from Gosport seems to think so. Having previously collapsed with kidney failure after a night of binge drinking, you could be forgiven for thinking she’d have taken the doctor’s advice and laid off the Lambrini for a while. But what do they know? So the next weekend she’s back out on the town. Who knew Portsmouth held such allure. ‘I don’t even know where my liver is, and seeing as I don’t understand it, it’s not something I need to worry about. Anyway, I’m not a binge drinker because I drink all week,’ she declares. Well, I’m certainly glad we cleared that one up.
This warped sense of perspective is shared by an obese, peroxide loudmouth (I don’t remember her name, but you can’t miss her), who remains in denial of her fatty liver disease for the entire episode, pitifully blaming her friend’s birthday and the world cup for her excessive boozing. ‘I drink what I want, when I want and I enjoy it. I am a binge drinker, but it’s not affecting my health.’ Yeah, not much love. Although admittedly, those ten kebabs a night she puts away also share a portion of the blame.
These people are quick enough to pitch up at the hospital and demand treatment when things start to go awry, but they’re not so keen to admit they actually have a problem, and some even have the audacity to get shirty with staff when questioned about their lifestyle choices. ‘The doctor raised his voice to me in there, and I didn’t like it,’ huffs one 27 year-old male who had just tittered his way through a consultation, admitting he is currently consuming A PINT of vodka a day. Oh, I’m sorry that we’ve failed to see the funny side of you abusing your liver and expecting another courtesy of a generous donor. How unsporting of us.
‘Who gets to play God and decide who deserves a transplant?’ asks Michael, 30, who is now on his second donated liver due to drug abuse. Oh I don’t know, the donors perhaps? Or their families? Maybe people should be given the option of specifying whether or not they want their organs donated to somebody who has deliberately abused their own bodies. I’m on the organ donor register and would be pretty horrified if my body parts were being inserted into Mrs Obese Peroxide Loudmouth when there are innocent people waiting for a transplant through no fault of their own. (And yes, I realise I wouldn’t know either way. But still.)
You may think I’m being unfair – everyone deserves a second chance don’t they? Well yes, but to say the self-abusing patients on this programme still aren’t taking their conditions seriously would be a massive understatement. For instance: ‘I’d have to be told to stop drinking completely for me to change my social life. I think there’s worse people out there doing things that have a bigger drain on the NHS than me.’ (Another gem from Mrs Peroxide), and ‘I’m just glad I’m getting treated now, before the rush comes on.’ (Some bloke who appears to be likening his liver transplant to purchasing goods in the Christmas sales). But he’s right. Currently, 9,000 people a year die from liver disease in the UK, with just 700 transplants performed annually. Clearly there’s already a shortage of organs, and thanks to our fatty liver friends the situation is set only to get a whole lot worse. Yes, there will be a rush – I just hope they’re at the back of the queue when it happens.
19 August, 2010
The Hospital - Weird Boob Bonanza
Round two of The Hospital, and what do we have? The weird boob bonanza episode! Sorry, I mean the freeloading general public trying to get their cosmetic procedures on the NHS episode! Whatever. If you’re having a bad body day, give this a watch. It’s a nice little pick-me-up. We’re talking images of people with enough excess skin to cover a three piece suite, and women with nipples the size of their entire boob. Seriously. 4od. Look into it.
Anyway, kicking off with the first member of our ‘the-whole-world-owes-me-a-favour’ brigade, please welcome Jade. Now, Jade has a very sad story to tell. She has small boobs. An A cup. For her, this is the most catastrophic situation in the whole world, which goes some way towards illustrating just how small her world actually is.
Nevertheless, one must admire the great lengths Jade is willing to travel for her free boob job. ‘I want a boob job more than anyone else in the world,’ she explains earnestly. ‘Like, I’d eat a thousand spiders for a boob job. Other people wouldn’t do that, so obviously I want it more.’ Quite.
A true Essex girl in (almost) every sense of the word, Jade then proceeds to empty onto her Playboy duvet cover a collection of chicken fillets to rival any Iceland store, apparently stuffing as many down her top as humanely possible on a night out. So, in Jade’s eyes, why should the NHS foot the bill for her cosmetic procedure? ‘Having small boobs is like a disease, innit. If I had four feet coming out of one leg the NHS would sort it out wouldn’t they?’ I couldn’t agree more. The two are undeniably comparable.
‘See, she’s got big tits and she gets a whole page, whereas she’s got small ones and she only gets half a page,’ Jade pouts as she flicks through her extensive library of Nuts magazines. She’s right. This does seem like the kind of medical emergency the NHS was designed to deal with. If only there weren’t so many bothersome, trivial mastectomies for surgeons to carry out too, she’d be pumped up and on the front cover of Zoo quicker than you can say Jordan. Where is the justice?
More of her plight later. Next up, a 15, yes, 15 year-old demanding surgery because her breasts are growing unevenly. The key word in this sentence being ‘growing’ i.e. still developing and will most likely correct themselves over time. But will we wait until we’re older to find out? Oh no. ‘If we wait till she’s 18 we’ll have to pay for it. I’m not doing that,’ declares her mother. Of course you’re not. You’d much rather let hardworking, complete strangers foot the bill. Still, if the NHS is soft enough to give in (which in this case they were), what more can we expect from these people?
Unfortunately for Jade, she was not so lucky in the boob lottery. Having failed to convince her female doctor that receiving the procedure was a basic human right (unbelievable, I know), she decided to try her luck with a male doctor instead. Her attempts at outrageous flirting clearly did not go well. ‘He said it wasn’t life threatening and there’s nothing they can do. I feel like punching someone! Maybe I’ll say I’m suicidal, then it’ll be life threatening. I found out they gave that child killer Maxine Carr a boob job, but they won’t give one to an innocent person like me. I feel like writing in to complain.’ Er, firstly, just a little touch of slander there, and secondly, write in and say what?! ‘Dear NHS, I’m a freeloading glamour model wannabe trying to get a boob job courtesy of the taxpayer and my doctor saw straight through me.’ Now there’s a strong case if ever you saw one.
Don’t get me wrong, I do sympathise with women who are unhappy with certain aspects of their bodies, and I’m all for cosmetic surgery if it will make you feel better. I for one would love to glance down at my chest and not see an ironing board staring back at me, but, unlike some others, would be willing to pay for the privilege of obtaining a nice pair of melons (or even large oranges, I’m not fussy). I would certainly never expect unassuming taxpayers to put their hands in their pockets to pay for my vanity, nor would I dream of putting the NHS under any additional strain for this purpose.
Perhaps Jade and co should go and do a stint in the US, where they’d be expected to cough up the cash for each and every procedure, be it a boob job or a burst appendix. Maybe then these self-obsessed, whingeing spongers would realise just how good they’ve bloody well got it.
Anyway, kicking off with the first member of our ‘the-whole-world-owes-me-a-favour’ brigade, please welcome Jade. Now, Jade has a very sad story to tell. She has small boobs. An A cup. For her, this is the most catastrophic situation in the whole world, which goes some way towards illustrating just how small her world actually is.
Nevertheless, one must admire the great lengths Jade is willing to travel for her free boob job. ‘I want a boob job more than anyone else in the world,’ she explains earnestly. ‘Like, I’d eat a thousand spiders for a boob job. Other people wouldn’t do that, so obviously I want it more.’ Quite.
A true Essex girl in (almost) every sense of the word, Jade then proceeds to empty onto her Playboy duvet cover a collection of chicken fillets to rival any Iceland store, apparently stuffing as many down her top as humanely possible on a night out. So, in Jade’s eyes, why should the NHS foot the bill for her cosmetic procedure? ‘Having small boobs is like a disease, innit. If I had four feet coming out of one leg the NHS would sort it out wouldn’t they?’ I couldn’t agree more. The two are undeniably comparable.
‘See, she’s got big tits and she gets a whole page, whereas she’s got small ones and she only gets half a page,’ Jade pouts as she flicks through her extensive library of Nuts magazines. She’s right. This does seem like the kind of medical emergency the NHS was designed to deal with. If only there weren’t so many bothersome, trivial mastectomies for surgeons to carry out too, she’d be pumped up and on the front cover of Zoo quicker than you can say Jordan. Where is the justice?
More of her plight later. Next up, a 15, yes, 15 year-old demanding surgery because her breasts are growing unevenly. The key word in this sentence being ‘growing’ i.e. still developing and will most likely correct themselves over time. But will we wait until we’re older to find out? Oh no. ‘If we wait till she’s 18 we’ll have to pay for it. I’m not doing that,’ declares her mother. Of course you’re not. You’d much rather let hardworking, complete strangers foot the bill. Still, if the NHS is soft enough to give in (which in this case they were), what more can we expect from these people?
Unfortunately for Jade, she was not so lucky in the boob lottery. Having failed to convince her female doctor that receiving the procedure was a basic human right (unbelievable, I know), she decided to try her luck with a male doctor instead. Her attempts at outrageous flirting clearly did not go well. ‘He said it wasn’t life threatening and there’s nothing they can do. I feel like punching someone! Maybe I’ll say I’m suicidal, then it’ll be life threatening. I found out they gave that child killer Maxine Carr a boob job, but they won’t give one to an innocent person like me. I feel like writing in to complain.’ Er, firstly, just a little touch of slander there, and secondly, write in and say what?! ‘Dear NHS, I’m a freeloading glamour model wannabe trying to get a boob job courtesy of the taxpayer and my doctor saw straight through me.’ Now there’s a strong case if ever you saw one.
Don’t get me wrong, I do sympathise with women who are unhappy with certain aspects of their bodies, and I’m all for cosmetic surgery if it will make you feel better. I for one would love to glance down at my chest and not see an ironing board staring back at me, but, unlike some others, would be willing to pay for the privilege of obtaining a nice pair of melons (or even large oranges, I’m not fussy). I would certainly never expect unassuming taxpayers to put their hands in their pockets to pay for my vanity, nor would I dream of putting the NHS under any additional strain for this purpose.
Perhaps Jade and co should go and do a stint in the US, where they’d be expected to cough up the cash for each and every procedure, be it a boob job or a burst appendix. Maybe then these self-obsessed, whingeing spongers would realise just how good they’ve bloody well got it.
18 August, 2010
The Hospital - Sexual Health for the Socially Hopeless
So. First ever post since I set this blog up, er, a year ago. I’ve been busy. Not really. Anyway, I shall continue the better-late-than-never theme by starting with a short observational piece/rant about the return of Channel 4’s marvellous documentary series, The Hospital. I know it’s been on for weeks already, but what with me being on holiday, coupled with my obsession for storing episodes up so I can treat myself to a marathon session, I’ve only just got round to watching it.
So, with a steaming bowl of sweetcorn and pancetta chowder at the ready, on goes 4od and I settle down for an afternoon of anticipated tut-tutting at the general state of the British public. It doesn’t disappoint. Hello Chelsea and Westminster Sexual Health Clinic. It only takes the opening montage of scabby penis and manky minky shots to assure me that chowder was indeed an inadvisable lunch choice.
Still, I’m sure the young people benefiting from this excellent NHS clinic are appreciative and respectful of its existence when they find themselves in a spot of bother and require help (free of charge)? Oh. It would appear not. ‘I was, like, doing loads of stuff so I couldn’t go,’ says one 14 year old from under her duvet, when asked why she hadn’t bothered to turn up for her sexual health screening. Mature enough to have sex, but yet to learn how to hold a phone and cancel an appointment are we? I see. As for the mother, I think the sentence ‘I didn’t even know she was having sexually intercourse’ just about sums her up.
Of course there are plenty who do attend their appointments and are enormously pleased with the service. One gentleman so much so that he even offered the doctor a spin on his newly disinfected penis by way of thanks. Socially retarded? Steady on. She had only spent the past hour removing his genital warts, after all.
Some patients even visit the clinic in couples (romance, dead?), like Mr ‘Catalogue Model’ with the unfortunate set of teeth and his equally gormless one night stand. ‘We had sex last night, dint we? So now we both need checking out,’ he announces, sauntering through reception, upturned collar and pattern-shaved head leaving him looking more East 17 circa 1993 than Noughties bad boy. Condom? Don’t be absurd. ‘Well I’m 21 and I drink alcohol, what can I say?’ Probably best to leave it at that. Wouldn’t want you to use all the words in your limited vocabulary in one day, would we. I am 22 and also drink alcohol, yet have managed to successfully avoid crabs, syphilis and the rest. Perhaps his problem is not being young, but being a moron?
For some, the sexual health clinic is like a home from home. One charming individual who’s had Chlamydia before and has recently treated himself to a second helping boasts shamelessly that he’s slept with more women than he can remember in the past three months and wouldn’t even recognise them if they passed him on the street. Excellent news for their next sexual partners. How this gremlin managed to bed anyone at all is a complete mystery to me, but that’s another matter. The fact is he wears his Chlamydia like a badge of honour. ‘When I first got it, everyone had it. If you didn’t have it you were boring. When I found out I’d got it, I was like whoo-hoo! I haven’t learnt my lesson though. Well, I am male,’ he sniggers.
Good. Great. Excellent. Well, now we’ve established that the majority of these diseased idiots couldn’t care less what they’ve got or who they caught it from, perhaps we could load them all onto some form of large vessel and ship them off to a remote island, where they can spend their days infecting one another and crab fishing. They’ll be in abundance, after all. And the rest of us? Well, we’ll be benefiting from an NHS that’s pouring money into worthwhile causes and treating people who deserve it, of course.
So, with a steaming bowl of sweetcorn and pancetta chowder at the ready, on goes 4od and I settle down for an afternoon of anticipated tut-tutting at the general state of the British public. It doesn’t disappoint. Hello Chelsea and Westminster Sexual Health Clinic. It only takes the opening montage of scabby penis and manky minky shots to assure me that chowder was indeed an inadvisable lunch choice.
Still, I’m sure the young people benefiting from this excellent NHS clinic are appreciative and respectful of its existence when they find themselves in a spot of bother and require help (free of charge)? Oh. It would appear not. ‘I was, like, doing loads of stuff so I couldn’t go,’ says one 14 year old from under her duvet, when asked why she hadn’t bothered to turn up for her sexual health screening. Mature enough to have sex, but yet to learn how to hold a phone and cancel an appointment are we? I see. As for the mother, I think the sentence ‘I didn’t even know she was having sexually intercourse’ just about sums her up.
Of course there are plenty who do attend their appointments and are enormously pleased with the service. One gentleman so much so that he even offered the doctor a spin on his newly disinfected penis by way of thanks. Socially retarded? Steady on. She had only spent the past hour removing his genital warts, after all.
Some patients even visit the clinic in couples (romance, dead?), like Mr ‘Catalogue Model’ with the unfortunate set of teeth and his equally gormless one night stand. ‘We had sex last night, dint we? So now we both need checking out,’ he announces, sauntering through reception, upturned collar and pattern-shaved head leaving him looking more East 17 circa 1993 than Noughties bad boy. Condom? Don’t be absurd. ‘Well I’m 21 and I drink alcohol, what can I say?’ Probably best to leave it at that. Wouldn’t want you to use all the words in your limited vocabulary in one day, would we. I am 22 and also drink alcohol, yet have managed to successfully avoid crabs, syphilis and the rest. Perhaps his problem is not being young, but being a moron?
For some, the sexual health clinic is like a home from home. One charming individual who’s had Chlamydia before and has recently treated himself to a second helping boasts shamelessly that he’s slept with more women than he can remember in the past three months and wouldn’t even recognise them if they passed him on the street. Excellent news for their next sexual partners. How this gremlin managed to bed anyone at all is a complete mystery to me, but that’s another matter. The fact is he wears his Chlamydia like a badge of honour. ‘When I first got it, everyone had it. If you didn’t have it you were boring. When I found out I’d got it, I was like whoo-hoo! I haven’t learnt my lesson though. Well, I am male,’ he sniggers.
Good. Great. Excellent. Well, now we’ve established that the majority of these diseased idiots couldn’t care less what they’ve got or who they caught it from, perhaps we could load them all onto some form of large vessel and ship them off to a remote island, where they can spend their days infecting one another and crab fishing. They’ll be in abundance, after all. And the rest of us? Well, we’ll be benefiting from an NHS that’s pouring money into worthwhile causes and treating people who deserve it, of course.
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