Hospital waiting
Posted in Old blogger by Twenty Major on January 18th, 2006
The news last night. Some opposition politician was complaining about the state of the A&E departments in Irish hospitals. He claimed at any one time there were 400 people waiting on trolleys or chairs or benches, sometimes for up to 2 days, before being seen or admitted.
The hospitals board hit back saying ‘It’s not 400 at all, that’s ridiculous. It’s an outrageous slur. It’s nowhere near as that. It’s actually 380 people.”
Ah, well that’s all right then. It’s only 380 people paying more tax than Paris Hilton has had cocks in the last week to sit in a fucking waiting room or in a corridor on a chair or a trolley (if they’re lucky).
We keep reading about how the government made so much money this year in tax, more than €2.5bn than they thought they would, they haven’t had to borrow as much as they had budgeted for. They might spend a bit on hospitals instead of the usual crap they spend on themselves like paying off journalists to not write about the fact they beat their wives.
Basically it’s best to avoid hospitals if you can. Stinking Pete has a massive fear of hospitals brought about by an incident when he was young. He claims that he was held upside down and slapped on the back moments before somebody cut his tail off.
Anyway, he refuses point blank to go to a hospital or to see a doctor of any kind. As he’s a bit accident prone this isn’t always a good thing.
Once he was fleeing somebody or other, I don’t remember who exactly but Pete flees quite a lot, he leapt over a wall and broke his ankle. Somehow he managed to hobble round to Jimmy the Bollix’s place with his ankle swollen like a balloon. Jimmy called me so I came around.
“Fuck me that’s nasty looking”, I said.
“It hurts like a goat”, he said.
“I’d say it does. It’s gone black and blue already and your foot is really cold. That means the circulation is probably cut off and you’re going to lose your toes like some kind of arctic explorer! Cool.”
“Fuck, I need my toes. I’ll fall over without them.”
“Well, then we better get you to a doctor or a hospital.”
“NO!”, he shouted. “No doctors, no hospitals.”
“No toes, Stinking Pete. Your choice.”
“There must be another way.”
I consulted with Jimmy and the only thing we could come up with was to call Mick the medic who looked after folk who couldn’t go to a hospital when they got shot or got injured doing something they shouldn’t. Mick had done two years of vet school and had a black doctor’s bag with mostly drugs and some crude tools.
He came over about 20 minutes later and at this stage Pete was hallucinating with the pain. He kept saying that he had to leave in order to have a business meeting with 80s one hit wonder Oran ‘Juice’ Jones. Mick the medic shot him up with something which made his eyes roll and made him drool more than he normally does before he twisted his ankle around into a position which looked relatively normal. He then made a papier-mache cast and a splint out of an old wooden ruler and told us to tell Pete to take it off in about 6 weeks. He left us with 50 diazepam to control the pain.
The first week we kept him in a semi-coma but eventually he came around more and after 6 weeks he took off his makeshift cast.
Now the cunt limps like his foot is on backwards. Which it is practically. Magoo the medic more like.