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nhs

Anything they can do, we can do…

2 years ago, mid-July

As England finally reach somewhat of an injury plateau, Pakistan are scrabbling (rather impressively too) to catch up. In just 48 hours, three players have all been written off/died/collapsed/bashed around a bit. Quite a good effort that. Mohammad Sami is a doubt; Mohammad Asif is a bigger doubt and Rana Naved-ul-Hasan, who looks at least 50, is ruled out. There are probably more, too, which I’ve forgotten.

Writing about cricket has, for the past few months, resembled something similar to my previous life working in the NHS. Broken limbs, missing bits of cartilage, idiots treading on people’s hands, wonky groins and so on. Quite why all these winners are falling apart at the seams with such predictable regularity is beyond me. As Fred would have said, “in my day…”

Amo, amas, a rant

2 years ago, at the end of June

I know I’m ranting a lot lately - normal cricketing service shall resume shortly. But I must just get this off my (spluttering) chest. I’m watching Tim Henman, which often induces sporadic fits of frustration in me. Onwards…

I have a tendency to look a bit rough-and-ready at the best of times. Therefore, when I’m ill I closely resemble a homeless person. Incidentally, that’s probably politically incorrect. “A less homely person”? On a similar point, did you know “disabled” has all but been banned? Those lacking ability, or movement, are “less abled” which, from my time at the NHS, was met with guffaws by the dozen of so wheelchair-bound patients who I worked with on a daily basis).

Anyway, with a four-day beard and genuinely feeling like a dog, I marched into my local surgery. “Hello, would it be possible to see a Doctor? I think I’m about to die” weren’t my exact words, but it was plain as day that I was clearly not there to make up the numbers, or offer her a discount on a handmade cuckoo clock from Milton Keynes. Nor do I have a taste for ketamine or other bizarre drugs: I just need some antibiotics. Here’s what she said.

“We don’t have any doctors here today.”

WHAT? You’re a fucking surgery. Your signpost outside clearly states you are not only open now, at midday, but that you will be open until six. Open but Doctorless - welcome to (Old) Labour’s vision of how to reduce an ageing population: kill us all before we reach 65. How, then, can she help me?

“You can come back tomorrow. We should have a doctor then.”

Terrific. That’s just brilliant - just brilliant. My problem with this is twofold: there are many, many other people who are far, far worse off than me. What would they do? Not a bloody lot I imagine. Secondly, could she have been any less helpful? It’s all about numbers, figures, databases, and targets these days. When I was at the NHS, we were similarly crippled in booking patients on for operations or clinics, but every day we made exceptions where possible.

Anyway, I’m now eating chicken soup which, apparently, is also known as Jewish penicillin.