Easy Cash

I don't smoke. Never have, never will. Yet I was flabbergasted, yes, flabbergasted, to find out that NHS bosses in Dundee are actually going to pay 1800 people nearly £50 a month to give up.

Are you fucking kidding me!?

Pay people to stop smoking?

Has the world suddenly shifted on it's axis slightly?
Have I woken up in another dimension?
Is this the Twilight Zone?

Why don't we just give Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty a couple of grand to quit smack, or lob some cash at Chris Langham if he gives up kiddie porn?!

Everyone knows the health risks that you run by smoking, and everyone knows that smoking related conditions are a fucking HUGE burden on the NHS. If you're aware of all this, yet wish to continue puffing away, by all means do so, but I don't see why my hard earned tax cash should be used to bail you out. Fuck that.

This leads into a whole other Pandora's Box of issues.
Should you be refused treatment if you continue to behave in a manner detrimental to your health? It's a bit of a gray area, but broadly speaking, yes.

Drank your life away and fucked your liver? Ok, here's a new one. Stop drinking.
Smoked 60 a day? Fine, here's your treatment. Give up.

It's not rocket science. If it causes an injury every time you bang your head off a wall, don't bang your head off a wall. If it makes you worse every time you smoke, don't smoke.

Or...

I know you like banging your head off walls, but I'll give you £12.50 a week if you don't do it.

Get real.

Ooh, Matron! : Part Two

After jumping ship from my old Doctors practice to my new one, I popped in this morning to make an appointment:

"Hello" says I to the receptionist who is the spitting image of the lovely Coleen Nolan. "I registered with you last Wednesday and I was wondering if my medical records had come through yet?"

"Yes, they came through this morning"

"Great, can I make an appointment to see Dr Muircroft then please?"

The moment of truth. Time slows. Everything becomes like Bullet Time in The Matrix. Coleen reaches for the appointment book . . . . . I'm hanging on every syllable that pours like treacle from her perfectly formed tiny Irish lips . . . . .

"How does 9:20am tomorrow morning sound?"

Now at this point, I'm sure I said "I want to impregnate you with my lovechild, fair Coleen, and carry you off on the back of my motorbike to a land where we'll sing 'I'm In The Mood For Dancing' every day", but I think it came out something like "That's fine, I'll take it." Either way, with a bit of luck, my colon should be back to full working order in no time at all! Bring on the curry!